Chapter 12: Janhavi

# Chapter 12: Janhavi

## The Comeback

The two weeks were the longest two weeks of my life in Kolhapur.

The two weeks were not the longest two weeks of my life — the longest two weeks of my life were the two weeks after Baba left, the two weeks in which the Borivali flat converted from the home of three people to the home of two and in which the conversion was marked by the specific absences that the third person's departure produced: the empty hook where Baba's towel had hung, the empty shelf where Baba's books had stood, the empty space at the dining table where the third plate had been. Those two weeks were the longest because the longest was measured not in time but in adjustment, and the adjustment from three to two was the largest adjustment that a household could make without ceasing to be a household.

These two weeks were the second longest. These two weeks were the adjustment from running to not-running, from the programme to the sideline, from the track to the viewing position, from the participant to the observer. The adjustment was not as large as the Baba adjustment — the adjustment from running to not-running did not remove a person from the household — but the adjustment was in the same category, the category being: the thing that structured your days has been removed and the removal creates a void and the void must be filled with something and the something is not yet identified.

I filled the void with ice. Ice three times a day — the ice on the shin, the twenty minutes per session, the discipline of the cold that was the discipline of the not-running, the discipline that replaced the running's discipline with the resting's discipline, the replacing being the injury's specific cruelty, the cruelty of replacing the active with the passive, the moving with the still, the running with the sitting.

I filled the void with the programme. Not the programme's running — the programme's watching. I went to the track every afternoon — 4:00 to 6:00, the programme's hours, the hours during which I sat on the concrete step beside the equipment shed and watched the fourteen girls (minus me, thirteen girls) run the intervals and the tempo and the hills and the time trials that I could not run.

The watching was the torture. The watching was the specific athletic torture of the injured athlete — the torture of seeing the training continue without you, the torture of knowing that the bodies on the track were improving and that your body was not, the torture of the detraining, the detraining being the reversal that the not-running produced, the reversal that undid the training's work the way water eroded the soil, slowly, continuously, the erosion being the time's passage without the training's resistance.

But the watching was also the learning. The watching — the watching without the running — was the observation without the participation, the observation that was clearer because it was not contaminated by the effort, the effort that running required and that consumed the attention that the watching required. When I ran, I saw the track. When I watched, I saw the runners.

I saw Anagha. Anagha's Friday time trial in week nine was 5:09 — the time that was the rivalry's continuation, the rivalry that my injury had paused but that Anagha's training had not paused, the not-pausing being the injury's second cruelty: the rival continued to improve while the injured rival did not.

5:09. Anagha had been 5:11 when I was 5:14. Anagha was now 5:09. The gap between my last time (5:14) and Anagha's current time (5:09) was five seconds — five seconds that the injury was creating, five seconds that the not-running was producing, five seconds that the detraining was adding to the gap that the training had been closing.

The five seconds were the fear. The fear that the injury would undo the work — the eight weeks of work, the hundred seconds of improvement, the trajectory that had taken me from 7:08 to 5:14, the trajectory that the injury was now bending, bending upward (which was the wrong direction, upward in the times being the direction of slowing, the slowing being the detraining's product).

I saw Isha. Isha's Friday time trial in week nine was 4:35 — three seconds faster than the 4:38 from Sangli. Isha was improving. Isha was improving with the slow, steady, elite-level improvement that the logarithmic curve predicted — each second harder than the previous, each second the product of training that was measured in months rather than weeks.

4:35. The state-qualifying time. Isha had hit it. Isha was going to states. Isha's line was continuing downward — slowly, flatly, but downward, the downward being the direction that the training produced when the training was consistent and the body was healthy and the mind was committed.

I saw Rukmini. Rukmini's running was — Rukmini was running differently. The running was not different in technique (Rukmini's technique was still the enthusiastic, energy-rich technique that Rukmini's body produced) but different in intent. Rukmini was running with me in mind — the running having a second purpose, the second purpose being: I am running for Janhavi, I am running as Janhavi's proxy, I am running the intervals that Janhavi cannot run and I am reporting the intervals to Janhavi after the session, the reporting being the connection that maintains the injured athlete's link to the programme.

Rukmini reported. Every afternoon, after the session, Rukmini sat beside me on the concrete step and reported — reported the intervals (times, rests, how many, which group), the tempo (pace, duration, who faded), the hills (Panhala or the track's small gradient, the gradient being insufficient for hill training but sufficient for the tempo's variation), the time trials (the Friday numbers, each girl's time, the changes from last week).

Rukmini's reports were the lifeline — the lifeline that connected me to the programme during the injury's exile, the lifeline that said: you are still part of this, you are still in the team, the team remembers you, the running remembers you.

Day eight. The eighth day of the two weeks. The day that the shin stopped hurting.

The stopping was gradual — the pain reducing from the acute signal of day one to the dull presence of day four to the occasional reminder of day six to the absence of day eight, the absence being the body's communication that the stress was healing, the healing being the bone's response to the rest, the rest that the body had demanded and that I had provided and that the providing was producing the result.

Day eight was the day I tested. The testing was not the running — the testing was the walking, the walking at speed, the walking that was faster than the normal walking but slower than the running, the walking that loaded the shin with the intermediate force that was greater than the resting force and less than the running force, the intermediate being the test.

The shin did not hurt. The walking-at-speed did not produce the pain. The absence of the pain was the datum — the datum that said: the healing is happening, the healing is ahead of schedule, the bone is responding to the rest with the speed that bones responded when the body was young and the nutrition was adequate and the rest was complete.

I told Mane madam. Mane madam's response was the response that coaches gave when athletes reported improvement — the response that was cautious and hopeful and that contained the specific, calibrated instruction that coaches provided when the athlete's eagerness exceeded the coach's patience.

"Day ten," Mane madam said. "If day ten is pain-free, you jog. One kilometre. Slow. If the jog is pain-free, day twelve you run two kilometres at tempo. If the tempo is pain-free, day fourteen you rejoin the programme."

The protocol. The return-to-running protocol that Mane madam had learned at NIS Patiala and that Mane madam applied with the specific, systematic caution that the protocol required — the caution being the protocol's purpose, the purpose being the prevention of the re-injury that rushed returns produced, the re-injury being the thing that converted grade-one shin splints into grade-two stress fractures and grade-two into grade-three and grade-three into the cast and the twelve weeks and the season lost.

Day ten. I jogged. One kilometre on the track — four laps, the laps being slow, the slow being deliberate, the deliberateness being the caution that the protocol required and that my body accepted with the reluctant compliance of a body that wanted to run fast and that was being instructed to run slow.

The shin did not hurt. The kilometre was completed. The stopwatch said 5:42 for the kilometre — the pace being slow, slower than my training pace, the slowness being the caution's product. But the kilometre was completed and the shin was pain-free and the pain-free was the datum and the datum said: continue.

Day twelve. I ran two kilometres at tempo. The tempo was — the tempo was the pace of three words, the pace that I found on the track, the pace that the body offered when asked for the sustained effort, the effort being the test's second phase, the phase that loaded the shin with the force that the tempo produced, the force being greater than the jog's force and less than the interval's force.

The shin did not hurt. The two kilometres were completed. The tempo was 4:35 per kilometre — the pace being slower than my pre-injury tempo (which had been approximately 4:10 per kilometre) but the pace being a pace, a real pace, the pace of a runner running rather than the pace of an injured athlete jogging.

Day fourteen. The day of the return.

The return was not the dramatic return — the return was not the Bollywood return, the return of the hero to the battlefield with the slow-motion run and the background music and the crowd's roar. The return was the quiet return — the return of a girl to a red track on a Monday afternoon, the return that was marked not by fanfare but by the specific, silent act of joining the warm-up jog, the warm-up being the programme's first activity and the joining being the return's declaration.

I joined. Fourteen girls — fourteen again, the thirteen becoming fourteen, the number restored, the restoration being the programme's return to completeness. I ran the warm-up in the last position — the last position being the cautious position, the position of the returner, the position that said I am back but I am careful and the careful is the wisdom that the injury has taught me.

The warm-up felt — the warm-up felt like the first day. The first day on the track, the first day in Bata shoes, the first day when the body met the laterite and the meeting was the beginning. The return was the second beginning — the beginning after the interruption, the beginning that was different from the first beginning because the second beginning carried the memory of the first ending, the ending being the injury, the injury being the thing that the second beginning was determined not to repeat.

Mane madam gave me a modified programme — the modified being the cautious, the cautious being: intervals at eighty percent effort (not maximum), hills delayed for one more week, long run limited to three kilometres (not the full Panhala). The modification was the protocol's final phase — the phase that reintroduced the training stimulus gradually, the gradual being the protection, the protection being the prevention of the re-injury.

Monday's intervals. The 400 metres at eighty percent. My time: eighty-nine seconds. From eighty-two (pre-injury) to eighty-nine. Seven seconds. Seven seconds of detraining — seven seconds that the two weeks had added, the adding being the reversal, the reversal being the cost.

Seven seconds. The cost was real — the cost was the seven seconds that the training had produced and that the not-training had consumed, the consumption being the body's specific response to the absence of stimulus, the response being: I was not used, I returned to the baseline, the baseline being the state to which the unstimulated body returned.

But the cost was also temporary — the cost being the two weeks' product, the product that additional training would reverse, the reversing being the re-training, the re-training being faster than the original training because the body remembered, the body's memory being the thing that distinguished the returning athlete from the beginning athlete, the returning athlete's body carrying the memory of the previous training in the muscles and the neural pathways and the cardiovascular system, the memory being the foundation on which the re-training built.

Friday's time trial: 5:22. From 5:14 (pre-injury) to 5:22. Eight seconds of detraining. But from 5:41 (Sangli) to 5:22. Nineteen seconds faster than the first race. The perspective was the perspective — the perspective that measured the loss against the history and that found the loss to be a loss within a gain, the gain being the larger trajectory.

5:22. Anagha's time in the same trial: 5:08. Fourteen seconds ahead. The rivalry's gap had widened — from three seconds pre-injury to fourteen seconds post-injury, the widening being the injury's gift to Anagha, the gift that Anagha had not asked for but that Anagha had received, the receiving being the competitive advantage that one runner's misfortune gave to another.

Fourteen seconds. The gap that had been closing was now open. The gap that had been three seconds — the three seconds that were the rivalry's apex, the point at which the competition was most intense — was now fourteen seconds, the fourteen being the injury's tax, the tax that the two weeks had imposed.

But fourteen seconds was not sixty-six seconds. Fourteen seconds was not the distance that had separated me from Isha at the beginning. Fourteen seconds was the distance of weeks — not months, weeks — and the weeks were the training and the training was the comeback and the comeback was the thing that the injury had created the conditions for.

The comeback. The word that athletes used — the word that described the return from injury, the return that was not just the return to the previous level but the return that surpassed the previous level, the surpassing being the comeback's promise, the promise that the injury's rest had provided the adaptation that the training alone had not, the rest being the body's processing time, the time during which the training's stimulus was converted into the training's effect without the interference of additional training.

Mane madam had said this: "The rest is the adaptation's friend." The sentence that Rukmini had repeated on the phone. The sentence that meant: the two weeks of not-running might have produced, in the body's internal processing, the adaptation that would make the return faster than the departure.

The shoes arrived on week eleven. The shoes — the stability shoes, the shoes that the grant would partially fund and that Aai would partially fund. But they did not arrive from the grant.

They arrived from Isha.

The shoes were on the concrete step when I arrived at the track on Monday of week eleven. The shoes were in a bag — a plastic bag, the generic plastic bag that Indian shops provided, the bag being the container and the container containing: a pair of Asics GT-1000, the stability shoe, the shoe that corrected overpronation, the shoe that would prevent the shin splints from recurring.

The shoes were used. The shoes were Isha's old shoes — the shoes that Isha had worn before the Gel-Kayano, the shoes that were one model below the Kayano and that were Isha's transition shoes, the shoes that Isha had outgrown (not physically, running-shoe-outgrown, the outgrowing being the deterioration of the midsole after 500 kilometres of running, the deterioration reducing the cushioning and the stability that the shoes provided and that the deterioration's reduction was the reason runners replaced shoes every 500 to 800 kilometres).

The shoes were used but the shoes were stability shoes. The shoes were Asics. The shoes had the medial post — the denser foam on the inner side that corrected the overpronation that the Kalenji did not correct and that the not-correcting had caused the shin splints.

There was no note. There was no explanation. The shoes were on the step and the shoes were Isha's and the leaving of the shoes on the step was Isha's communication — the communication that was not verbal (Isha did not do verbal, Isha's verbal being the earphones and the silence and the specific, practiced reserve that Isha maintained) but material, the shoes being the message, the message being: these are for you, the for-you being the thing that I am saying with the shoes because I am not saying it with words.

I put the shoes on. The shoes fit — the fitting being the luck of the shoe size, the shoe size being the body's specific measurement, the measurement that two girls shared (both size 7, both Indian 7 which was European 40, the shared size being the coincidence that the shoes' transfer required).

The Asics GT-1000 on the laterite felt different from the Kalenji on the laterite. The Asics was — the Asics was the correction, the correction that the medial post provided, the foot landing on the surface and the medial post preventing the inward roll that the overpronation produced, the preventing being the stability, the stability being the thing that the shin needed and that the Kalenji had not provided.

I ran. The running in the Asics was the running of a body that had been given the correct tool — the tool that the body required for the specific task that the body performed, the task being the running and the tool being the shoe and the shoe being the interface that converted the body's effort into the surface's response without the damaging intermediation of the overpronation.

The shin did not hurt. The shin, which had hurt for a week and then healed for two weeks and then been cautious for one week, did not hurt. The not-hurting was the shoes' gift — the gift that Isha had given without words, without note, without explanation, the gift that was the shoes and the shoes were the prevention and the prevention was the future sessions that the shin splints would not interrupt.

After the session, I looked for Isha. Isha was at the track's far end — the far end being the position that Isha occupied after sessions, the position of the cool-down, the cool-down being the walking that Isha did after the running, the walking that was the transition from the running's intensity to the standing's rest.

I walked to the far end. I stood beside Isha. The beside was the thing that I had never done — the beside that Isha's reserve had prevented and that my reserve had accepted and that the shoes had now made impossible to not-do, the not-doing being the ingratitude that the shoes did not permit.

"Thank you," I said. "For the shoes."

Isha looked at me. The look was — the look was not the two-second assessment of the first day. The look was a different look — a look that was longer and that contained something that the first look had not contained, the something being the recognition, the recognition that the girl who had been 7:08 was now 5:22 and that the 5:22 was the product of training and injury and return and that the training-and-injury-and-return was the story that Isha recognised because the story was the runner's story and the runner's story was Isha's story too.

"The shin is better?" Isha asked.

"Yes. The stability helps."

"Mane madam should have caught the overpronation earlier. I told her. The gait analysis should be done in week one."

The sentence. The sentence that contained the information that Isha had told Mane madam about my overpronation. The sentence that said: Isha had been watching. Isha, who wore earphones and sat in the front row and maintained the distance that was not unfriendliness but preservation — Isha had been watching me. Isha had observed the overpronation. Isha had told Mane madam. Isha had left the shoes.

The watching. The watching that I had thought was mine — the watching of Isha from behind, the watching of the girl who ran like water from the position of the girl who was approaching — the watching was mutual. Isha had been watching me too.

"Thank you," I said again. The repetition was the inadequacy — the inadequacy of words for the thing that the shoes represented, the shoes being not just footwear but the acknowledgment, the acknowledgment that one runner had given another runner the tool that the other runner needed, the giving being the act that transcended the rivalry and that connected the two runners in the space that was above the competition, the space where athletes recognised each other as athletes.

Isha nodded. The nod was the closure — the closure of the conversation, the conversation being complete, the complete being: the shoes were given, the thanks were received, the understanding was mutual.

I walked back to the concrete step. I sat. I looked at the Asics GT-1000 on my feet — the shoes that were Isha's and were now mine, the shoes that were used and were now useful, the shoes that were the bridge between two runners who had not spoken until today and who had spoken today because the shoes required the speaking.

The comeback was happening. The comeback was the shoes and the return and the re-training and the sessions that the stability shoes would protect and the future that the prevention would preserve.

The comeback. The word that was the runner's word. The word that said: I was stopped and I am starting again and the starting again is not the same as the starting because the starting again carries the memory of the stopping and the memory is the wisdom and the wisdom is the thing that makes the comeback different from the beginning.

Different. Better. The comeback's promise.

Week twelve's time trial: 5:11. From 5:22 to 5:11. Eleven seconds in one week. The comeback's rate — the rate that was faster than the original training's rate, the faster being the body's memory, the memory that the re-training activated, the activation being the comeback's specific mechanism.

5:11. Three seconds behind Anagha's 5:08. The gap was closing again. The gap that the injury had widened was now narrowing — the narrowing being the comeback's trajectory, the trajectory that pointed toward the point where the gap had been before the injury, the three seconds being close to the three seconds that the pre-injury rivalry had established.

The comeback was happening. The running was returning. The track was the track. The shoes were the shoes. The girl who ran like water had given me the shoes and the shoes were the bridge and the bridge was the thing that connected the rivalry to the respect and the respect to the running and the running to the track and the track to the morning and the morning to the afternoon and the afternoon to the evening and the evening to the laddoo and the laddoo to the yellow room and the yellow room to the sleep and the sleep to the tomorrow.

Tomorrow. We go again.