Chapter 3: Janhavi

# Chapter 3: Janhavi

## The First Run

The shoes were Bata. The Bata North Star — the canvas shoe that every Indian student owned, the shoe that Bata had produced since before I was born and that Bata would produce after I was dead, the shoe that was not designed for running but for walking and standing and the general, nonspecific locomotion that Indian schools required. The Bata North Star was white — the white that was white on the day of purchase and that was grey by the second week and that was the colour of everything by the third month, the colour of Mumbai's dust, of Kolhapur's laterite, of the specific composite of soil and sweat and daily use that Indian canvas shoes absorbed.

I wore the Bata North Stars to the track. The track saw the Bata North Stars and the track did not judge — the track being laterite, the track being red earth compacted into a surface, the track understanding that the shoes were not the runner and the runner was not the shoes and that the running happened in the gap between the two, the gap where effort lived.

4:00 PM. The sun was still high — Kolhapur's November sun, which was the sun that had not yet learned that November was supposed to be cold, the sun being a Kolhapuri sun, meaning it operated on its own schedule, the schedule being hot until December and then moderately hot until February and then hot again, the moderation being Kolhapur's version of winter, which was not winter in any definition that people from north India would recognise but was winter enough for Kolhapuris to wear shawls and to discuss the cold with the dramatic gravity of people experiencing a personal hardship.

Rukmini was already on the track. Rukmini was stretching — the stretches that runners did before running, the hamstring stretch and the quad stretch and the calf stretch and the hip opener, the stretches that were not stretches but negotiations, the body negotiating with itself for the permission to run, the muscles being asked whether they would cooperate and the muscles responding with the qualified agreement that muscles offered, the agreement being yes but slowly and the slowly being the warm-up.

"You came!" Rukmini's face. The face that was the face of a person who had issued an invitation and who was now receiving the acceptance of the invitation, the face that said I asked and you answered and the answer is your presence. "Good. Mane madam is doing intervals today."

Intervals. The word was a word I knew from the Borivali compound — the word that meant fast-slow-fast-slow, the alternation that Baba had explained to me when I was eleven and that Baba had timed on his phone and that Baba had used as the training structure for the compound laps, the structure being: two laps fast, one lap slow, two laps fast, one lap slow, until the twenty laps were done. Baba had been a runner. Baba had been the runner in the family — the man who had run the Mumbai Marathon twice, the man whose running shoes were the Nike Air Zoom that cost ₹6,500 and that were the most expensive item in the Bhosale household, the shoes being Baba's indulgence, the one thing that Baba spent money on that was not the household and not the savings and not the school fees, the shoes being the selfish purchase and the selfish purchase being the one that Aai allowed because Aai understood that a person who gave everything needed one thing that was theirs.

The Nike Air Zooms were gone. The Nike Air Zooms had left with Baba — in the bag that Baba had packed on the Tuesday morning, the bag that contained the shoes and the passport and the ₹3 lakhs from the joint account and the specific, portable components of a life that was being disassembled. The shoes were Baba's. The shoes went with Baba. The running, which the shoes had taught me, stayed.

Mane madam arrived at 4:05. Mane madam was wearing a tracksuit — the blue tracksuit, the tracksuit that Indian coaches wore, the tracksuit that was the uniform of the coaching profession, the fabric being polyester, the polyester being the fabric that Indian sports budgets selected because polyester was durable and affordable and because the durability and affordability were the qualities that Indian sports budgets valued over moisture-wicking and breathability and the specific performance characteristics that international coaching gear offered and that Indian coaching budgets did not cover.

"Everyone. Two laps warm-up. Jog."

The girls began. Fourteen girls — I counted this time, the counting being easier because the girls were moving in the same direction and at the same speed, the warm-up jog being the equaliser, the speed at which all runners were the same, the slow speed that was the prelude to the fast speed that would separate them.

"You." Mane madam pointed at me. "Join. Last position. Observe the pace."

I joined. Last position. The last position was the position that I had been in since the transfer — last in the classroom's social hierarchy, last in the school's familiarity index, last in the running programme's competence ranking. The last position was comfortable. The last position was the position from which you observed without being observed, the position that allowed assessment without exposure, the position of the learner.

The first lap was the jog. The jog was the body's reacquaintance with the surface — the Bata North Stars meeting the laterite, the laterite being harder than the compound's concrete and softer than the compound's gravel, the laterite being a surface that had give, the give being the earth's contribution to the running, the earth absorbing a fraction of each footstrike and returning a fraction and the difference between the absorbed and the returned being the tax that the surface charged, the tax that the runner's legs paid.

The laterite was red. The red got on the shoes — the Bata North Stars collecting the laterite's pigment with each step, the white canvas becoming red-white, the transition being the track's mark on the shoes the way the shoes' mark was on the track, the running being a conversation between the two, the conversation being: you change me and I change you and the changing is the running.

I ran. The running was — after six months of not running, after the Borivali compound and the move and the yellow room — the running was the body remembering. The body remembered before the brain gave permission. The body's legs found the rhythm — the rhythm that was not the Borivali rhythm (the compound's specific cadence, the cadence that my legs had developed over three years of twenty laps) but a new rhythm, the rhythm that the red track demanded, the track being longer than the compound (400 metres versus 200, the difference being the difference between a sentence and a paragraph, the compound being the sentence and the track being the paragraph, and the paragraph requiring a different pacing than the sentence).

The warm-up ended. Mane madam gathered the group.

"Today. Four hundred metre intervals. Ninety seconds rest. Six repetitions."

Six repetitions. Six laps at speed. Six laps with ninety seconds between them. The mathematics was the mathematics of intervals — the total distance being 2,400 metres, the total rest being 450 seconds, the total workout being approximately twenty-five minutes, the twenty-five minutes being the window in which the body would learn something that the body did not know before.

"First group. Isha, Pallavi, Anagha. Go."

Isha Gaikwad was in the first group. Isha Gaikwad launched from the start line with the specific acceleration that I had observed yesterday — the acceleration that was not effort but release, the body unleashing a speed that it had been containing, the speed being the natural state and the standing being the artificial state, the running being the return to the natural.

Isha covered the 400 metres in seventy-one seconds. I knew this because Mane madam said it — "seventy-one," the number being the time and the time being the assessment, the assessment delivered in two syllables that contained the coach's measurement of the athlete's current state relative to the athlete's optimal state.

"Second group. Rukmini, Janhavi, Sonal, Pranjali."

My name. My name in the second group. My name being called to run on a track that I had seen for the first time yesterday, in shoes that were not running shoes, with a body that had not run in six months, in a city that I had not chosen.

I ran.

The first fifty metres were the lie. The first fifty metres said: this is easy, this is familiar, this is the Borivali compound, you know this, your body knows this. The first fifty metres were the body's memory of running — the memory that was stored in the muscles and the tendons and the lungs and that was activated by the motion and that said, for fifty metres, nothing has changed.

The second fifty metres were the truth. The second fifty metres said: six months. Six months of not running. Six months of the yellow room and the bed and the withdrawal and the silence. Six months is not nothing. Six months is the distance between the body you were and the body you are and the body you are is not the body you were.

The lungs burned. The burning was the burn of oxygen debt — the body demanding more oxygen than the lungs could supply, the deficit accumulating with each stride, the deficit being the bill that the six months had generated and that the body was now being asked to pay, and the paying was the pain.

I ran. The running was not graceful. The running was not Isha Gaikwad's water-motion. The running was the running of a girl in Bata North Stars on a laterite track in Kolhapur who had not run in six months and who was running now because she had turned right instead of left at the school gate and because a girl named Rukmini had said come and because a coach named Mane madam had said bring whatever you have and because whatever I had was this — the burning lungs, the heavy legs, the Bata shoes collecting red dust, the body protesting and the mind overruling and the overruling being the running.

The 200-metre mark. Halfway. The curve of the track — the curve being the part of the oval where the body leaned inward and where the physics of centripetal force acted on the runner's body and where the outside leg worked harder than the inside leg and where the shoes' grip mattered and the Bata North Stars' grip was not designed for curves and the not-designed-for-curves was the specific challenge that the shoes presented, the challenge being: I will slip, I will slide, I will not hold the curve the way running shoes hold the curve, and you, the runner, must compensate with the body's own grip, the grip of the toes inside the shoe, the grip that is muscle and not rubber.

I gripped. I held the curve. The curve passed. The straight opened — the final 200 metres, the straight that was the home stretch, the stretch that runners saw as the permission to accelerate, the stretch where the finish was visible and the visibility was the fuel.

But I could not accelerate. The six months had taken the acceleration. The six months had taken the final gear — the gear that Baba had called the kick, the gear that came in the last 200 metres, the gear that was the body's reserve, the reserve that training built and that the absence of training depleted. The reserve was depleted. The gear was gone. The last 200 metres were not acceleration but maintenance — the maintenance of a speed that was already slow, the maintenance being the achievement, the not-slowing-down being the victory.

I finished. Mane madam's stopwatch clicked.

"Ninety-four," Mane madam said.

Ninety-four seconds. The number was the number — the number that placed me twenty-three seconds behind Isha Gaikwad, the twenty-three seconds being the distance, the distance that the six months and the Bata shoes and the laterite track had measured, the distance that was not metres but seconds, and the seconds being the honest assessment that the stopwatch provided, the stopwatch being more honest than the eye and more honest than the mind and the most honest thing on the track.

Twenty-three seconds. In a 400-metre race, twenty-three seconds was not a gap. Twenty-three seconds was a canyon. Twenty-three seconds was the distance between a girl who held the district record and a girl who had arrived yesterday in Bata North Stars.

Rukmini finished beside me. Rukmini's time was eighty-six seconds — eight seconds faster than me, fifteen seconds slower than Isha. Rukmini's face was red and Rukmini's breathing was the breathing of a girl who had given everything and who was satisfied with the giving.

"Ninety-four," Rukmini said, repeating my time. "First interval. In Bata shoes. After six months."

"It's slow."

"It's a starting point."

Starting point. The phrase that Mane madam used. We start with what we have. We start with ninety-four seconds. We start with Bata North Stars. We start with six months of not running and a father who left and a city that was not chosen and a track that was red and a rival who ran like water and a friend who ran like fire and a body that burned and a mind that wanted and the wanting being the spark and the spark being the thing that ninety-four seconds had ignited.

The second interval. I ran it in ninety-two. The two seconds were not efficiency — the two seconds were desperation, the desperation of a girl who had heard ninety-four and who had decided that ninety-four was the time to beat, the time to beat being not Isha's seventy-one but my own ninety-four, the competition being not against the girl in the first group but against the girl in the first interval.

The third interval. Ninety-three. The regression. The body saying: you asked for two seconds and I gave you two seconds and the giving cost me and the cost is the third interval's regression, the one second that the body takes back from the two it gave.

The fourth interval. Ninety-five. The fatigue. The honest fatigue of a body that had not run in six months and that was now running its fourth 400-metre interval on a laterite track in Bata shoes, and the fatigue being the body's honest communication, the body saying: I have given you what I have and what I have is less than what you want and the less is the gap and the gap is the work.

The fifth interval. Ninety-seven. The wall. The wall that runners hit when the body's glycogen depleted and the muscles shifted to a fuel that was less efficient and the less efficient was the slower and the slower was the wall.

The sixth interval. I did not finish the sixth interval. At the 300-metre mark, my legs stopped. Not stopped as in refused — stopped as in could not, the distinction being the distinction between will and capacity, between the mind's command and the body's ability, between run and with what. The legs had given six months' worth of running in twenty-five minutes and the giving was complete and the completeness was the stopping.

I walked the last 100 metres. The walking was the defeat. The walking was the admission that ninety-four seconds was the starting point and the starting point was far from the finish and the distance between the two was the work.

Mane madam watched me walk. Mane madam did not comment on the walking. Mane madam did not say finish strong or push through or the motivational vocabulary that coaches deployed when athletes faltered. Mane madam watched me walk and the watching was the coaching, the watching being the assessment that noted: this girl ran five intervals in Bata shoes after six months and the fifth interval slowed her and the sixth interval stopped her and the stopping was not weakness but the honest limit of a body that has not been trained and that will be trained and that the training will take the ninety-four to wherever the ninety-four is capable of going.

I finished the lap walking. I stood at the track's edge. My lungs burned. My legs shook — the quadriceps tremor that followed maximum effort, the tremor being the muscles' aftershock, the muscles having been pushed to the limit and the limit having been reached and the reaching being the earthquake and the tremor being the aftershock.

Isha Gaikwad walked past me. Isha was not breathing hard. Isha had completed all six intervals — seventy-one, seventy, seventy-two, seventy-one, seventy-three, seventy — and the numbers were consistent the way a machine's output was consistent, the consistency being the mark of a runner whose body had been trained to produce a specific effort at a specific cost and whose training had reduced the cost to a level that six repetitions did not exhaust.

Isha walked past me and Isha did not look at me. The not-looking was worse than the two-second assessment. The two-second assessment had been dismissal — the dismissal of a non-runner. The not-looking was absence — the absence of a reason to look, the absence that said you are not in my field of vision because you are not in my field of competition.

The absence stung. The sting was the second spark. The first spark had been the dismissal — the two-second assessment that had said not relevant. The second spark was the absence — the not-looking that said not even dismissal-worthy, not even assessment-worthy, not even the two seconds that assessment required.

Two sparks. The sparks were the fuel. The fuel was the thing that the running needed — not the physical fuel (the glycogen, the oxygen, the calories) but the emotional fuel, the fuel that converted the sting into the stride, the dismissal into the distance, the absence into the presence that I intended to become.

Rukmini appeared. Rukmini's arm went around my shoulder — the arm that was sweaty and heavy and that transmitted the specific warmth of a girl who had also run five intervals and who was also tired and who was also standing at the track's edge but who was not alone because Rukmini's default was not alone, Rukmini's default was beside, Rukmini's default was the arm-around-shoulder that Indian girls offered their friends, the gesture that said I am here and my being here is not conditional on your performance.

"Tomorrow," Rukmini said. "We go again."

"Tomorrow," I said.

Tomorrow. The word that was the runner's word — the word that said today's interval was today's interval and tomorrow's interval was tomorrow's interval and the gap between the two was the rest and the rest was the repair and the repair was the thing that made tomorrow different from today.

Tomorrow. Ninety-four seconds. The starting point. The red track. The Bata shoes. The girl who ran like water and the girl who ran like fire and the girl who had not run in six months and who had run today and who would run tomorrow.

Tomorrow. We go again.

I walked home on Tarabai Road. The evening was happening — the jasmine sellers, the temple crowd, the tambda rassa hotels beginning their evening service, the autorickshaws negotiating fares with the loud confidence of Kolhapuri auto drivers who understood that the fare was not the price but the performance, the negotiation being the entertainment that both driver and passenger enjoyed.

Aai was in the kitchen. Aai was making pohe — the Maharashtrian breakfast-for-dinner, the pohe being the meal that Aai made when Aai was tired, the meal being quick and simple and nutritionally adequate and the adequacy being Aai's standard for weeknight dinners, the standard being: the food must exist, the food must nourish, the food must not take more than thirty minutes.

"How was the track?" Aai asked.

The question. The question that was not casual — the question that carried the weight of a prescription, the prescription being the running, and Aai wanting to know whether the prescription was working, whether the medicine was effective, whether the daughter who had been withdrawn was showing signs of the volume turning back up.

"It was hard," I said.

"Hard is not bad," Aai said.

"I know."

"Hard means you did something."

"I know."

"And?"

"And I'm going back tomorrow."

Aai did not say anything. Aai turned back to the pohe. But I saw it — the micro-expression, the expression that lasted less than a second, the expression that was relief. The relief of a mother whose prescription was working. The relief of a woman who had moved her daughter from Mumbai to Kolhapur and who had bet on a running programme and who was now hearing the daughter say I'm going back tomorrow, the sentence being the evidence that the bet was right.

I ate the pohe. I went to the yellow room. I lay on the bed and I looked at the ceiling and I did not think about Mumbai. I did not think about Mumbai. The not-thinking-about-Mumbai was new — the not-thinking being the absence of the thought that had been present every night since the move, the thought that said you should be there, not here, the thought that the running had replaced with a different thought, the thought being: ninety-four seconds. Tomorrow: ninety-three.

The number was the thought. The number was the new silence — not the silence of withdrawal but the silence of intention, the silence that was not empty but full, full of the plan, full of the tomorrow, full of the track and the intervals and the Bata shoes and the girl who ran like water and the twenty-three seconds between us.

Twenty-three seconds. The gap. The distance. The work.

I slept. I slept and I did not dream of Mumbai. I slept and I dreamed of running — the running being not the Borivali compound's twenty laps but the red track's oval, the oval that ended where it began and that was, in the ending, not the same as the beginning.

Tomorrow. We go again.