COLUMN: Tunnel of Time
Sanjivan Mondal is the three-time winner of the 81-km race on the Ganga near Berhampore. It is possibly the longest swimming race in the world
By Shevlin Sebastian
Photographs: Nikhil Bhattacharya
It was a hot September morning.
Sanjivan Mondal stood by the side of the Churni river in Ranaghat, 90 km from Calcutta. He was staring intently at a group of children gambolling in the water. He bent down and corrected the stroke of a child. His son. And the child already seems to have the knack that the father possessed to a remarkable degree.
Sanjivan turned and smiled when he was introduced by Gautam Mukherjee, a childhood friend. The smile was wry, a little helpless. The eyes were sad. He gave a limp hand for a handshake. In these quiet, soothing rural areas, people don’t shake hands. So, he was a little surprised when a city slicker offered his hand. He smiled again and invited us to his house.
We walked along a narrow mud path, framed by trees and their branches formed an overhanging arch. At the side, children played marbles. Birds chirped in the trees. A hen hurried across the path. A slim young woman with downcast eyes walked demurely past.
This was Ramnagar, where Sanjivan lived in a hamlet of weavers in one-room houses with a courtyard in front and at the back. He led us into his hut. It was dark and cool and dominated by a single bed. Alongside one wall were two trophies. It seemed incongruous in that environment. There was a cycle parked on one side. Pots and utensils filled one corner. The family stared in surprise. The wife scurried about. There were four children, two boys and two girls. One girl had an eye closing now and then. The family didn’t know the reason why.
Sanjivan began speaking by saying, “Yes, I have become famous in these parts.”
He is the three-time winner of what could possibly be the longest swimming race in the world. The distance is 81 kms. It is an annual race conducted by the Murshidabad Swimming Association. Swimmers from all over India take part, and in rural Bengal, especially in places like Ranaghat, Shyamnagar, Murshidabad, and Malda, there is tremendous interest in the event. This is an area, where because of a preponderance of ponds, everyone is a swimmer.
The race starts at the crack of dawn at a place called Jangipur Ghat. And it is a race that lasts the whole day, about eleven hours before it ends. It is a race that blends skill with stamina, determination with desire, and strength with staying power.
“Eighteen swimmers took part,” said Sanjivan. “The river was smooth this year. Since it wasn’t raining, there were no waves to contend with. We started off at a brisk pace and there were a lot of young people who moved off into the lead. But I wasn’t worried. They didn’t have the stamina. They were just using their strength. The only swimmer I was scared of was Khagen Dutta, who was lying fourth. He had won this race quite a few times. I knew he had the experience to come up suddenly. I kept looking back, but he didn’t come up, and by the time five hours had passed, I was swimming all alone.”
People crowded the sides of the Ganga. Boats kept track of the swimmers. Every now and then, Sanjivan used to gulp down a glass of glucose that he received from volunteers in a boat that was following him.
“There’s a certain technique,” he said, a smile lighting up his face. “You have to know how to conserve your strength. After two or three hours, your arms begin to hurt, because you are swimming in a particular way. Then you have to use a new stroke. These are the tricks of the trade.”
Eleven hours later, Sanjivan emerged from the water as the winner. He was pleasantly tired. Another victory had been notched up but the price was high.
Sanjivan is a weaver of sarees. He earns ₹100 a week, and that is barely enough to make ends meet. The handloom industry is in shambles and the weavers are suffering. He took us to the weaving hut.
It is about 50 metres away. As we approached the hut, the sound of the looms was like the whoosh of a breeze in a forest. The sound came and went. And there it was: a wooden contraption with pedals for the legs and the left hand has to move a rod in a left-to-right motion constantly. This is extremely physical work. Sanjivan said that when he is training for the great race, he does not work.
So, how does he make ends meet?
“I borrow money from people,” he said. “I borrow money from my uncle here (pointing to a small, frail bare-chested man in a white dhoti, smoking a beedi). And then when things get really difficult, I sell my trophies.”
It is strange, but this shy man has an intense dedication and capacity for hard work.
Three months before the race, he begins training. For the first month it is just to relax the muscles, to make it used to long hours in the water. It is only in the next two months that the training becomes intense. Then he gets up at 6 a.m. and goes to a nearby pond and trains till 11 a.m. He returns, has his lunch and goes to sleep. At 3 p.m., he practises for two hours.
But why swim in a pond and not in the river?
“The pond has heavy water,” said Sanjivan. “The river is fast-moving. There is a current. So, swimming is easy. But in a pond, you have to use your muscles. You have to make the strokes. The water does not help you. So, four hours in the pond is equivalent to ten hours in the river.”
‘Can we see the pond?” the visitor asked.
“Sure, why not,” he replied. “But first I must get my swimming trunks.”
We returned to the house. There was a curious band of onlookers – some young, some middle-aged, and children.
There was a pervasive despair in the air. Economic difficulties had stunned the hamlet into a brooding, despairing silence. And in the wife, married to this dedicated swimmer for ten years, sadness was battling with the feeling of hope. One could not bear to see which emotion was winning. Perhaps she felt that the visitors could do something. They were, after all, from the big city.
Sanjivan carried his swimming trunks and his goggles, and with his son he took us down a narrow mud path. He had an easy stride, and a V-shaped body. He walked with a sense of dignity. Near a loom hut, he called out to a youth and asked him whether he wanted to come swimming. The youth said, “Not today, Dada. I am tired.”
Sanjivan smiled and he began to speak about his early life. “I was born here in Ramnagar, which is a village in Ranaghat. I learnt to swim from a young age. I used to watch my elders swim, and then I got into the water. I learnt on my own. What really made me interested in taking part in these races was the annual three-mile race on the Churi river. I had seen this race many times, and I wanted to take part. The first time I took part, I came second. I won the race later on, but thereafter, an interest in competitive swimming arose in me.”
It was a long walk, but for Sanjivan, it was hardly any distance at all. For the visitors, it was a time of panting and wiping perspiration off one's faces.
“I used to hear about the Mushidabad race from the radio and newspapers,” he said. “And so finally I took part in the race, but lacked the technique. I ran out of strength when there was about two kilometres left. It takes time to learn the technique, but now I can manage the distance.”
It was noon. The sun was shining brightly. The sky was clear and blue. We crossed National Highway 34, and the trucks rumbled in the silence. We crossed a field and saw the pond. On one side was a school, the Milan Bagan Shiksha Sadan. One can surely visualise the possibility of budding swimmers in that school. There is a passion for swimming in these parts.
As we neared the 50-metre pond, there was already somebody swimming there. He was swimming length after length.
“Hi, how long have you been here?” said Sanjeevean.
“Not very long,” said Babu Haldar.
“Where is your cycle?” asked Sanjivan.
“There, said Babu, pointing to a cycle parked next to a tree in the distance.
Sanjivan smiled and changed into his trunks. He said suddenly, “Do 4x50s one after the other.”
Babu smiled and went underwater. He was training for a 400-metre race in Shyamnagar, but to train at 12 noon! Perhaps the villagers do not feel the heat so much because they are out in the sun most of the day.
Sanjivan put on his dark goggles and slipped into the water. The photographer went to the edge. It was slippery, and he had a trying time keeping balance. Two swimmers guided him to a less slippery spot. Again, a crowd had gathered from nowhere.
They stared with intense attention, but at the back of the crowd a small vignette: a young man, probably 20 or 21, sat on his haunches and was talking to a small, frail boy with puffed cheeks. The boy wore a blue shirt and shorts. The young man said, “One day you should also be a big swimmer like your father.” But the child gazed at him, as children do, in their clear, unblinking gaze, that makes sinners cringe and remained silent.
And yet, who knows, this may be the start of another legend. The photo session was over. Sanjivan, who has a natural feel for the water, came out reluctantly. The crowd slowly dispersed. As we walked back, it was clear that there was something heroic about this man. On the edge of poverty, or rather in poverty, with a wife and four children, in debt with people, and then once a year, to produce such an effort that surpassed physical limits.
Sportsworld has been carrying out a series of profiles of champions who have come from difficult financial circumstances. These are the real heroes and heroines in the land. Although Sanjivan said candidly, “I am doing this for a job,” it is still a fine effort (see box).
It is people like Sanjivan who should receive accolades, praise, and financial assistance. It is these champions we should raise on our shoulders. But in large part, we ignore them. The result is that we have no qualms about paying Rs. 46 lakhs to see American Olympic champion Carl Lewis perform, in September, 1989, at New Delhi, for 10 seconds, while Sanjivan and his wife try desperately to make ends meet, only to find, as always, a river between the two ends.
Mera Bharat Mahaan!
Box:
“I need a job”
Said a desperate Sanjeevan Mondal.
At the prize distribution ceremony, Sanjivan, who has been jobless for as long as he can remember, requested the chief guest Jatin Chakraborty for a job. The minister was moved and promised he would. (Kushal Ray, The Telegraph).
That was in August 1988. This is November 1989. And Sanjivan Mondal has yet to get a job. He is reaching the end of his long-distance swimming career. In his early 30s, the sorrow is evident in his voice.
“My main incentive in taking part in these competitions is because I hope to get a job,” he said. “I have no education. I stopped studying after class 4. Despite my achievements, the government has not done anything. Last year, another minister, Debabrata Bandopadhyay promised that he would give me a job. He asked me to submit all sorts of certificates and letters. I did that, but nothing happened.
This year, when I won, he was the chief guest. He asked me to come on September 13 to meet him at Writer's Building. When I went there, the minister looked very busy. Then he asked me to deposit all the forms once again. He did not know that I had already done so the previous year. I wanted to tell him that, but he looked so busy. So, I didn't say anything.”
The people in the hamlet told the visitors, “Don't write his story. Write that he needs a job. Writing his life will not get him a job. Doordarshan did something on Sanjivan, but nothing else happened. Please write that he needs a job.”
(Published in Sportsworld, November 1, 1989)
No comments:
Post a Comment