Chapter 9: Janhavi

# Chapter 9: Janhavi

## The Rivalry

The rivalry began without a declaration.

Rivalries in sport did not begin with declarations — rivalries began with proximity, the proximity of two bodies occupying the same space at increasing speed, the space being the track and the speed being the times and the times being the measurement that converted proximity into competition. The declaration was the declaration of the stopwatch. The stopwatch said: you are getting closer. The closeness was the rivalry's first syllable.

Week eight. The eighth week of training. The eighth week of the red track and the Kalenji shoes and the programme and the intervals and the tempo and the hills and the time trials. The eighth week was the week that the body completed its first adaptation cycle — the cycle being the six-to-eight-week period that Mane madam described as the beginner's window, the window during which the untrained body absorbed training stimulus with the hunger of a system that had been starved.

My 1,500 time was 5:28. From 7:08 to 5:28 in eight weeks. One minute and forty seconds. One hundred seconds. The hundred seconds that represented the beginner's window's output — the output being the rapid improvement that the untrained body produced when exposed to systematic training, the rapid being relative (rapid compared to the two-second improvement that an elite runner achieved over the same period) and absolute (rapid compared to the absence of improvement that the previous six months of not-running had produced).

5:28. Two seconds below the qualifying time. The qualifying time had been 5:30. I was now below it. The door that had been closed at Sangli — eleven seconds closed — was now open. Two seconds open.

Two seconds. The margin was thin. The margin was the width of a thread — the thread that separated qualifying from not-qualifying, the thread that was two seconds on the track and that was, in the conversion to life, the thread between proceeding and stopping, between the next race and the end of the season.

Mane madam noted the 5:28 with the controlled satisfaction that coaches displayed — the satisfaction that was real and that was controlled because the controlling was the coaching, the coach understanding that the celebration of the milestone was the enemy of the pursuit of the next milestone, the celebration being the pause and the pause being the interruption of the momentum.

"Good," Mane madam said. "Now: 5:20."

5:20. The next target. The target that replaced 5:30 the way each target replaced the previous target — the replacement being the nature of targets, the targets being the temporary waypoints on the road that did not end, the road being the running.

5:20 was the time that Mane madam assessed as my capacity for the zonal qualifiers in January — the capacity being the realistic assessment of what eight more weeks of training could produce, the assessment being based on the improvement curve (which was flattening, the beginner's window closing, the easy gains exhausted) and the body's response (which was positive, the body continuing to adapt, the adaptation being slower but present) and the mind's commitment (which was — Mane madam assessed with the specific diagnostic precision that eleven years of coaching had developed — high).

"5:20 puts you in the top five at zonals," Mane madam said. "Top three go to states."

Top three. States. The progression that the system offered — the progression from district to zone to state, the progression being the athletic pyramid, the pyramid that began with the thousands of girls who ran in the district meets and that narrowed to the hundreds who ran at zonals and that narrowed further to the dozens who ran at states.

I was in the pyramid. I was in the pyramid's lower middle — not the base (the base being the girls who ran 7:00 and above, the girls who ran because their schools required participation) and not the peak (the peak being Isha, whose 4:38 was the pyramid's apex in Kolhapur district) but the lower middle, the section that contained the girls who were serious but not elite, the girls whose improvement was ongoing and whose destination was uncertain.

The rivalry. The rivalry that was forming — not between me and Isha (the gap was too large for rivalry, sixty-three seconds being not a rivalry but an aspiration, the aspiration being the polite word for the distance that the less fast maintained from the more fast) but between me and the middle. The middle girls. The girls whose times were between 5:15 and 5:45 — the band that I was entering from below, the entering being the displacement, the displacement being: as I improved, I passed girls who had been above me, and the passing was the rivalry, the rivalry being the specific, intimate competition that happened within the band, the band being the space where seconds mattered and positions shifted.

Pallavi was at 5:12. Pallavi — the 800-metre specialist, whose 1,500 time was the secondary time, the time that existed because Pallavi trained for the 1,500 as the endurance base for the 800 — Pallavi was the girl whose time I was approaching. 5:28 versus 5:12. Sixteen seconds.

Anagha was at 5:22. Anagha Kulkarni — the girl who ran with glasses (the glasses being the spectacles that Anagha wore for myopia and that Anagha removed for running and that the removing created a specific running experience for Anagha, the experience of running in a world that was blurred, the blur being the glasses' absence, the absence making Anagha's running a running-by-feel rather than a running-by-sight, the feeling being the compensation that the body made for the sight's limitation). Anagha was six seconds ahead of me.

Six seconds. The rivalry's distance. The six seconds that separated my 5:28 from Anagha's 5:22, the six seconds that were the specific distance of a rivalry — close enough to feel, close enough to motivate, close enough to fear.

Anagha felt it. I saw Anagha feel it — saw the specific change in Anagha's behaviour that the closing gap produced, the change being: Anagha ran harder on Friday time trials. Anagha, who had been running the Friday trials with the comfortable effort of a girl whose position was secure (fifth in the programme, behind Isha, Pallavi, and the third-and-fourth girls whose names were Snehal and Sonal), was now running with the specific, heightened effort of a girl whose position was threatened, the threat being me, the girl from Mumbai who had been at 7:08 and who was now at 5:28 and who was closing at a rate that the six seconds could not withstand for long.

The threat produced effort. The effort produced improvement. Anagha's 5:22 became 5:18 in week nine — a four-second improvement that was Anagha's largest improvement in three months, the improvement being the rivalry's gift, the gift that competition gave to both competitors, the gift that said: you are making each other faster.

The rivalry was making me faster too. The rivalry — the knowledge that Anagha was six seconds ahead and that the six seconds were within reach — was the specific fuel that training alone did not provide. Training provided the physical stimulus. The rivalry provided the psychological stimulus. The two stimuli combined were greater than either alone — the combination being the specific alchemy that competitive sport contained, the alchemy that converted the individual's effort into the collective's improvement.

Week nine's time trial: 5:19. From 5:28 to 5:19. Nine seconds in one week — the improvement being larger than the logarithmic curve predicted, the larger being the rivalry's contribution, the rivalry adding the stimulus that the curve's mathematics did not account for.

5:19. Three seconds behind Anagha's 5:18. One second behind Anagha's previous time. The closing was happening — the closing was visible on Mane madam's clipboard, the clipboard on which the times were recorded in columns and the columns showed the convergence, the convergence being two lines approaching each other, my line coming from below and Anagha's line being pushed from above (pushed by my approach, the approach causing Anagha to push harder, the harder causing Anagha to improve, the improving causing Anagha to stay ahead, the staying-ahead being the rivalry's dynamic, the dynamic of two runners making each other better).

Rukmini saw the rivalry. Rukmini saw everything — Rukmini's social intelligence being the instrument that detected the atmospheric changes that the programme contained, the changes being the shifts in effort and attention and the specific, charged quality that the air acquired when two runners were closing on each other.

"You and Anagha," Rukmini said. We were walking home — the walk on Tarabai Road, the evening walk that was our walk, the walk that was the decompression, the decompression being the transition from the track's intensity to the evening's calm.

"What about me and Anagha?"

"She's running scared."

"She's running faster."

"Scared and faster are the same thing. She's never had someone come from behind like this. She's been fifth since April. Fifth is comfortable. You're making fifth uncomfortable."

Uncomfortable. The word that described the rivalry's mechanism — the mechanism being the displacement of comfort, the comfort of the established position being disrupted by the challenger's approach, the disruption causing the discomfort, the discomfort causing the effort, the effort causing the improvement.

"I'm not trying to make her uncomfortable," I said.

"You're not trying. You're just getting faster. The faster is making her uncomfortable. The uncomfortable is making her faster. You're both getting faster because the other one is getting faster. It's like — what did Mane madam call it?"

"Positive competition."

"Positive competition. You push her. She pushes you. You both end up faster than either of you would have been alone."

Alone. The word that had been my word — the word that described the Borivali compound, the word that described the first months in Kolhapur, the word that described the withdrawal that Aai had diagnosed and that the running had treated. Alone was the word that the rivalry was replacing — the rivalry being the relationship, the relationship being the connection that competition created, the connection that was not friendship (Anagha and I did not eat lunch together, did not walk home together, did not share the specific intimacies that friendship required) but that was something, the something being the mutual acknowledgment that the other existed and that the other's existence mattered.

The something. The thing between rivalry and friendship. The thing that runners understood and that non-runners did not — the understanding that the person who pushed you was the person who helped you, the person who threatened your position was the person who improved your position, the person who was your competitor was, in the deepest sense, your collaborator.

Anagha and I were collaborating. The collaboration was not spoken — the collaboration was expressed in seconds, in the Friday time trials, in the specific, silent communication that the clipboard's numbers conducted. The communication was: I ran 5:18. Your turn. And the response was: I ran 5:19. Your turn. And the turn-taking was the collaboration, the collaboration that the rivalry contained.

But the rivalry also contained its darker element — the element that was not collaboration but fear. Anagha's fear of being passed. My fear of not passing. The two fears being the negative emotions that the positive competition contained, the containing being the sport's specific emotional architecture, the architecture that held joy and fear in the same structure, the structure being the race.

The fear was useful. The fear was the fuel that the joy did not provide — the joy being the celebration of the improvement and the fear being the terror of the stagnation, the stagnation being the plateau, the plateau being the flat section of the logarithmic curve where the improvement stopped and the times stayed the same and the staying the same was the runner's specific nightmare, the nightmare of a body that had reached its limit.

Was my limit approaching? The question was the question that I asked the ceiling in the yellow room at night — the ceiling that had become the screen on which I projected the numbers, the numbers being the times that the weeks had produced, the times that I arranged in descending order and that the descending showed the trend and the trend was downward but the downward was flattening, the flattening being the evidence that the beginner's window was closing and the hard work was beginning.

The hard work. The work that produced not the nine-second improvement of week nine but the two-second improvement of the weeks that would follow, the two becoming one, the one becoming half, the half becoming the plateau.

The plateau was not yet. The plateau was coming — the plateau was the destination that every runner approached and that every runner feared and that every runner fought, the fighting being the training, the training being the programme's purpose.

The programme's purpose was being served. The programme was producing improvement — not just mine but Anagha's, not just Anagha's but the team's, the team being the organism that contained fourteen runners and that the fourteen runners' individual improvements aggregated into the team's collective improvement, the collective being the thing that Mane madam tracked with the specific pride of a coach whose programme was working.

The programme was working. The evidence was the Friday clipboard — the clipboard that showed fourteen columns of times and that the times were descending and that the descending was the programme's output, the output being the return on the ₹28,000 investment, the return being measured not in rupees but in seconds, the seconds being the currency that running traded in.

Week ten. The tenth week. The week that the rivalry intensified — the intensification being the result of proximity, the proximity being: my 5:16 versus Anagha's 5:15. One second. The gap that had been six seconds was now one second.

One second. The distance that was not a distance but a breath. The distance that could be closed in a single interval or a single race or a single moment of effort or a single moment of the other's fatigue. One second was the distance of uncertainty — the distance that said either of you could be ahead on any given day and that the either-of-you was the rivalry's apex, the apex being the point at which the competition was most intense and the intensity was most productive.

Anagha knew. Anagha knew the way runners knew — by the clipboard, by the times, by the specific, nonverbal communication that the numbers conducted. Anagha's response to the one second was: the Friday time trial in week ten, Anagha ran a 5:11. A four-second improvement. The improvement being the desperation's output — the desperation of a girl who felt the breath on her neck and who responded with the specific, adrenaline-fueled effort that the feeling produced.

5:11. Anagha's fastest time. The time that said: the rivalry had made Anagha faster than Anagha had been without the rivalry. The rivalry was serving its purpose — the purpose being the mutual improvement, the improvement that neither runner would have achieved alone.

My week ten time: 5:14. From 5:16 to 5:14. Two seconds. The improvement was smaller — the beginner's window was closed, the hard work was the work, and the two seconds were the hard-work seconds, the seconds that cost more effort than the nine seconds of week nine.

5:14 versus 5:11. Three seconds. The gap had reopened — the reopening being Anagha's desperation's output, the output being larger than my improvement's output, the larger being temporary (I believed) or permanent (I feared), the believing and the fearing being the twin emotions that the rivalry produced.

Three seconds. The rivalry continued. The rivalry would continue — through November and December and into January, through the training weeks and the time trials and the Friday clipboards, through the specific, silent, seconds-measured competition that two girls conducted on a red track in Kolhapur while the jaggery factories sweetened the air and the temple bells rang and the city did not know and did not care that on the track behind Rajaram Vidyalaya, two bodies were finding their limits.

The limits. The thing that the rivalry was designed to discover. The thing that the running was asking: how fast can you go?

The question was not yet answered. The question was the work. The work was the running. The running was tomorrow.

Tomorrow. We go again.