Raising the bar
Atlanta, USA, 1996
Ravi gently moved his hand across
his brow, drawing with it a few beads of sweat that had overstayed their visit.
The sun was out as it should be, summer in Atlanta was not for the faint of
heart. He narrowed his eyes to focus on the obstacle in front of him. The
obstacle was a bar. The bar was slightly thicker than an inch. It was
delicately placed at a height of 2.3 meters above the ground. The last four
years of training came down to avoiding the bar on this particular day, on this
particular run. He looked left for a fleeting moment, and made eye contact with
his coach, Nitesh. Nitesh smiled back at
him, his eyes were cloudy but his confidence shined through, they had trained
day and night for this moment, which would make both coach and student immortal….
Rewind….Barcelona, Spain, 1992
The young man walked like he had
a sharp object lodged up his backside. His Ipod played some heavy metal, connected
to his Bose headphones, they did a good job of blocking the cacophony outside,
allowing the listener to focus only on the cacophony inside. He had had too
much to drink at the party, the women had been all over him that night, every
night. He was tall for his age and of athletic build. Being an athlete probably
had a lot to do with it. An hour back he had been having a few shots. Downing
tequila, one, two, three, four, no one is counting, except the bartender.
“You are from out of town? Come
to see the Olympics, maybe?” the brunette had said. She had one hand on his
arm, the other signalling the bartender for more shots
“Yuhhhhhes love. I might win the
medal tomorrow, be sure to look out for me on TV” said the young man.
One tequila, two tequila, three
tequila, four, counted the bartender.
Ravi woke up with a splitting
headache. Today wasn’t an ordinary day. Ravi Subramaniam, son of Mr and Mrs. Subramaniam,
an eighteen year old boy, was about to participate in the Summer Olympics
competing in the High Jump. He had to report in at the stadium at 10 for
breakfast with his coach. He glanced at the alarm clock, it had been buzzing
since 8 am, for an hour now. He picked up the clock and flung it across his
hotel room. The clock broke into six or seven distinct pieces, a couple landed
on a Brazilian accent. The accent woke up with a shock, got into a pair of
jeans, a t shirt and stumbled out the door. Ravi, took another hour to get
ready and rushed to the stadium to meet Nitesh.
“Good morning Ravi. Glad you decided
to join me today, wasn’t excepting you to come. Another night of some social
drinking I suppose?” barked Nitesh. His arms were folded and his face stern.
“Sorry Coach. But chill. We got
it covered. Have you seen the competition, you know no one can touch me” shot
back Ravi as he grabbed a few fruits and a bowl of cereal. He hungrily shoved
it down his throat, to keep the whiskey calm and down.
A few hours later, the crowds had
filled the stadium. His competitor from Russia had cleared 2.3 m, it was not
his turn. He turned towards the crowds and moved his hands together, cheering
them on and chants of his name filled the stadium. They loved him, the Champ is
what they called him when he had been on the cover of Sports Illustrated that
year.
“Champ. Champ, Champ” yelled the
crowds with rising fervor.
He turned back towards the bar.
He narrowed his eyes as he focused on the bar that had been set at 2.4m,
clearing the bar would guarantee him the gold. He looked towards his coach, and
then turned away hurriedly. He took a few steps towards the bar as he started
his run. Those would be the last steps he took that day, as the dehydrated,
inebriated drunkard called the Champ fell flat on his face. The pool of
regurgitated whiskey and tequila on the synthetic Olympic mat would take a few
hours of scrubbing to remove.
Chennai, India, 1993
“In my opinion, without this
treatment, you have a few more years to live, maybe four. The treatment is
expensive and your insurance doesn’t cover it. I wish there was something I
could do, but my hands are tied” said the man in the white coat. The man in the
white coat was a doctor. Nitesh had given him the number that morning, Ravi
wanted to get a health check-up done and he had only one name in his phone
address book.
The champ gripped his chair
tightly. The last year had been a blur, his vomit covered face had replaced the
GQ covers, his country had not forgotten him but the reason they remembered wasn’t
one of pride. The champ was scared. He needed the treatment, for that he needed
money, for that he needed a job, family or friends. He had nothing. He had
Nitesh.
For a second he hoped the doctor
would break into a big smile, the white screen behind him would separate to
reveal a TV crew, and he would end up on primetime tonight, the third page of
the daily tomorrow. But there was no screen, the doctor did not smile and there
would be no news.
Knock Knock on hard word.
“Ravi, what a surprise. Its been
what, three months since I saw you?” said Nitesh “You don’t look too bad, looks
like the doc gave you a clean chit eh”
“You don’t look too bad yourself
Coach” mumbled Ravi “Can I come in”
“Sure Sure. You are…were…one of
my favourite students. I always have time for you” said Nitesh
They settled into the tiny living
room of the tiny Chennai apartment. You couldn’t really see the walls, since
they were peppered with medals, black and white photos of the coach in his
younger days and Tanjavore paintings of Indian gods.
“I am going to win the gold in
the Olympics in Atlanta” said Ravi. His eyes were steadfast and unblinking. His
breathing was calm and measured. There are moments when you know that the whole
universe is watching you and that you are simultaneously watching the whole
universe. It runs like electricity through your veins, yet it doesn’t titillate
or excite you.
“What?” exclaimed Nitesh “Do you
even remember what happened in Barcelona. You have gone crazy”
“I was crazy Coach. When I
partied and drank the night before the Olympics. When I skipped training to go
for drinks. I was crazy back then Coach, not any more. I am going to win the
gold in the Atlanta Olympics. I cannot do it alone. I need you now more than
ever. Please. Please” said Ravi.
Present Day, Atlanta, USA, 1996
Nitesh smiled back at Ravi. His
training had been intense since that morning when Ravi had come to meet him at
his house in Chennai. Nitesh would push Ravi till his legs cried out in pain
and when they were about to break, he would make him sprint for another half an
hour. The media had been supportive, reporting Ravi’s transformation as an
inspirational story, of how a phoenix had risen from the whiskey infused ashes
that Ravi had strewn on the Olympic field in Barcelona.
Time and Science gave way out of
respect for that moment. As Ravi sailed over, the universe froze. The Coach and
Ravi could almost feel each other stand side by side on some cosmic plane
looking at this young strong man arch over the high jump rod. Cameras flashed,
people screamed, the country jumped up with joy and pumped their fists as the
young Indian boy won the Olympic Gold.
He would leave him a note explaining everything, Nitesh thought to
himself. Sacrifice. Ramu, the man in the white coat, an actor friend had
recited Nitesh’s script word for word to the Champ. The treatment had been
effective. He waved to his student, one last time, Ravi waved back as he pumped his fist into the warm Atlanta sun.
Immortal.
