Chapter 18 of 18

APNI RACE

Chapter 18: Janhavi

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# Chapter 18: Janhavi

## The Track

The track was still the track.

The track was still the laterite — the red dust, the 400-metre oval, the surface that the monsoon had softened and the summer had hardened and the running had worn into the specific, smooth, packed-earth surface that the running produced. The track was still behind Rajaram Vidyalaya. The track was still surrounded by the neem trees whose shade fell on the first lane at 4:30 PM and whose shade moved to the second lane by 5:00 and whose shade's movement was the clock that the runners read, the runners who did not wear watches but who knew the time by the shadow's position.

The track was still the track. But I was not still the girl who had arrived at the track in September.

The girl who had arrived in September was the girl in Bata shoes. The girl in Bata shoes who had not run in six months. The girl whose time was 7:08. The girl who came from Mumbai because Baba left and Aai sold the flat and Maushi had a spare room and Kolhapur was the city that the desperation chose.

The girl who stood on the track in March was different. The girl who stood on the track in March wore Asics shoes — the Asics GT-1000 that Isha had given, the shoes that were the bridge, the bridge that connected the rivalry to the respect to the partnership to the thing that was between all of these and that did not have a name. The girl who stood on the track in March had a time of 4:49. The girl had run at states. The girl had placed eighth in Maharashtra.

The girl had a track.

The track was the thing. The track was the answer — the answer to the question that the yellow room's ceiling had received on the first night in Kolhapur, the question being: what now? The question that the displacement had asked and that the running had answered and that the answering was the track.

March was the month after the nationals. March was the month that Isha came back — came back from Bhubaneswar with the bronze medal, the medal that was the weight that meant the meaning, the bronze that Mane madam had framed (not the medal itself, Mane madam had framed the certificate — the certificate that the national championship issued to the medallists, the certificate being the paper that confirmed what the metal already said).

Isha came back different. The different was not the visible different — Isha looked the same, Isha wore the same training kit, Isha put in the earphones before the bus, Isha ran the warm-up in the front, Isha's stride was still the water-stride, the stride that flowed. The different was the invisible different — the different that was the relaxation, the relaxation of a body and a mind that had achieved the thing that the body and the mind had been pursuing, the achieving releasing the tension that the pursuing had accumulated.

Isha was relaxed. Isha's relaxation was — Isha's relaxation was the smiling. Not the frequent smiling, not the Rukmini-smiling (Rukmini smiled with the frequency and amplitude of a signal that was always broadcasting). Isha smiled once on the first day back — smiled at the team during the warm-up, smiled the specific, brief, contained smile that Isha's reserve permitted, the permitting being the new behaviour, the new being the nationals' product.

Isha smiled at me. The smile was the communication — the communication that the training partnership had developed, the communication that said: I went and I came back and the going and the coming back were the thing and the thing includes you because the training partnership includes you and the including is the thing that the smile says.

The programme continued. The programme was the programme — Monday intervals, Wednesday tempo, Thursday hills, Friday time trials, Saturday Panhala. The programme's structure was the structure that did not change, the structure being the skeleton on which the training's flesh was built, the skeleton being permanent while the flesh changed, the flesh being the intensities and the volumes and the specific, week-by-week calibrations that Mane madam adjusted.

My time continued to fall. Week eighteen: 4:46. Week nineteen: 4:44. Week twenty: 4:42.

4:42. The time that was — the time was Isha's time from September. The time that Isha had run when I arrived. The time that had been the programme's best time, the time that had been the standard, the standard that I had measured myself against from the beginning.

The circle. The circle that the times described — Isha's September time becoming my March time, the becoming being the trajectory's endpoint (not the endpoint — the waypoint, the waypoint being the point on the trajectory that the trajectory passed through on the way to the points that the trajectory had not yet reached). The circle said: you are where she was. The circle also said: she is no longer where she was — she is at 4:17, she is at nationals, she is at the bronze medal.

The circle said: the gap is still there. The gap was twenty-five seconds — from my 4:42 to Isha's 4:17. Twenty-five seconds that were the same gap that had existed in September (twenty-five seconds was approximately the gap between 7:08 and the 6:43 that Isha had run in September, if the comparison was adjusted for the level's difficulty — the twenty-five seconds at the current level being harder than the twenty-five seconds at the beginner level, the harder being the logarithmic curve's law).

The gap was still there. The gap would always be there — some version of the gap, some distance between my time and Isha's time, the distance being the expression of the difference between my talent and Isha's talent, the difference that the training could narrow but could not eliminate, the eliminating being the thing that talent-gaps resisted.

But the gap was not the point. The gap had never been the point. The gap was the measurement — the measurement that the notebook recorded and that the clipboard displayed and that the numbers expressed. The point was the running.

The running was the point. The running had always been the point — from the first Borivali laps around the building compound to the first day on the laterite to the first interval in Bata shoes to the first race in Sangli to the comeback from the injury to the Asics shoes to the zonal qualifiers to the state meet to the 4:49 to the 4:42.

The running was the thing that stayed when the other things left. The running stayed when Baba left. The running stayed when the Borivali flat was sold. The running stayed when the shin said stop. The running stayed when the two weeks of ice and ceiling and emptiness said: this is what not-running is, this is what the absence of the running feels like, feel it and remember it and then run again.

The running stayed. Isha had said it: the running is what stays. The sentence that was the truth and that the truth was the running's specific gift — the gift of permanence in the impermanent, the gift of the constant in the variable, the gift of the track in the city that the desperation chose.

The season's final race was in April. The season's final race was the district championship — the same district championship that had been the first race, the Sangli race, the race of the 5:41 and the eleven seconds above qualifying and the positive split and the lesson.

The district championship was in Kolhapur this year — the hosting rotating between the district's cities, the rotation placing the championship at the Rajaram ground, at the track, at the track that was our track, the track being the home track, the home being the advantage that the familiarity provided.

The home track. The laterite. The red dust. The track that I had run a thousand times — a thousand being the approximate (not the literal — the literal being perhaps eight hundred, the eight hundred being the product of six months of training times the training days per week times the laps per session). The track that I knew the way a reader knew a book — every sentence, every paragraph, every chapter, every page.

The 1,500 metres. The under-17 girls' district championship 1,500 metres. The race that was the season's bookend — the first race having been the Sangli meet in October and the last race being the Kolhapur meet in April, the two races being the brackets that contained the season's story.

Isha was in the race. Isha running the district championship was the national bronze medallist running the district championship — the running being the humility that Mane madam's programme required, the programme saying: you run every race, the every including the district and the zonal and the state and the national, the every being the principle that the programme enforced regardless of the level.

The race was at 3:00 PM. April in Kolhapur — the April that was the pre-monsoon month, the month when the heat arrived and the humidity preceded the rain and the combination of the heat and the humidity produced the specific, difficult, Kolhapur afternoon that the April races required the runners to navigate.

I stood on the start line. Lane four. The lane that the seeding assigned — the seeding placing me third, behind Isha (first, obviously) and Pallavi (second, the 800-metre specialist whose 1,500 was the secondary event).

The start line was the laterite. The start line was the red dust. The start line was the surface that my Asics had run a thousand times and that the Asics knew the way the Asics knew the foot and the foot knew the Asics and the knowing was the relationship that the running had built.

Rukmini was in lane eight. Rukmini's lane was the lane of the enthusiast — the enthusiast whose times were the times of a girl who ran because the running was the joy and whose joy was the running and whose running was not the competition but the participation, the participation being Rukmini's specific gift to the programme.

"Today is today!" Rukmini shouted from lane eight. The sentence that was Rukmini's sentence — the sentence that Rukmini had delivered from the bus in October and that Rukmini delivered from the start line in April, the delivery being the same, the same being Rukmini's consistency, the consistency of a girl whose optimism was the constant.

Today is today. The sentence that joined the collection — the collection of the sentences that the running life had produced:

We start with what we have. — Mane madam. The running is what stays. — Isha. Run your race. — Baba. Today is today. — Rukmini.

The collection. The sentences that were the philosophy — not the formal philosophy that the textbooks contained but the living philosophy that the running produced, the running being the activity and the philosophy being the activity's by-product.

The gun fired.

I ran. The running was — the running was the running, the running that the gun released, the gun being the permission, the permission that said: now, you may run, the running is permitted, the running is the thing.

Even pace. The discipline. Seventy-seven seconds per lap. The pace for 4:38 — the target that Mane madam had set, the target that was four seconds faster than my current best, the four seconds being the race's expected alchemy.

Isha was ahead. Isha was always ahead — the ahead being the constant, the constant that the training partnership had not eliminated and that the training partnership had made bearable, the bearable being the quality that the respect gave to the gap, the respect saying: the gap exists and the gap is okay because the gap is the distance between two runners who are both running and the both-running is the thing.

The first lap: seventy-seven. On pace. Third position. Behind Isha and the Satara girl who was visiting.

The second lap: seventy-eight. One second slower. The noise. The noise was the biology's variation, the variation that the discipline accepted as the cost of the biology.

Third position. The position that the even pace maintained — the maintaining being the discipline's product, the product being the consistency that the first two laps demonstrated.

The third lap: seventy-six. One second faster than the first. The faster being — the faster was the thing. The faster was the body finding the gear — the gear that the body had that the body did not always find, the gear being the specific, located, accessed capacity that the trained body contained and that the race sometimes released, the sometimes being the unpredictable, the unpredictable being the race's mystery.

The gear. The thing that the training built but that the training could not guarantee — the guarantee being the race's prerogative, the race deciding whether the gear would be available and the race's decision being the thing that the runner could not control, the runner controlling the training and the discipline and the even pace but not the gear, the gear being the race's gift or the race's withholding.

The race was giving. The race was giving the gear — the gear that felt like the body's second engine, the engine that the first engine's effort had concealed and that the third lap's seventy-six had revealed, the revealing being the accessing, the accessing being: this is what I can do, this is what the training has built, this is the capacity that the months of work have produced.

The final three-quarter lap. 300 metres.

I was third. The Satara girl was second. Isha was first — twenty-five metres ahead, the twenty-five metres being the gap, the gap that was the constant.

The 300 metres was the conclusion. The conclusion of the race and the conclusion of the season and the conclusion of the story that had started in September when a girl in Bata shoes stepped onto a laterite track.

I ran the 300 metres with the gear. The gear was the thing — the thing that the body accessed and that the accessing produced the speed that was faster than the speed before it and the faster being the progression and the progression being the running.

I passed the Satara girl at the 200-metre mark. The passing was the passing — the passing that the gear produced, the gear making the even pace faster and the faster being the passing's mechanism.

Second. I was second. Behind Isha. 200 metres to go.

Isha was ahead. Isha was fifteen metres ahead. The fifteen metres were the gap — the gap that was not closeable in 200 metres, the gap that was the talent-gap expressed in distance, the distance that the race's 200 metres could not eliminate.

I did not try to close the gap. I ran my race — the race that was my race, the race that Baba's sentence had instructed, the race that was the discipline and the even pace and the gear and the 300 metres and the final straight.

I ran my race. My race was not Isha's race. My race was not the race for first place — the first place being Isha's, the first place being the constant, the constant that the training partnership acknowledged and that the acknowledging was not the defeat but the recognition, the recognition of the hierarchy that the talent established and that the training maintained.

My race was the time. My race was the number — the number that the stopwatch would produce, the number that was the measurement of the running, the measurement that said: this is how fast you ran today, this is the body's output on this day on this track in this air at this temperature with this training and this discipline and this gear.

The finish line. The laterite's line — the white chalk line that the volunteers had drawn, the drawing being the hand-drawn line that the district championship's budget permitted, the budget not including the electronic timing of the synthetic tracks but including the chalk and the stopwatch and the volunteers.

I crossed. The crossing was the crossing — the crossing of the line that ended the race and started the measurement and the measurement was the time.

The time.

"Janhavi Bhosale. Second place. 4:36."

4:36. The number that was — the number was the number. The number was six seconds faster than my target. The number was thirteen seconds faster than my previous best. The number was the race's alchemy — the alchemy that the gear had produced, the gear being the race's gift, the gift that the home track and the home crowd and the season's last race had provided.

4:36. From 7:08 to 4:36. Two minutes and thirty-two seconds. One hundred and fifty-two seconds. The seconds that seven months of running had removed — each second the product of the work, the work being the daily, weekly, monthly accumulation of the intervals and the tempo and the hills and the time trials and the Panhala mornings and the Asics shoes and the coaching and the partnership and the rivalry and the injury and the comeback and the father's phone calls and the mother's poori-bhaji and the friend's "today is today" and the coach's "we start with what we have."

4:36. The number that was below 4:42 — below Isha's September time, below the time that had been the standard when I arrived, below the time that the circle had described, the circle now extended, the extending being: you are not where she was — you are past where she was, you are in the territory that is your own.

Isha's time: 4:15. A personal best. A new state record. The record continuing to fall — the falling being Isha's trajectory, the trajectory that pointed toward the things that the trajectory pointed toward, the things being the senior nationals and the Asian juniors and the international.

4:36 versus 4:15. Twenty-one seconds. The gap — the gap that had been sixty-six seconds in September (7:08 versus Isha's 6:02 estimated time trial) and that was now twenty-one seconds. The gap had closed — the closing being the forty-five seconds that the seven months had removed from the gap, the removing being the evidence that the closing was happening.

Twenty-one seconds. The gap that was still the gap. The gap that would still be the gap tomorrow and next week and next month and next season. The gap that the training would continue to close — the closing being the work, the work being the running, the running being the thing.

The thing.

Mane madam found me. Mane madam's clipboard was in Mane madam's hand — the clipboard that held the programme's data, the data being the times that the season had produced.

"4:36," Mane madam said.

"4:36."

"From 7:08."

Mane madam looked at me. Mane madam's look was the look of a coach who had coached for eleven years and who had started fourteen-year-old girls on laterite tracks with ₹28,000 budgets and who had produced zonal qualifiers and state competitors and a national bronze medallist and who was now looking at a girl who had come from Mumbai in September with Bata shoes and a closed mouth and a father who had left and a time of 7:08.

"You have a runner's body," Mane madam said. "I told you that on the first day."

"You told me 'we start with what we have.'"

"And what you had was a runner's body. The body was always the body. The training was the revealing — the revealing of what the body contained."

The revealing. The word that was the coaching's word — the word that described the coach's philosophy, the philosophy that said: the talent is in the body and the coaching reveals the talent and the revealing is the running. The philosophy that Mane madam had applied to fourteen athletes on a ₹28,000 budget on a laterite track in Kolhapur.

Isha found me. Isha found me the way Isha now found me — with the specific, deliberate, choosing-to-find that the training partnership had developed, the choosing being the new behaviour that had replaced the reserve, the reserve having been the old behaviour, the old behaviour of the earphones and the front row and the alone.

"4:36," Isha said.

"4:15," I said.

"Twenty-one seconds."

"Twenty-one."

"Closing."

The exchange. The exchange of the numbers — the numbers being the language, the language of the two runners who had started as strangers and who had become the thing that they had become, the thing that the running had made them.

Rukmini arrived. Rukmini's arrival was the arrival — the loud arrival, the full-volume arrival, the Rukmini arrival.

"I RAN 5:58!" Rukmini announced. "PERSONAL BEST! Below six minutes! BELOW SIX!"

Below six. Rukmini's number. Rukmini's number being different from my number and Isha's number — Rukmini's number being the number that Rukmini's body and Rukmini's training produced, the producing being the result, the result being Rukmini's, the Rukmini's being as valid as the 4:36 and the 4:15 because the result was the result and the result was the running and the running was the thing.

"Below six!" I said.

"Below six!" Isha said.

The three of us — the three girls, the three runners, the girl from Mumbai and the girl from Bhausingji Road and the girl from the house with the jasmine — the three of us stood on the laterite track in the April heat in Kolhapur in Maharashtra in India.

The track was still the track. The red dust was still the red dust. The neem trees' shade was at the third lane — the 5:00 PM shade, the shade that said: the session is ending, the day is ending, the season is ending.

The season was ending. The season that had started in September was ending in April. The season that had contained — the season had contained the starting and the arriving and the Bata shoes and the first interval and the first time trial and the first race and the injury and the comeback and the shoes and the partnership and the rivalry and the father's phone call and the zonal qualifiers and the state meet and the nationals and the bronze medal and the home race and the 4:36.

The season was ending. The next season would begin — the next season beginning in June, after the monsoon's pause, after the rains that would soften the laterite and that the post-monsoon sun would harden, the hardening being the track's annual renewal, the renewal being the surface's version of the body's recovery.

The next season. The next race. The next time trial. The next interval. The next tempo. The next hill. The next Panhala morning at 5 AM with the headlamp and the gradient and the girl who ran beside me.

The next.

Aai was in the kitchen when I came home. The kitchen that smelled of the evening meal — the rice and the varan and the bhaji that Aai made every evening, the making being the routine that sustained the household, the routine that was Aai's discipline, the discipline that was parallel to my discipline, the parallel being: the mother's cooking and the daughter's running being the two disciplines that the household contained.

"4:36," I said.

Aai turned from the stove. Aai's face was the face — the face that mothers made when daughters said numbers that the mothers did not fully understand but that the mothers understood were important, the importance being communicated not by the number but by the voice, the voice being the voice of a girl who had run the number and who was bringing the number home.

"Is that good?" Aai asked.

"It's second at district. Thirteen seconds faster than my best."

"Good." Aai's good. The good that was the mother's good — the good that contained the pride that the mother felt and the pride being the mother's specific, quiet, unperformative pride, the pride that did not announce itself but that was present in the good, in the single word that the mother said and that the single word contained.

"Baba called again," I said. "Last Sunday. He said 'run your race.'"

Aai turned back to the stove. The turning-back was the processing — the processing that happened in the cooking, the cooking and the processing being simultaneous.

"He was right," Aai said. The sentence that was — the sentence was the sentence. The sentence that Aai said about Baba was the sentence that acknowledged the sentence without acknowledging the sender, the acknowledging being the specific, precise, emotionally calibrated response that Aai produced, the response that said: the sentence is true and the sender is the sender and the truth of the sentence is separable from the sender.

"He was right," I agreed.

"You ran your race?"

"I ran my race."

"Good."

The kitchen. The rice. The varan. The bhaji. The mother and the daughter. The household that was two people and that functioned as two people and that the two people had made sufficient, the sufficient being the decision, the decision that the mother and the daughter had made when the third person left, the decision being: we are enough.

We were enough. We had always been enough — the enough being the discovery that the three years had produced, the discovery that the two-person household was not the diminished household but the concentrated household, the concentrated being the intensity that the reduction produced, the reduction from three to two concentrating the love rather than halving it.

I ate the dinner. I went to the yellow room. The yellow room that had received my stare on the first night and that had received the ice and the injury and the comeback and the Panhala mornings and the phone calls and the numbers.

The yellow room's ceiling stared back. The ceiling that had always stared back — the ceiling being the surface on which I projected the thoughts, the thoughts being the processing, the processing being the thing that the evening provided, the evening being the time after the running and before the sleeping.

The thought: seven months.

Seven months from September to April. Seven months from the Bata shoes to the Asics. Seven months from the 7:08 to the 4:36. Seven months from the girl who was deposited in Kolhapur by the desperation to the girl who ran 4:36 on the laterite track at the district championship and placed second behind the national bronze medallist.

Seven months. The months that contained — the months contained the track and the coach and the shoes and the team and the rivalry and the partnership and the friendship and the father's phone calls and the mother's cooking and the aunt's car and the friend's sentences and the running.

The running. The thing that stayed when the other things shifted. The thing that was the constant in the variable. The thing that the track provided and that the body performed and that the mind directed and that the heart sustained.

The running is what stays. Isha's sentence. The sentence that was the truth.

Run your race. Baba's sentence. The sentence that was the instruction.

We start with what we have. Mane madam's sentence. The sentence that was the beginning.

Today is today. Rukmini's sentence. The sentence that was the present.

The sentences. The philosophy. The collection that the running had produced — the running producing not just the times and the positions and the medals but the sentences, the sentences being the by-product of the living, the living that happened on and around and because of the track.

I lay on the bed in the yellow room. The bed that was the bed — the narrow bed, the ₹3,000 mattress, the bed that was sufficient, the sufficient being the theme, the theme of the household that was two people and that was enough.

The alarm was set. The alarm was set for 4:50 AM — the 4:50 being the alarm that the Saturday morning required, the Saturday being the Panhala morning, the morning that I ran with Isha, the running-beside that had started as the accidental encounter and that had become the deliberate partnership and that had become the thing that was the running's specific gift to two girls who had lost.

4:50 AM. The alarm. The morning. The Panhala road. The gradient. The headlamp. The girl who ran beside me. The girl whose grandmother had taught her to run. The girl whose notebook had my name on page seven.

Tomorrow: we go again.

The running continues. The running always continues. The running is what stays.

Apni race. My race. Our race.