The Race of My Life (15 page)

n 4 May 1963, a day before my wedding, my baraat left Chandigarh for Pathankot. By now Isher and the rest of my family had accepted the fact that Nimmi and I were going to be married. They arrived for my seharbandi ceremony and took charge of all the rites and rituals. I happily submitted, not having the heart to dampen their enthusiasm. Isher, despite her earlier objections, was elated that her brother had, at last, decided to settle down with the girl of his dreams.

There was almost two hundred of us in my baraat— relatives, colleagues and close friends, among them Kartar Singh and Sardar Umrao Singh, sports minister and president of the Indian Athletics’ Association, whom we picked up from Jalandhar.

Thousands of people had congregated on the streets and on the roofs of houses to welcome our cavalcade as we wended our way through the streets and bazaars of Pathankot, cheering and showering us with rose petals. There were loud cries of ‘Milkha Singh, Milkha Singh!’ When we entered the bride’s home, Makhan Singh did the honours, embracing and exchanging garlands with Nimmi’s brother, Dev Dutt. Then it was time for the bride’s appearance. Supported by her sisters and friends, she slowly came towards me, her head demurely covered by a voluminous dupatta. We garlanded each other. After the jaimala, the reception of the baraat was held, and then my family, friends and I returned to the guesthouse where we were staying.

The next morning, we arrived at the bride’s house for the Anand Karaj. Nimmi looked beautiful, all dressed in her wedding finery—a heavy red and gold brocaded sari, her arms covered with bangles dripping with kaliras—as we solemnly circumambulated the sacred Guru Granth Sahib four times, before we were declared man and wife. A lavish lunch followed and then it was time for the vidai, where the bride’s family bids their daughter goodbye as she formally enters her husband’s home. It was a very long, emotional and tearful farewell before I tenderly put Nimmi into my trusty Fiat and we began our journey back to Chandigarh.

A grand reception was held in Chandigarh the next day before we left for our honeymoon in Srinagar. At the reception, attended by ministers, celebrated sportspeople and other distinguished guests, the chief minister, Kairon Sahib, made a speech in which he showered blessings on us and talked about the importance of genes. He said that this was a union between two illustrious sportspeople—an international sprinter and the captain of the Indian volleyball team—whose progeny would surely follow in their footsteps. He hoped that our children would be inspired by our careers and excel in the world of sports as well. At that stage, I had thought it was too early to predict the future. All that I was aware of was my new bride by my side, and that though I had won many medals, awards and prizes in my career, all these paled before Nimmi, who has remained the brightest, most treasured trophy God has given me.

Our early life together soon settled into some kind of a routine. That we both worked at the same office had its advantages, it made our daily commute much easier and gave us a common ground of interest. We also shared a deep love for sports, and Nimmi always supported and encouraged me, whether it was on the track or when I was setting up projects for the promotion of sports in Punjab. She was a brilliant administrator and I would usually ask her for advice when I was hassled by some technical detail or bureaucratic obstacle.

Our happiness multiplied when Nimmi gave birth to our first daughter in January 1964. It is one of life’s most special moments to hold one’s first born in one’s arms, to watch her smile and gurgle, and to adapt to the joys of parenthood. We named her Aleeza, a name suggested by an English swimming coach who was a close friend of ours. Our second daughter, Mona, arrived in August 1965, followed by another daughter in December 1967. Our third daughter was named Sonia because she was
bahut soni
, so pretty. We were delighted with our daughters, and felt that our family was now complete. But fate had other plans for us, when we discovered that Nimmi was pregnant again. Our fourth child, a son, was born in December 1970. When I gazed down into his eyes, I saw my reflection in them. We named him Chiranjeev Milkha Singh.

Nimmi was a devoted wife and mother. I am still amazed by how efficiently she managed her personal and professional life without letting either of them suffer. She was the perfect housewife, running our home so smoothly that all our needs were taken care of. She ensured that there was always good, hearty food on the table, looked after the children, supervised their homework, and yet, never neglected her official responsibilities. But, we still worried, that as working parents, could we give the children the stability they required while they were growing up? Reluctantly, we decided to send Aleeza, Mona, and even Sonia who just three years old, to St Mary’s Convent, a boarding school in Kasauli, a hill station a short distance away from Chandigarh. Nimmi was so distraught by this separation that every evening she would look up at the lights of Kasauli and cry—she missed her daughters very much. I couldn’t bear to see her so upset and after a few months we brought the girls down and enrolled them in Sacred Heart Convent in Chandigarh.

As a family we shared many interests, attending school events, travelling and a passionate love for dogs. My first pet, in 1958, was a dog I named Dolly after an old girlfriend of mine. Since then, our home has always been filled with dogs of almost every breed—Labradors, golden retrievers, poodles and even an apso. The children would take them for long walks, play with them, groom and feed them. They still haven’t lost their affection for dogs.

During the summer holidays, I would take the family with me for camps in the mountains. It was a good experience for them to see a different way of life, and also to understand and appreciate my vocation. They would also accompany me when I went on shikar, and we would spend many happy days in the jungle.

In those days there was no taboo against hunting; instead, it was regarded as a manly pastime, governed by strict rules and regulations that controlled the number of animals killed, among other restrictions. It was mandatory for keen shikaris, like me, to acquire permits to hunt in certain specially designated game resorts, like the Meetawalli Block near Haridwar, which was also the regular haunt of rich and famous.

My hunting was restricted to birds and animals, including partridge, duck, wild boar and deer, which we would take home for the table, or if we were on an overnight trip, cook over the campfire.

I’ve only had a couple of big game encounters, once when I shot a leopard. I must admit that this was one of the most frightening experiences of my life. We were at the Kothi resthouse, along the timber trail in Himachal Pradesh, when I spied a spotted animal sitting on a rock. Thinking that it was a spotted deer or chital, I picked up my gun and shot at the animal, which leapt up and disappeared. We tried to search for it, but could find no blood trails, but then, when I peered into a cave below, I saw a pair of bloodshot eyes staring back at me. It was only then that I realized to my horror that the spotted animal was actually a leopard! Fortunately, my reflexes were quick, and I shot it dead.

My next encounter was when I was walking through the jungle and saw, through the trees, a tigress with two cubs. Not wanting to disturb their frolic, I quickly took a step back and slunk away. I had many such interesting encounters.

s the children started growing up, we began to think about their future. My early struggles as an athlete were always at the back of my mind, and I didn’t want them to enter a field that offered little money and security. Like my father, it was my desire that the children should receive a good education and earn professional degrees, so that they could become doctors or engineers, solid and conservative careers that would reap dividends in the future. The girls were progressing well at school, but Jeev was a cause of some concern.

Right from a very young age, Jeev had started to show a distinct inclination towards sports; more significant was the fact that he was demonstrating a great aptitude for it as well. He was an excellent sprinter as I noticed when I was the chief guest at one of his school’s functions—he was studying at St John’s School in Chandigarh then. I saw him run so swiftly that he was far ahead of the other boys. The spectators were most impressed and remarked that he would surely break my records one day. When he was studying at Bishop Cotton in Simla, he was the captain of the school’s cricket team, and I remember what Kapil Dev’s coach, D.P.S. Azad who worked under me, said, ‘Sir, if you allow me to train Jeev, I can assure you that he will be a member of Indian cricket team in just a few years.’ Then I recalled Kairon Sahib’s wise words about genes, and realized how true they were proving to be. Our daughters, too, were competent sportspersons—Sonia was a superb tennis player, while Aleeza and Mona were good swimmers.

Life can often be unexpected. When I first developed an interest in golf it was as late as 1969, but little did I realize how this game would dominate our lives.

A friend of mine in Edmonton had presented me with a golf set, but I had no wish whatsoever to take up the game and carelessly asked him what I should do with it. He insisted that I should keep it and so, the set came back to India with me. For a long time it languished in a forgotten corner of the house, gathering dust. One day, when I was taking my usual run along the golf course, I was stopped by Dharma Vira, then the governor of Punjab, who asked, ‘Milkha, why are you running around the course? Come, I’ll teach you how to play golf instead.’

‘No’, I replied emphatically, ‘it’s an old man’s game, and I find it too slow and boring.’ He laughed at my dismissal of the game he loved, and retorted, ‘Bring your set tomorrow and I will give you lessons.’

The next day, I dusted the grime off my set, went to the golf course and had my first lesson. I have to admit that the game intrigued me, and after that first lesson I was addicted and would rush to the course whenever I had any free time.

When Jeev was little, he would follow me around the course, fascinated by my every move. Day by day his interest grew until it became an obsession. I had no objection to my children dabbling in sports; what I didn’t want was for them to take it up as a professional career. They had been brought up in the lap of luxury and I didn’t think that they had the disciple and will power to work hard. In sheer desperation, I got him admitted in one of India’s most prestigious public schools, Bishop Cotton in Simla. Both Nimmi and Jeev were very upset but I insisted. He spent two years at Bishop Cotton, from 1983 to 1985.

Though we had sent Jeev to boarding school, his passion for golf did not diminish. It was then that I understood that it was destiny that had led my son to golf.

In January 1985, when he had come down for the winter vacations, Jeev participated and won the American Express Golf Tournament at the Delhi Golf Club. He was thirteen years old then. After winning the tournament he returned to Bishop Cotton to sit for the Class 7 final examinations. Meanwhile, we had got him admission in a school in Chandigarh, Shivalik Public School, so that he could study as well as play golf. In June, he left for Woodbridge in England for a month-long coaching camp. This was the starting point on his road to fame.