Chapter 13: Isha

# Chapter 13: Isha

## The Training Partner

The decision was made on a Wednesday — the Wednesday of week twelve, the Wednesday that was the tempo day, the tempo being the sustained effort that the programme ran every Tuesday but that the scheduling had shifted to Wednesday because the Kolhapur district athletic association had booked the track for Tuesday (the booking being the bureaucratic reality of a shared facility, the facility being shared between the school's programme and the district's administration and the sharing being managed by a calendar that the headmaster's office maintained and that the headmaster's office sometimes forgot to check).

The decision was: I would pace her.

Not on the Panhala road — the Panhala road had been the accidental pacing, the pacing that happened because two runners occupied the same road at the same time and the occupying produced the proximity and the proximity produced the running-beside. The decision was the deliberate pacing — the pacing on the track, in the programme, in the presence of Mane madam and the team, the pacing being the public declaration that I, Isha Gaikwad, the programme's fastest runner, was choosing to run with Janhavi Bhosale, the programme's fastest-improving runner.

The choosing was strategic. I want to be clear about this — the choosing was strategic before it was anything else, the strategy being the notebook's logic, the logic that said: she is at 5:11, I am at 4:35, the gap is thirty-six seconds, the thirty-six seconds will close if she continues to improve, and the closing of the gap will produce a training partner whose proximity to my pace will push my pace faster than the absence of a training partner permits.

But the choosing was also — the choosing was also the thing that happened on the Panhala road. The thing that the notebook did not record. The thing that was the running-beside, the shared rhythm, the synchronised stride, the specific, nonverbal companionship that two runners produced when they ran together and that the running-together was different from the running-alone and that the difference was the thing that Aaji's death had removed and that the running-beside was restoring.

The companionship. The word that the notebook did not contain and that the running contained and that the containing was the running's gift — the gift that was not measured in seconds or metres but in the specific quality of the air between two running bodies, the air that carried the breathing's rhythm and the footstrike's percussion and the effort's silence.

I told Mane madam. The telling was the thing — the telling being the declaration, the declaration requiring the speaking, the speaking being the thing I did not do easily, the not-easily being the reserve that was my default and that the declaration required me to override.

"I want to pace Janhavi," I said. The sentence was delivered at the track's edge, between the warm-up and the tempo, in the three-minute gap that the transition provided.

Mane madam's response was the eyebrow — the eyebrow that went up for the unexpected, the unexpected being: Isha Gaikwad, the girl who trained alone, the girl who wore earphones on the bus, the girl whose reserve was the programme's acknowledged fact, was asking to train with someone.

"Pace her how?" Mane madam asked.

"On the tempo. I'll run her tempo pace. 4:20 per kilometre. Four laps."

"Your tempo pace is 3:40. You'd be running forty seconds per kilometre slower."

"My tempo pace is for my training. This would be for her training."

"And for yours?"

The question. The question that Mane madam asked because Mane madam was a coach and coaches asked the selfish question — the question that said: what does this do for you? The question that the coach required the answer to because the coach's responsibility was the athlete and the athlete's improvement and the improvement being the thing that the pacing either served or did not serve.

"She's going to be within ten seconds of my pace by February," I said. "If I pace her now, she gets there faster. When she gets there, I have a training partner."

"You've never wanted a training partner."

"I've never had one available."

The sentence was the truth and the truth was the strategy and the strategy was the honest explanation — the explanation that Mane madam accepted because the explanation was the logical explanation and the logical was the language that Mane madam and I shared, the language of the coach and the strategic athlete, the language that said: I am doing this because it serves the goal and the goal is the time and the time is the thing.

Mane madam agreed. The agreement was conditional — the conditional being: "You still run your own intervals at your own pace. The pacing is for the tempo only. Your training does not suffer for hers."

"Agreed."

The pacing began on Wednesday's tempo.

"Janhavi." I said her name for the first time on the track. The name had been in my notebook for twelve weeks. The name had been spoken by Mane madam and Rukmini and the programme. The name had not been spoken by me — the not-speaking being the reserve's product, the reserve that maintained the distance that was now being closed.

She looked at me. The look was the look of a girl who had not been addressed by me, who had been assessed in two seconds and dismissed and then given shoes and thanked and then not-addressed again, the not-addressing being the pattern that the addressing was now breaking.

"Run with me," I said. "Tempo. My pace for your four laps."

The invitation. The invitation that was different from Rukmini's invitation (Rukmini's invitation being the warm, social invitation, the invitation of friendship) and different from Mane madam's instruction (Mane madam's instruction being the coaching instruction, the instruction of the programme). My invitation was the strategic invitation — the invitation of a runner to a runner, the invitation that said: I have assessed you and the assessment says you are worth the investment of my time and the investment is the pacing.

She did not respond immediately. The not-responding was — the not-responding was the processing, the processing of a girl who had been observing me for twelve weeks and who was now being observed back, the observing-back being the reversal that the invitation represented.

"Okay," she said.

Okay. The acceptance. The acceptance that was not enthusiastic (Rukmini would have said "YES!" with the exclamation that was Rukmini's punctuation) and not reluctant (she wanted this, I could see the wanting in the specific tension of her jaw, the jaw that was the jaw of the closed mouth, the jaw that held the discipline) but measured. Okay. The acceptance of a girl who accepted with the same precision that I offered.

We ran.

The tempo was four laps — 1,600 metres at 4:20 per kilometre, the pace that was her tempo pace and that was my recovery pace, the pace being the gap between our abilities expressed as a training concept, the gap that the pacing was designed to close.

I ran on her outside. The outside being the position of the pacer — the pacer running on the outer edge, the outer edge being the longer distance (the outer lane adding approximately 7 metres per lap to the inner lane's 400), the longer distance being the pacer's gift, the gift of running slightly more so that the paced runner ran slightly less.

The first lap was the calibration — the calibration being the finding of the shared rhythm, the rhythm that two runners established when running together, the establishing being not immediate but gradual, the gradual being the first fifty metres of stride-matching and breath-matching and the matching producing the synchronisation and the synchronisation producing the tempo.

Her breathing was controlled. Nasal. The closed mouth. The discipline that I had observed and that I was now hearing from beside rather than from ahead, the hearing being different from the observing, the hearing being closer, more intimate, the intimacy of the shared effort.

I held the pace. The pace-holding was the pacer's job — the job of maintaining the exact pace that the paced runner needed, the exact being the precision, the precision being: not faster (faster would push her beyond her training zone and the beyond would produce the oxygen debt and the debt would produce the fading) and not slower (slower would be a waste of the tempo's training opportunity and the waste would be the pacing's failure).

4:20 per kilometre. The pace that was — I felt the pace in my body's specific, calibrated way, the way that a runner whose body had been trained for six years felt pace, the feeling being the internal metronome, the metronome that ticked at the rate that the training had established and that the body maintained without external reference, the maintaining being the body's knowledge of its own speed.

The first lap: 65 seconds. On pace. The pace holding.

The second lap: 66 seconds. One second slower — the one second being the natural deceleration that the sustained effort produced, the deceleration being within the acceptable range, the range being the band that Mane madam's coaching defined as "the noise" — the noise being the one-to-two-second variation that running contained and that the variation was not error but biology.

Her breathing changed in the second lap. The change was not the deterioration (the deterioration being the gasping, the mouth-opening, the loss of the nasal control) but the deepening — the breathing becoming deeper, fuller, the lungs taking larger volumes with each cycle, the larger volumes being the body's adaptation to the sustained effort, the adaptation happening in real time, the real-time adaptation being the sign of a body that was learning to run at this pace, the learning happening in the running itself.

The third lap: 67 seconds. Two seconds slower than the first. The deceleration continuing — the continuing being the tempo's nature, the tempo being the sustained effort that the body sustained with diminishing ease, each lap easier to start than to finish, each finish being the evidence that the starting was worth it.

I spoke. The speaking was — the speaking was the coaching, the coaching that the pacer provided to the paced, the coaching being: "breathe." One word. The one word being sufficient because the one word was the instruction and the instruction was the thing that the third lap's body needed — the body that was beginning to tighten, the tightening being the effort's accumulation, and the breathing being the release, the release that loosened the tightening.

She breathed. The breathing was the response — the response to the instruction, the instruction being my voice, my voice being on the track for the first time, the voice that had been in the earphones and in the silence and that was now on the track, saying: "breathe."

The fourth lap: 68 seconds. Three seconds slower than the first. The deceleration was within the range — the range that the tempo permitted, the tempo being the effort that produced the four-to-five-second spread across four laps, the spread being normal, the normal being the evidence that the effort was correctly calibrated.

She finished. I finished beside her. The beside-finishing was the pacing's completion — the completion that said: the pacing worked, the tempo was run, the four laps were completed at the pace that the training required.

Her time: 4:26 for the four laps. 4:26 for 1,600 metres. The time was — the time was not a race time, the time was a training time, the time being the measurement of the effort rather than the performance. But the time was the evidence that the pacing had produced the result that the pacing was designed to produce: a faster tempo than she would have run alone.

"How did that feel?" I asked. The question was the coach's question — the question that the pacer asked the paced, the question that assessed the effort from the inside rather than from the outside.

"Controlled," she said. "I felt controlled."

Controlled. The word that was — the word that was the correct word, the word that described the pacing's gift, the gift being not the speed but the control, the control that the pacer's presence provided, the presence that regulated the effort and that prevented the early-speed that had cost her at Sangli and that the preventing was the pacing's specific value.

"Good," I said. "Wednesday. Same."

"Same," she said.

The exchange. The exchange that was not a conversation but a negotiation — the negotiation of two runners establishing a training partnership, the partnership being the arrangement that served both parties, the arrangement that the notebook's logic had proposed and that the track's reality had confirmed.

The partnership began. The partnership was — the partnership was the Wednesday tempo and the Saturday Panhala and the specific, growing proximity of two runners who had been distant and who were now adjacent, the adjacency being the training's product and the training's purpose.

The team noticed. The team noticed the way teams noticed — with the specific, communal awareness that groups possessed, the awareness that detected the atmospheric change when two members of the group changed their relationship, the relationship changing from the distant to the adjacent and the adjacent being the thing that the team commented on (Rukmini commented, specifically — Rukmini being the team's social barometer, the barometer that measured the atmospheric pressure of the group's relationships).

"You and Isha," Rukmini said. The walk home. Tarabai Road. The jasmine sellers.

"She's pacing me."

"She's PACING you? Isha Gaikwad — the girl who wears earphones to avoid talking to people — is pacing you?"

"It's strategic. She wants a training partner."

"Strategic." Rukmini's eyebrow. The eyebrow that was Rukmini's punctuation, the eyebrow that said: I hear the word you said and I am assessing whether the word is the whole truth or a fraction of the truth. "Okay. Strategic."

"It is strategic."

"It's strategic and it's also the first time Isha has voluntarily run with anyone since her grandmother died."

The sentence. The sentence that Rukmini delivered with the specific, casual precision that Rukmini used when delivering information that was important, the important being disguised as the casual because the casual was the delivery method that fourteen-year-old girls used for the information that sixteen-year-old girls needed.

Her grandmother. Aaji. The grandmother whose death Rukmini was now mentioning — the mentioning being the context, the context that I had not had, the context that said: Isha's reserve was not temperament but grief, the grief being the loss of the grandmother, the loss being the thing that the reserve was protecting.

"When did her grandmother die?" I asked.

"Two years ago. Yashoda Gaikwad. She was famous — she ran the Kolhapur half-marathon at fifty-four. She taught Isha to run."

Yashoda Gaikwad. The grandmother who ran. The grandmother who taught Isha to run. The grandmother whose death had produced the reserve — the reserve that was not aloofness but mourning, the mourning that was expressed not in tears but in silence, the silence being the runner's mourning, the mourning that was the running and the running being the tribute.

I understood. I understood because I had the parallel — the parallel of Baba, the father who left, the leaving being different from the dying (the leaving being the choice and the dying being the not-choice) but the loss being the same, the loss being the absence and the absence being the thing that the running filled.

I understood Isha. The understanding was not the understanding that words produced — the understanding was the understanding that the parallel produced, the parallel of two girls who had lost and who ran, the running being the response to the loss, the response that was not the healing (the healing being the thing that grief counsellors described and that the running did not produce) but the filling, the filling being the running's specific gift to the grieving body, the gift of motion in the place of absence.

Wednesday. The next tempo. I ran beside Isha again. The running-beside was — the running-beside was the same as last week (the pacing, the four laps, the controlled tempo) and also different (the difference being the knowledge, the knowledge of Aaji, the knowledge of the grief, the knowledge that the running-beside was not just the strategic pacing but the two girls running in the space that grief had opened).

"Your grandmother taught you," I said. Between laps. The rest between the tempo's laps — the ninety seconds that the programme allowed, the ninety seconds that were the rest and the conversation and the specific, limited window in which two runners who did not converse could converse.

Isha did not flinch. Isha's face did the thing that Isha's face did — the nothing, the composure, the surface that did not reveal the depth.

"She ran the Panhala road," Isha said. "Every morning. 5 AM."

"I know. Rukmini told me."

"She would have liked you."

The sentence. The sentence that was the sentence from the notebook — the sentence that I had not known Isha had thought, the sentence being the twin of my own thought about Baba (would Baba have liked Isha? — the question that I had not asked because the question required a father to answer and the father was in Nashik or wherever the thirty-second phone call had placed him).

"She would have liked you" was the bridge — the bridge that connected the two runners who had been distant and who were now adjacent and who were, with the sentence, becoming proximate, the proximate being closer than the adjacent, the proximate being the distance at which the personal was visible and the personal being the grief that both carried.

"I lost my father," I said. The sentence was — the sentence was not planned, the sentence emerging from the running's specific vulnerability, the vulnerability that the sustained effort produced, the effort lowering the barriers that the standing self maintained.

"Lost?"

"He left. Three years ago. He calls sometimes. Thirty seconds."

Isha processed. The processing was silent — the silent processing that Isha's face performed, the face that contained the processing without displaying it.

"The running," Isha said. "The running is what stays."

The running is what stays. The sentence that was the sentence — the sentence that contained the philosophy, the philosophy of two girls who had lost and who ran, the philosophy that said: the people leave but the running does not, the running being the constant, the running being the thing that the legs produced regardless of the losses that the heart sustained.

The running is what stays. The sentence that I carried home on Tarabai Road. The sentence that sat in the yellow room beside the ice pack (no longer needed, the shin healed, the Asics preventing the recurrence). The sentence that was the thing that connected me to Isha — the thing that was not the strategy and not the pacing and not the notebook's logic but the other thing, the human thing, the grief thing, the loss thing.

The thing that the running contained. The thing that the running stayed.