Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Faster, Higher, Stronger!
We've all heard these words many times in the context of the Olympic games and of how these words signified the spirit behind their origin. The same spirit, we are told, which motivates athletes to compete against the best in the world and in turn be propelled toward superhuman feats in their respective disciplines.
To me, these words bring forth images of Carl Lewis and his four gold medals in 1984. Of Greg Louganis and his famous comeback from the brink of serious injury in 1988. Of Michael Jordan and the dream team in 1992.
And now, these words bring to me images of the Freescale Marathon in Austin, TX on Feb 13, 2005.
No, there were no famous names running it. And no, I am not even referring to the people on the eventual leader board, who finished the marathon in a very competitive 2 hours and something.
I am referring to some people whom I saw finish the race in 5 hours and longer. That was then I was near the finish line, waiting for my brother-in-law, Tom to finish the grueling 26 mile run after he had prepared for it for several months.
As we waited for him to come down the home stretch, the wait turned out to be a little longer than expected as we got in about 30 minutes sooner than his expected completion time.
In the absence of too many alternatives in terms of things to do, I ended up watching the people who were nearing the finish line. I looked around and saw people - young and old, of all shapes, sizes and colors standing by to usher their loved one or friend and cheer them on to the finish line.
And as I began paying more attention to the runners themselves, I experienced an emotion that I least expected. There was something very moving about watching these people as they trooped in, huffing and puffing, mustering that last bit of energy to see them through.
As the runners came in, some were in good shape, actually working the spectators to cheer for them. The spectators readily obliged. After all, running 26 miles was no mean achievement. Other runners waved and asked their little sons or daughters to join them for the last 20 meters to share in the pride of their accomplishment.
Some had t-shirts that read "Because I can" or "Believe". One runner, cramping in both his calves, hobbled across the finish line in excruciating pain. We would later learn that an 84 year old man had finished the race.
And I remember the moment when Tom ran past us. The look on his face, as he saw his family urging him on, said it all. He was visibly moved to see the familiar faces of family see him complete his personal adventure. He, like so many others who ran that marathon, wasn't looking to compete with anyone when he started out. He did it because he thought that the marathon would teach him a thing or two about physical fitness, discipline, mental strength and maybe even a few things about himself.
It was an exhilarating experience to watch these people emerge triumphant in their own unique struggles. They were driven by a desire to win, but it was not about beating someone. For those of us watching, it offered an inspiration to reach out for something that was probably within our grasp but also somewhere we could not reach without going through the obvious pain.
It then came to me. Faster, higher and stronger wasn't just about professional athletes being pitted against one another to win Gold medals. It wasn't about the soap opera style coverage on NBC that we have gotten so used to.
I did not have to fear that the Olympic spirit had been tainted by athletes using performance enhancers. For it was that very Olympic spirit that so many people who ran this marathon embodied.
It was about being faster than they had been a month back. It was about reaching for something higher than they normally reach for. And it was about their quest to become stronger. Stronger in the body and stronger in the mind.
For a little while that afternoon, it seemed like we could all become faster, higher and stronger. And not even at the expense of anyone.
To me, these words bring forth images of Carl Lewis and his four gold medals in 1984. Of Greg Louganis and his famous comeback from the brink of serious injury in 1988. Of Michael Jordan and the dream team in 1992.
And now, these words bring to me images of the Freescale Marathon in Austin, TX on Feb 13, 2005.
No, there were no famous names running it. And no, I am not even referring to the people on the eventual leader board, who finished the marathon in a very competitive 2 hours and something.
I am referring to some people whom I saw finish the race in 5 hours and longer. That was then I was near the finish line, waiting for my brother-in-law, Tom to finish the grueling 26 mile run after he had prepared for it for several months.
As we waited for him to come down the home stretch, the wait turned out to be a little longer than expected as we got in about 30 minutes sooner than his expected completion time.
In the absence of too many alternatives in terms of things to do, I ended up watching the people who were nearing the finish line. I looked around and saw people - young and old, of all shapes, sizes and colors standing by to usher their loved one or friend and cheer them on to the finish line.
And as I began paying more attention to the runners themselves, I experienced an emotion that I least expected. There was something very moving about watching these people as they trooped in, huffing and puffing, mustering that last bit of energy to see them through.
As the runners came in, some were in good shape, actually working the spectators to cheer for them. The spectators readily obliged. After all, running 26 miles was no mean achievement. Other runners waved and asked their little sons or daughters to join them for the last 20 meters to share in the pride of their accomplishment.
Some had t-shirts that read "Because I can" or "Believe". One runner, cramping in both his calves, hobbled across the finish line in excruciating pain. We would later learn that an 84 year old man had finished the race.
And I remember the moment when Tom ran past us. The look on his face, as he saw his family urging him on, said it all. He was visibly moved to see the familiar faces of family see him complete his personal adventure. He, like so many others who ran that marathon, wasn't looking to compete with anyone when he started out. He did it because he thought that the marathon would teach him a thing or two about physical fitness, discipline, mental strength and maybe even a few things about himself.
It was an exhilarating experience to watch these people emerge triumphant in their own unique struggles. They were driven by a desire to win, but it was not about beating someone. For those of us watching, it offered an inspiration to reach out for something that was probably within our grasp but also somewhere we could not reach without going through the obvious pain.
It then came to me. Faster, higher and stronger wasn't just about professional athletes being pitted against one another to win Gold medals. It wasn't about the soap opera style coverage on NBC that we have gotten so used to.
I did not have to fear that the Olympic spirit had been tainted by athletes using performance enhancers. For it was that very Olympic spirit that so many people who ran this marathon embodied.
It was about being faster than they had been a month back. It was about reaching for something higher than they normally reach for. And it was about their quest to become stronger. Stronger in the body and stronger in the mind.
For a little while that afternoon, it seemed like we could all become faster, higher and stronger. And not even at the expense of anyone.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
At the doorstep
The Govindaraja Swami Temple in Tirupati is not as well known as the widely known Balaji temple, commonly referred to as "Tirupati", which is a few miles up the hill in Tirumala. However, my Mom ensures that we visit this lower profile temple.
Last December was no exception.
My Mom (Amma), sister (Akka) and I got off the Rickshaw on the main street and walked through the long lane, lined by shops on both sides, that led to the Gopuram. Like all shops near temples, especially in Southern India, they carried things like coconuts, turmeric, kum-kum, camphor, betel leaves, devotional music CD and tape collections, bangles and of course flowers.
The shop that was closest to the Gopuram is the one we chose to pick up the flowers and coconuts from. We duly paid the shopkeeper and rushed off towards the temple as they would temporarily shut down the gate in 20 minutes. That would mean we would have to wait another hour or so before we have the next opportunity.
As we were about to join the queue, we were reminded by signs that Cell Phones were not allowed inside the premises and that we would have to drop them off at the counter opposite. The long queue at the cell phone drop off/pick up counter deterred us. With the closing time approaching quickly, I suggested that we drop off the cell phones with the shopkeeper from where we had bought out coconuts and flowers.
We deliberated for a minute. "Would the phones be safe?", "Why take a risk?", "What were we thinking - we should never have brought the phones with us".
Finally, we decided that the choice was to leave the phones at the shop and make it in time or to queue up at the cell phone counter understanding that we might only make it in time for the next darshan the next hour. We opted for the former.
I ran to the shopkeeper and told him our predicament and asked if he could help me out by keeping the two cell phones with him. He seemed a little taken aback and asked me if I was sure. I said I was. He then said - "If you trust them with me, you can leave them here. My name is Srinivas. Ask for me when you return".
I found myself feeling better about our decision and quickly ran back to join Amma and Akka. We got in fine, offered our coconuts and flowers, sat for a while in the square outside this 500 year old temple and then slowly made our way back.
We then returned to the shop that Srinivas ran. I half expected that he would see me and hand back the phones to us. He didn't. So, I gently reminded him that I was the guy who left the phones with him. He thought for a second, which seemed an eternity to me, as I was fighting my paranoid side. He then reached out for the phones, safely tucked away on a shelf to his left, wrapped in a rubber band and handed them to me.
I was relieved. And thankful. I then whispered to Amma that she should buy a few more things from his shop. So. we did. A couple of candle stands I think. The total came to some 30 odd rupees. I slipped him a fifty rupee note and said a sincere thank you and was beginning to walk out of the shop, expecting him to keep the change as a gesture of my gratitude.
I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. It was Srinivas. Handing me back the change, he politely but firmly said: "No need for this, Sir. After all you already bought coconuts, flowers and the stands from us ".
He had a smile and a look that almost seemed to say: "Who did you think I was?". I quickly realized that it was futile to persuade him to change his mind. I took the change, made a somewhat sheepish gesture with my hand to say thanks and left his shop.
At the doorstep of his Govindaraja Swami, Srinivas did not need anything from me.
Last December was no exception.
My Mom (Amma), sister (Akka) and I got off the Rickshaw on the main street and walked through the long lane, lined by shops on both sides, that led to the Gopuram. Like all shops near temples, especially in Southern India, they carried things like coconuts, turmeric, kum-kum, camphor, betel leaves, devotional music CD and tape collections, bangles and of course flowers.
The shop that was closest to the Gopuram is the one we chose to pick up the flowers and coconuts from. We duly paid the shopkeeper and rushed off towards the temple as they would temporarily shut down the gate in 20 minutes. That would mean we would have to wait another hour or so before we have the next opportunity.
As we were about to join the queue, we were reminded by signs that Cell Phones were not allowed inside the premises and that we would have to drop them off at the counter opposite. The long queue at the cell phone drop off/pick up counter deterred us. With the closing time approaching quickly, I suggested that we drop off the cell phones with the shopkeeper from where we had bought out coconuts and flowers.
We deliberated for a minute. "Would the phones be safe?", "Why take a risk?", "What were we thinking - we should never have brought the phones with us".
Finally, we decided that the choice was to leave the phones at the shop and make it in time or to queue up at the cell phone counter understanding that we might only make it in time for the next darshan the next hour. We opted for the former.
I ran to the shopkeeper and told him our predicament and asked if he could help me out by keeping the two cell phones with him. He seemed a little taken aback and asked me if I was sure. I said I was. He then said - "If you trust them with me, you can leave them here. My name is Srinivas. Ask for me when you return".
I found myself feeling better about our decision and quickly ran back to join Amma and Akka. We got in fine, offered our coconuts and flowers, sat for a while in the square outside this 500 year old temple and then slowly made our way back.
We then returned to the shop that Srinivas ran. I half expected that he would see me and hand back the phones to us. He didn't. So, I gently reminded him that I was the guy who left the phones with him. He thought for a second, which seemed an eternity to me, as I was fighting my paranoid side. He then reached out for the phones, safely tucked away on a shelf to his left, wrapped in a rubber band and handed them to me.
I was relieved. And thankful. I then whispered to Amma that she should buy a few more things from his shop. So. we did. A couple of candle stands I think. The total came to some 30 odd rupees. I slipped him a fifty rupee note and said a sincere thank you and was beginning to walk out of the shop, expecting him to keep the change as a gesture of my gratitude.
I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. It was Srinivas. Handing me back the change, he politely but firmly said: "No need for this, Sir. After all you already bought coconuts, flowers and the stands from us ".
He had a smile and a look that almost seemed to say: "Who did you think I was?". I quickly realized that it was futile to persuade him to change his mind. I took the change, made a somewhat sheepish gesture with my hand to say thanks and left his shop.
At the doorstep of his Govindaraja Swami, Srinivas did not need anything from me.
