Athletic legend PT Usha is in a happy frame of mind. The marriage of her son Dr. Vignesh Ujjwal with Krishna took place on August 25. Ujjwal, who has specialised in sports medicine, is a doctor at the Usha School of Athletics.
Usha is a Rajya Sabha member and president of the Indian Olympic Association.
In the 1980’ and 90s, Usha dominated the national consciousness with her exploits at the Asian level and her heartbreak of missing a bronze medal at the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics by 1/100 th of a second.
According to AI, Usha has won a total of 101 international medals.
The breakdown is roughly: Gold: 47-50; Silver: 22-25. Bronze: 10-15.
The following piece was published in the Sportsworld issue of March 6, 1991. It was a time when Usha had retired and was about to get married.
COLUMN: Tunnel of Time
By Shevlin Sebastian/Payyolli
Photographs: Utpal Sorkar
The road is narrow.
On the left, there is a small cigarette shop; a few young men stand near it and look at us curiously. On the right, a thatched-roofed cinema hall called Reshmi Talkies.
Further down the narrow tarred road is the Block Development Office.
A curve on the road, later, suddenly in the distance… the big, sprawling yellow-coloured house of P. T. Usha.
The black gate, of shoulder height, has a sign on the wall near it – black letters on white marble – that says “Usha”, the house name. In the open garage, underneath a roof, is a gleaming Standard 2000. In an adjacent garage is a blue Maruti.
As we move towards the door, photographer Utpal Sorkar’s brand new Ray-Ban sunglasses slip from his hand and fall to the cement ground. The right lens is completely shattered. Utpal looks shocked. He picks up the small glass pieces and throws them towards a grassy verge. ‘Bad sign!’ he mutters to himself.
We ring the bell.
After a while Usha opens the door. She smiles but is looking listless, a little bored. She invites us in. It is a large hall. One’s attention is immediately drawn to an incredible showcase that spans a whole wall. It is filled with rows of medals, cups, mementos and souvenirs. On the right, near the door, is a staircase that leads up to the first floor.
We sit down.
It is very silent in the house. You can hear the birds chatter in the tree on the lawn. You can hear the sound of plates being cleaned in the kitchen. You can hear the tick-tock of the clock hanging on the wall. The slap of bare feet announces the arrival of a younger sister, on her way to the first floor.
The mood of the house seeps into you. It is peaceful and quiet, but to one who has just completed a 2400 km train journey, assaulted by that relentless clatter of rail on track, the silence in the house is like a harsh shout. There is a droning sound in my ears. I struggle to clear my brain.
Usha struggles to clear her lethargic mood.
I begin: “You know there is tremendous interest all over India about your marriage.”
“Well, that is the only thing left of interest,” comes her quick reply.
“You know people want to know how you have gone about it. Like how many guys you have seen? How did you make the final choice?”
“Oh, dear,” she replies, “that is too difficult. It’s a private matter. And nothing has been really fixed. There is a tentative agreement for an engagement, but everything will only be fixed on March 3rd.”
“Yes, but this article is coming out after that. So there is really nothing to worry about.”
“Are you sure?” she asks. The hundreds of journalistic promises like this, all to be broken the very next morning in the newspaper, make her wary.
“I promise!” I say.
She looks at Utpal and me, measuring and weighing the pros and cons. Then she smiles and begins to speak.
Her voice is her most distinctive feature. It is a strong, determined voice. It is a voice that is patently honest. It is a voice that never forgets that she is a small town girl. And yet the voice can suddenly give way to embarrassing giggles, and to tremors of excitement. And if you hear and rehear her voice on the dictaphone, you can detect that, at the core of it, there are strands of nervousness. The voice does not indicate the runner.
On the track, Usha is bold all the way. She runs with fluid strength, with utter confidence. Her running style can leave you gasping in admiration. But off the track, her confidence can sometimes flounder. A question about “the positive and negative aspects of fame,” has her lowering her eyes to the ground, swallowing hard, the Adam’s apple bobbing, and then she asks simply, “Could you explain that question again? I can’t understand it.”
The question is rephrased and then she breaks into a flood of words, glad to have a say on the subject and embarrassed that she did not initially understand. Yet her eyes are steady, direct and penetrating. And later, as the day wears on, she speaks a lot, and her confidence increases; her eyes hold one with their fierce determination.
ON MARRIAGE
I don’t know how many proposals have come but there have been quite a few. In some cases everything seemed okay but something was not right with the family. Or the family was all right but the person was not. For quite a few, they did not have the necessary height. I am 5’7”.
Then in some cases where everything seemed right, good family, good job, good height, close relatives of the boy’s family said, “It is not good to be Usha’s husband. You will be in her shadow all the time.”
THE FINAL CHOICE
His name is V. Srinivasan. He’s about six feet tall. He was a former university level kabaddi player and I could sense immediately that he had a keen interest in sports. That was very important for me. I wanted to marry a man who is understanding and gentle and soft, and liked sports a lot.
Srinivasan seems to be like this. At present he is a Circle Inspector in the CISF (Central Industrial Security Force) in Bhopal. After our marriage, he hopes to get transferred to Madras and I should also get a posting there. So we intend to start our family life in Madras. He is 31 years old and is one of two sons. His mother died when he was very young. But he was brought up by close relatives.
His father is retired and lives with his second family in Calcutta, although Srinivasan is originally from Trichur in Malappuram district. The marriage is fixed for April 26th but everything is still unclear at this stage.
The doorbell rings. Usha goes to the door. There’s another visitor to see her. He is in his early fifties, greying hair, thick spectacles, blue shirt and a crisp white dhoti. Usha asks him to sit down on a chair at the entrance, and then comes back. Once again, she sits down but she is distracted. It takes quite a while to get her back on track.
ON FAME:
I get a lot of affection from people. And that would not have been possible if I was not famous. And it is so wonderful to meet different kinds of people. This has been my greatest joy, to meet such a wide variety of people, each different and unique. But fame can get to you, also.
For example, I cannot go shopping in peace. If I go to a market, it’s just a matter of time before people recognise me and there are whispers of “Usha, Usha.” Then they ask for photographs and sometimes take pictures with me. I don’t mind it. But the result is that I can’t shop in peace.
ON HER PRESENT MOOD AFTER RETIREMENT
After the Beijing Asian Games {1990}, there has been a complete absence of tension. Normally, when I was an active athlete, there was this ever-present feeling of tension. Now it is no longer there.
From a very early age, I used to get up early in the morning for training. There was always this same sense of purpose and direction as soon as I got up. I had something to do. Something important. But nowadays when I get up, and even now I get up very early in the morning, I lie in bed and feel depressed. I become listless. And this mood carries on till the afternoon. But then slowly the mood lifts and by evening I am back to my high spirits once again.
I miss the excitement. But if I start to do something, like write a letter or something, my concentration returns and I feel better. Like I am already feeling better talking to you. There is something to do now.
At this point, Utpal interrupts, “Excuse me Usha, but could I have a glass of water?”
“Sure, why not,” she says, springing up from the chair.
I look at Utpal puzzled. Her mood was just improving. There was animation in her eyes. She was speaking with enthusiasm, and then this interruption.
“We were in good flow,” I said.
“Yes, I know,” he replies. “But I had to interrupt for a particular reason. The man who is sitting outside is a journalist and he is taking down all that Usha is saying. And Usha is opening up. God only knows where he is going to publish all this. And anyway, it’s not the right thing, is it?”
Usha appears with two glasses of lemonade, and then we tell her why we interrupted her. She is non-committal, but then we suggest she finish off the interview with the other journalist. Usha agrees, and calls the journalist in. He comes in, smiles sheepishly at us, and Usha takes him to the dining room. We drink our lemonade and explore the house.
On the landing leading to the first floor is a room to the right. This is Usha’s room. It is simple, bare and unpretentious. The air-conditioner is switched off. The walls are painted a soothing blue. On the table, there is a tape recorder and cassettes of Yesudas and Mohammed Rafi lie scattered about.
On the wall, there is a superb picture of the Great Wall of China. There is a double bed with the sheet smoothed down. It is simple and clean. There is nothing else in the room.
We go up to the first floor. On the right is a small puja room. There are two other bedrooms with attached baths. The house is neat, everything in its place.
We hang around; we look out through the window and we can see coconut trees in the distance. A breeze blows; the leaves shake in response. The sunlight streams in through the windows and lights up the mosaic floor. Time passes. It is a little unnerving to adjust to nature’s silence after the din of the city.
Usha calls out. The interview with the Malayali journalist is over.
We come down the stairs and again sit down.
“You must have lunch!” Usha says.
“Nothing doing,” we reply. “We will go to a restaurant.”
“No, you have come all the way from Calcutta. You must have lunch here.”
“Oh, please don’t worry. We will manage.”
“There is no problem here,” she says. “The food is simple and there is enough for everybody.”
It is 12:45 p.m. and there is still time for lunch.
“Why don’t we talk some more?” I suggest. She smiles and sits down.
ON HER HOUSE
After I won five gold medals at the ’85 Asian Track and Field Championships in Jakarta, the Kerala State government announced a grant of Rs 2 lakhs to build me a house. But by the time the house was completed in ’87, the total cost had shot up to Rs 5 lakhs. So I put up the rest of the money. The house was designed by a Government architect and now the whole family stays here. My brother, two younger sisters, my parents and myself. My other two sisters are married and live elsewhere.
ON HOW MUCH MONEY SHE HAS EARNED
I cannot say how much I have earned. But now, people expect me to keep up a certain standard of living. I cannot travel by bus. Because people will say, “Look, she has two cars, why does she need to travel by bus?” I have to maintain this Standard 2000. It was given to us by the State Government after my performance in the Seoul Asian Games.
I have noticed that people are shocked by the awards. But there is also a lot of hard work behind the winning of all these international races. It’s not easy. And after this we have to run about to get the money. Sometimes, it takes a whole year before the cheque is in my hands. You see, this is how the bureaucracy works here in India.
ON HER HUMILIATION AFTER THE SEOUL OLYMPICS (Usha failed to go past the heats in the 400m hurdles)
I was abused and reviled after those Games. For the first time, I deeply resented what I had chosen as an athletics career. It was terrible. Nobody seemed to try to understand me. I am also human. I am also like other people. I was just sad and could not see my way well. Why couldn’t people understand that?
Even in Payyoli, people used to throw stones at the house and make hooting sounds. I had reached a stage when I was terrified to go out of the house. Posters were put all over the place belittling me. I was depressed and lost at least 10 kg of weight due to the stress. Of course, later I understood that people had high expectations of me and they were hurt.
And I did come back strongly at the Asian Track and Field championships in New Delhi, in which I won four gold medals and broke the records that I had set in Jakarta. That was a fitting reply to my critics.
ON HER FAN MAIL
I receive all kinds of letters. At present, I receive a lot of letters saying that my departure has been a loss to Indian athletics. Some boys write funny letters. There are letters asking for my photo so that they can frame it. It is fun reading them. They come from all over India and I used to get a lot of letters from all over the world. In thousands, but now I get very few. It is physically impossible to reply to all the letters. But what is most interesting is the addresses. Sometimes, there’s a picture of me on the cover and underneath it is written: P.T. Usha, Payyoli. Sometimes the letters are just addressed to The Payyoli Express, Kerala.
It is 1.30 p.m.
Usha’s father has just come home from his tailoring shop near the village centre. He is a tall, straight-backed man in his early sixties, with a mop of wavy hair. A broad forehead and a ready smile, his bearing indicates a principled man and one can deduce where Usha inherits her qualities of discipline, hard work and dedication. We talked a little.
A photo session with the family is arranged and Usha’s two younger sisters, Susha and Suma, talk about what dress to wear. Finally, everyone sits on the steps leading to the house and the tripod is set up. The interaction between the family members is open and direct and frank. Suddenly Usha asks, “Where is Pradeep?”
“He has gone out,” her father replies and so the brother is left out of the family portrait.
After the photo session is over, we go in and sit down. And suddenly I realise that at the rate we are going, the assignment can be completed in a day and not two days as we originally thought.
I tell Utpal, “I think we can leave tonight.”
Aloud, I ask, “Excuse me, Usha, is Mr. Nambiar around?”
“Yes,” she says and moves to the telephone. “He lives nearby.”
“Actually the reason is that we want a couple of tickets on tonight’s Trivandrum Mail. That’s just why we wanted to meet Mr. Nambiar. Maybe he could arrange it.”
“But I can arrange it!” Usha exclaims, a rising inflection to her voice. “Did you forget that I was with the Railways?”
“Oh!” I say.
She rings up the Station Master at Vatakara, 12 kilometres from Payyoli. “Hi, this is Usha. Are there tickets available on tonight’s Trivandrum Mail?”
Of course tickets are available due to the MP’s quota. But we have to go to Vatakara to collect the tickets.
Usha smiles and says, “Now will you please have lunch.”
The meal is simple.
There is mutton curry, beans, another vegetable dish, mango curry and rice and papad. Usha eats with us while her mother and a sister hover around, serving the dishes. We are in fact ravenous and attack the food. As we eat, Usha talks some more.
ON THE FUTURE OF KERALA ATHLETICS
It is definitely going down. There seems to be a lull now. There are a lot of potentially good athletes but they don’t seem to be interested in excelling anymore. I went to my former sports school in Cannanore and I could see that the facilities had improved drastically. In my time, we had no beds. We had to join two benches together to make a bed. For 80 students, there were just two bathrooms. But now things have changed but somehow, people don’t seem to be interested in excelling anymore.
ON KERALA’S REACTION TO HER SUCCESS
Well, here’s an example. The railway track is nearby. But very few trains stop at Payyoli, most stop at Vatakara. But when I won four gold medals after the Seoul Asian Games, the train was forced to make an unscheduled stop at Payyoli because there were so many people at the station, who were waiting to greet me. Those times are gone now.
The meal is over and we manage another photo session in the evening. Then Utpal and I leave for Vatakara to get the tickets.
In Vatakara, the tickets are collected with ease. The Assistant Station Master is charming and solicitous and we take a return bus to Payyoli. It is the peak of a summer afternoon. There is tiredness in the mind and the body. Both of us fall asleep and by the time we wake, Payyoli is ten kilometres away.
We jump off, brushing the sleep from our eyes and blaming each other.
We wait at a bus stop. After a while, a bus comes up in a rush of squealing brakes and screeching tyres, we jump in and jump out at the next stop. The bus is not going to Payyoli. A lone autorickshaw goes past and we are beaten to it by four giggling schoolgirls. We are getting desperate. Time is passing. Suddenly a trekker comes past and we wave it down. It is filled with people. There is no place to sit.
“Are you going to Payyoli?” we ask. They nod and we hang at the back of the vehicle, one foot barely managing a toe-hold, the other leg floating in space, our hands gripping the bars of the trekker.
Usha breaks into loud laughter when we tell her our adventures.
“How silly,” she says. “As soon as you got into the first bus, you should have told the conductor that you wanted to go to Usha’s place and they would have dropped you at the right stop.”
There is no hint of arrogance when she says this. Because it is a fact. Everybody knows where Usha stays. After all, it is she and she alone who has singlehandedly put the name of Payyoli on India’s map.
We take some quick pictures inside the house. Usha is dressed in a sari. Photos are taken of her in her room, coming down the stairs, lighting up the diya, holding her medals. The sun is setting and we have to hurry to the beach to get the sunlight shining on the water.
Usha changes into a red salwar and we get into the Standard 2000. Brother Pradeep drives while Usha and her sister Suma sit at the back. People stare at us as we go down the road. It is like wearing a sign over your head. But Usha is used to it. I take the chance to ask a few more questions.
THE QUALITIES NEEDED TO BE A SUCCESSFUL ATHLETE
If you want to achieve anything you must be willing to work hard. There must be a will to succeed. It is not easy. There is a lot of hardship involved. One should not be discouraged by setbacks but continue training day in and day out. Like, after 1988, I could have stopped running, but it was determination that kept me going. So, despite everything, one must persevere. One should never lose courage but keep struggling. And then one day success will come to you.
ON WHY INDIAN ATHLETES PERFORM SO POORLY ABROAD
They don’t work hard. Firstly, very few people come to athletics as an end in itself. Mostly, they train in order to get a job. And once they have got a job, most of their ambitions are over. Perhaps a few of them want to get promoted, so they work a little bit more.
Suppose, for example, the athlete comes from a good family. Then he or she is trying to get a seat on the sports quota for medical or engineering courses. Once they secure admission their interest in sports dies down. That is the difference between the other athletes and me. For me, excellence in athletics was an end in itself.
We arrive at the beach. And suddenly, it is wonderful. The setting sun, the relentless waves breaking on the shore, and the breeze flapping our collars about. Tension seems to dissolve like foam on top of a wave. One feels light-hearted. Usha smiles. Utpal begins to get hyper-excited. The photo opportunity looks superb.
Fishermen’s children begin to follow us as we walk further and further away from groups of people who have come to experience the evening breeze. And now you can see a distinct change in Usha. She turns to beckon to me.
“See this!” she says, pointing at the sand. “It is soft, and yet it is hard. I used to practise hurdles on this surface. This is the most wonderful place on earth. How I loved training on the beach. Remember, I used to run over the hurdles here and so you can imagine how easy it was for me when I ran on the track. This is the best training ground for me. It differed from day to day.
Sometimes I went for long jogs. Sometimes I did short sprints. Sometimes, I practised the hurdles. And I had to keep an idea of the tides. Whether it was high or low tide. But the best thing was that I was away from people.
I dearly wished there was a stadium nearby. Then there would have been no need for me to go all the way to Bangalore or Delhi. I could have trained here, my mother would have given me the best food and I would not have suffered from homesickness at all.
Then she stops speaking and smiles. She willingly listens to Utpal as he instructs her on how to pose. She sits on a boat moored on the beach. She looks beautiful because she has a deep sense of well-being on her face. And yet, as one watches her, as she moves about on the sand, there is a feeling of sadness.
She must now realise that everything is in the past. At an age where other people are beginning to get a hold on their careers, this talented woman is at the end of hers. Life is now spread out in front of her and there is just blankness.
I ask her: “What are your future plans?”
Immediately, a shadow falls across her face.
“I really don’t know what I am going to do,” she says. “I have never thought about it at all.”
I regretted suddenly asking this question. A few children come up and stand around Usha, all smiling brightly. Utpal decides to take a picture of Usha with them.
Usha’s mood changes again. She seems to have lightning changes of mood. She smiles now and taps the heads of the children, in a gentle show of affection.
We reach the car and she tells Pradeep, “I will drive.” And with expert ease, she turns the car around and drives down the narrow road. Again, she has that look of concentration on her face.
We reach the main road and we suggest that she drop us off at the bus stop.
“Nothing doing**,” she replies, “Have tea at the house and then you can leave.”
And so we return to the house. Tea is already laid out. Cakes, biscuits, and coconut sweets. It is dusk now and the dining room is partially in darkness.
A casual question: “How many guests do you have in a day?”
“So many that we lose count,” she replies. “Some days, principals of schools ring up saying that their children are coming to Payyoli and they would like to see the trophy display. They make sure that I am at home. Photographs are taken with the children and I sign autograph books. This is official. But there are people who are dropping in all the time just to talk to me, to listen to me. They are complete strangers but I guess they feel comfortable and welcome and so the word spreads. Of course, now with the STD facility, we have visitors every Friday to get calls from relatives in the Gulf.”
“Why do they have to come here?” one asks, puzzled.
“Because you will be surprised to know that I have the only STD facility in this village. And people come here on Fridays because it is a holiday in the Gulf and calls are cheaper for those calling from there. And now the calls have increased three-fold since the Gulf War. To put it dramatically, in Payyoli I am the only link to the Gulf world.
This phone was installed because I had specifically requested Arjun Singh, who was then Communications Minister, whether he could arrange such a phone to be installed. When I am in training camps I used to feel lonely and miss the family. It is only because of this phone, that I could call up my parents from all the way in Delhi and wherever else I was.”
Tea is over and it is time to leave. It has been a long, exhausting and eventful day. There is a sense of weariness although Usha still seems to be in high energy. We get up and I say, “One last question. Has luck anything to do with your success as an athlete?”
“Luck,” Usha exclaims, her black eyes widening in emphasis. “Luck, luck, luck. Everything has to do with luck. I was lucky to have a coach from the very beginning of my athletics career. I was lucky that when I reached Standard Eight, such a concept as a sports school came into being. I was lucky that I had a talent for running. Of course, it has got to do with luck. Otherwise how can a small-town girl like me become an Asian champion? Luck, and I believe very strongly that God’s support made the difference. I think that without God’s support, nothing would have been possible!”
(Published in Sportsworld, March 6, 1991)
