Ballon d’Or was announced in November last year. The best male footballer in the world, Lionel Messi, won his eighth award for leading Argentina to the World Cup in 2022. At 38 years, he plies his trade for Inter Miami in the United States these days, mostly for fun. And big bucks. (Captain Messi missed Inter Miami's Major League Soccer match against DC United at the Audi Arena on Saturday due to a leg injury.) The best female player last year went to Aitana Bonmati of Spain. The 25-year-old too won a World Cup in August, besides a treble with Barcelona last season. But there’s a good chance few would have heard of her.
Over in India, it’s as simple as cricket versus the other sports, followed by the usual contrasting treatment meted out to male and female athletes. Start off by naming the captains of the football and hockey national teams, and then try recollecting their female counterparts, and you’ll have your answer.
The world of women in sport has always been an afterthought, more so in India, a fuzzy landscape screaming for attention. There have been the odd exceptions in MC Mary Kom and Sania Mirza. But for a majority of Indian female athletes, recognition has been hard to come by. They’ve risen to take on the world’s elite with few resources at their disposal, been pulled down time and again, yet been at their resilient best to persist with the effort and show just why they belong.
This constant tussle is at the heart of Sohini Chattopadhyay’s narrative in The Day I Became a Runner, where she delves into the lives of female track athletes in India over the decades. And through their journeys, reflects on the travails of women in society at large.
Running in its nature is minimalistic and pure. It needs little besides the desire to put one step after the other, and a stronger mindset to persist with the entire effort. This makes it accessible for anyone - rich or poor, boy or girl. The entire act of running is liberating; for in that moment, you are on your own, engaged and in the present.
But there was a time when it was an anomaly to see a woman running in public spaces, even when it came to urban settings. India’s first female Olympian, Mary D’Souza, would often experience it when she stepped out on the sports field in Mumbai.
It then becomes easy to comprehend why Pinki Pramanik was admonished by her mother when she decided to run along the banks of the Subarnarekha river in the agrarian landscape of Tilakdih in West Bengal. Or how curious onlookers gathered to watch a young PT Usha train on the pristine beach at Payyoli in Kerala. This was primarily the domain of men. For nobody saw the need for a woman to run.
Few realised that this was an old habit. As little girls, some chased their siblings, some ran to school and some tried to emulate the runners they had seen on the television. Over time, each one realised what running could give them - an identity in the rare case of Kamaljit Sandhu, who came from an affluent family, or simply the security of a livelihood for others like Lalita Babar. Whatever may be their reason, it was good enough to continue the chase.
But their gusto and drive to excel would have remained unfulfilled, had it not been for a chance meeting with enthusiastic mentors on remote, dusty grounds. They guided these women on a journey that started out in their backyards and led them to making the world their playground. Their rise was meteoric and consistent during the early days, climbing the ranks through their hard work to eventually represent the country at prestigious championships, a few returning with medals and a whole lot of hope.
However, the perfect race demands a lot more than talent and dedication. There were constant impediments that kept tugging at their progress, breaking their tempo and spirit alike. It explains why they were up there, yet not quite among the best.
A few quit; others continued striding along silently despite the hindrances, a constant source of bother like a tiny pebble lodged in a runner’s shoe. Injuries on the track could be handled; nothing quite prepared them for the constant scrutiny and hurt from observers off it.
Far worse were the media trials of Santhi Soundarajan, Pinki Pramanik and Dutee Chand when they were subject to sex testing. How feminine were they? And was it fair for some of these ‘women’ to be running alongside other women? Though it’s a grim saga that has been repeatedly reported over the years, one can feel their distress as Chattopadhyay revisits these stoic athletes and reflects on the aftermath of the upheavals in their lives.
Women in general have often been under the scanner - in sport and outside of it. Can they do it right? Can they be as good? Through Chattopadhyay’s heroes, one can get a glimpse of what makes a woman stand tall and seemingly unaffected, though this persistent scrutiny may be eating away at their soul.
Chattopadhyay jumps in and out of the context of sport, the essays touching upon everything from her personal experiences to the current state of affairs in India. Her effort is laudable. It’s no mean task to get an octogenarian to look back at her prime. Or get women to open up on their trauma and disappointments. She’s bold in calling out the wrongs and through her journalistic experience, does a thorough job of rounding up her prime argument of how things are far from ideal for women at large.
This engrossing read is by no means a comprehensive account of female track athletes from India. Nor will it inspire you to run. But it will certainly move you to shatter stereotypes. And sit up and take notice, the next time you see a woman running.
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