The Race of My Life (13 page)

What the chief minister was suggesting was that I leave the army and take on a civilian post. He then started to negotiate terms, comparing my current salary of seventy rupees a month with the remuneration he was offering of eight or twelve hundred rupees. Not only was this extremely generous, it would also elevate me to a general’s grade. It did seem promising, but I was sceptical about the outcome. I knew Kairon had tremendous clout, but could he actually procure such a prestigious position for me? My friends and colleagues thought I was crazy to leave the army as they all felt that civilian jobs were not permanent and dependent upon the whims and fancies of politicians. More important, I had heard that an order had been sent to the defence minister, Krishna Menon, recommending that I be promoted to the rank of lieutenant. This was a great honour for me and meant that I, who joined as a humble jawan, would soon be a commissioned officer. This news added to my confusion.

My noncommittal response to his proposal had no effect on Kairon Sahib, and he continued to woo me. Whenever he was in Delhi, he used to stay at the Constitution Club near the National Stadium, where I would be practising. He would send regular emissaries to persuade me to change my mind. When I met Kairon Sahib again after I returned from Rome in 1960, I expressed my doubts about getting an honourable discharge from military service, but he airily dismissed these away. He emphasized that he would take care of all the formalities if I accepted his offer. He also assured me that all my requests would be granted without questions.

A few days later, Kairon took me along to a function at Parliament House. The high-powered guest list included the prime minister, union ministers, chief ministers and other high-ranking dignitaries. When we arrived at Parliament House, there was much jubilation among the assembled guests that Milkha Singh had arrived, but little did I (or anyone else) know why I was there. It was Kairon’s intention to bring up my case before Pandit Nehru so that a decision could be taken then and there. He outlined his plan of setting up a sports department in Chandigarh to train promising young boys and girls. He said that for his plan to succeed, he needed an experienced and highly celebrated athlete like me to take charge of the programme. Therefore, he requested that the prime minister permit my discharge so that I could take up my position with the Punjab government as soon as possible.

Panditji was reluctant to make a quick decision, knowing that my resignation would be a big blow to the army under whose benign patronage I had grown and triumphed as a sportsman. But Kairon Sahib was so persistent that Panditji had no option but to inform Krishna Menon and General Thimayya that they should relieve me of my duties so that I was free to enter the service of the Punjab government. He added, tongue-in-cheek, ‘Milkha Singh is an Indian, so what difference does it make if he’s in the army or with the Punjab government? We will all share the honour he brings. Besides, in any case, he has given up running races.’ Hearing this, Krishna Menon burst out laughing, but General Thimayya was not amused, though there was little he could do to circumvent a decision that had been taken at the highest level. He took me aside and embracing me said, ‘Young man, you are just like a son to me, you are making a terrible mistake. A civilian job is shaky, unlike the army where your career is assured. Besides, in a few days, we will be promoting you to lieutenant. I hope you will not regret this step.’

The die had been cast, however, and the next day a telegram was sent to my unit in Secunderabad, ordering them to prepare all the necessary papers for my discharge. My centre commander, Colonel Barve, was thunderstruck when he received that fateful telegram, and sadly broke the news to the other officers and jawans.

The unit had been home to me ever since I had joined as a raw recruit in 1953. It was the only family I knew, who had loved, nurtured and guided me through all the vicissitudes of life, encouraging and supporting me to fulfil my dream of being a world-class athlete. And now it was time to say goodbye, to leave my safe haven and enter a new, unfamiliar world.

It was a sad and poignant farewell. Colonel Barve addressed a huge assembly of sorrowful jawans and officers, saying that although he was deeply distressed by my decision to leave both the army and unit, he nevertheless would like to wish me good luck in my future endeavours. When it was my turn to speak, I could not find the words to express the heartfelt love and gratitude I felt for the people who stood before me. I only knew that I would never forget my unit and my colleagues and all the years I spent there. I recalled the tough life in the barracks, the early morning roll calls and hard labour, the hours I spent on the playing fields, the rigorous training schedule I had forced myself to endure, and all the kindness I had received from my officers, coaches and fellow soldiers. It was because of their confidence in me that I had risen from a nonentity to a celebrity. I ended my speech by appealing to Colonel Barve to produce many more Milkha Singhs, so that our unit could keep this tradition alive.

I was overwhelmed by the warmth of their affection, and by the generous gifts I received—a silver glass, silver thali, a beautiful embossed salver and a gold kara that I still treasure along with my memories of the EME Centre. But the transition was complete—my life in the army had ended and a new one as a civilian awaited me.

I spent the next four months on a well-deserved holiday. Yet, I was still concerned about the nature of my job. The salary that Kairon Sahib had offered was more than double the amount I was getting in the army. And though the thought of earning more money pleased me, I was not so sure what the work involved. After all, I was a sportsman not an administrator. What did I know about a desk job?

When I joined the sports department in November 1961, I discovered that a post had been specially created for me, that of deputy director of sports. My first few weeks there, however, were a struggle and there were times when I deeply regretted my decision to leave the army. Initially, I had to commute from Delhi to Chandigarh and back again each day. I would leave Delhi at about 4 a.m. to reach office by 9, and then, after a long day, would jump into my car at 5 p.m. so that I could be home by 9.30 p.m. It was long and tedious journey, and invariably I would report to work much past the stipulated time.

I used to drive a Fiat. In those days, people had to wait for months to buy cars and scooters. But because I was ‘India’s best athlete’, Lal Bahadur Shastri, who was transport minister then, kindly allocated an ‘out-of-turn delivery’ for me. I had bought the car for five thousand rupees in 1958 with the help of money I had won as an incentive. I was at the Tokyo Asiad, when the Maharaja of Patiala, Yadavindra Singh, challenged me, saying, ‘If you beat Abdul Khaliq in the 200-metre race, I will give you five thousand rupees.’ I did, and that is how I had the money to purchase my first car—earlier I used to ride a motorcycle.

But being India’s best athlete made little difference to my working life in Chandigarh. My irregular timings had led to tension in the office, and I found it difficult to cope with the constant reprimands. More important, my long commute as well as trying to adjust to a sedentary lifestyle had left me with little time to practice, a routine that I could not afford to miss, particularly since the next event was the Jakarta Asian Games in 1962.

In frustration, I went to Kairon Sahib and complained that I was not enjoying spending my entire day doing paperwork and other administrative duties, when I should be out on the track practising. If I were still in the army I would have been exempted from military duties and allowed to spend as much time as I could on the field, practising. The chief minister severely reprimanded my senior officer. He told him that Milkha Singh was our nation’s pride and should not be restricted to the mundane routine of office work. Instead, he should be allowed the freedom to attend office as and when he could; that his priority was to run for the country.

As a result of that meeting, I was given accommodation in Chandigarh, and my office hours were relaxed. I was able to resume my morning and evening practice routine. Over time, I also began to get more involved with my sports development work and started enjoying creating projects that were close to my heart.

At the same time, I continued to participate in events in India as well as overseas. I was part of the Indian contingent for the Jakarta Asian Games in August 1962, where I won two gold medals, one for the 400-metre race and the other as part of the 4x400-metre relay team. And then it was on to the Olympics in Tokyo in 1964, after which I hung up my boots. My sports career finally set in 1964. A new chapter now awaited me.

Soon after retiring, I announced that I would give an award of two lakh rupees to any athlete who breaks my record of 45.6 seconds in the Olympics. So far, this has not happened, but I have stipulated that even, when I’m no more, my son Jeev will honour the award.

first met Nimmi in 1956 in Colombo.

I was in Ceylon (now Sri Lanka) to participate in another athletic competition, and she was there in her capacity as captain of the Indian women’s volleyball team to play a friendly match against the Ceylonese. One day, while my friends and I were wandering around the bazaar, we came across a group of Indian girls and among them was Nimmi. As it always happens, when Indians, or for that matter any other nationalities, meet their fellow countrymen in an alien land, there is instant recognition and bonds of camaraderie are forged based on language, culture and traditions, even if they are total strangers. Inevitably, we struck up a conversation with them, and Nimmi insisted that I come to watch their match that evening. Naturally, I did not refuse, if for no other reason than to support her team.

I reached the venue two hours ahead of the scheduled time, full of anticipation. The Indian team was in full form, but Nimmi’s performance was outstanding—her electric energy, superb high jumps and how she ran up to the net to hit the ball. It appeared as if she could beat the entire Ceylonese team singlehandedly on their home ground. Her skills were admirable.

I was eager to meet Nimmi again, but needed a valid excuse. I suggested to my friend, tea magnate Daljit Singh Sitara, that he host a reception at his residence in Ceylon for the victorious Indian volleyball team. His invitation was accepted and the dinner party was fixed for the next evening, after my race. The girls had demanded entry passes for my competition and turned up in full force for the event. I ran as one possessed, very much aware of Nimmi’s presence. There was absolutely no question of me losing the race, not with Nimmi as an onlooker. I wanted to impress her and it would just be too humiliating if I lost. When I won, I stood before Nimmi and was thrilled by the glow of happiness on her face.

At the dinner party, Nimmi discussed my race in minute detail, and I was struck by how interested she was in my life and career. It seemed obvious that we were on the brink of a new relationship, and I was determined to see her again, but we were at a party and I had no card or piece of paper to write down my telephone number. So quietly, lest anyone could see, I caught hold of her hand and quickly wrote the number down on her palm. My touch made her blush and she nervously looked around, wiping the sweat from her brow with her dupatta. The rush of emotions that swept across me electrified me and I couldn’t sleep a wink that night. The next morning, before she left for India, Nimmi telephoned me and we agreed to meet at the Yadavindra Stadium in Patiala, where I practised regularly, when I was with my unit there.

When I returned to Patiala from Colombo two days later, I received a telephone call from the principal of the College of Physical Education, who informed me that some of his students, including Nimmi, were coming to watch me practice. She had wisely taken this precaution in case our growing relationship would lead to gossip. When I met the principal, I congratulated him on the volleyball team’s victory in Colombo and made special mention of Nimmi’s contribution.