We were all fighting our own battles at the FESPIC Games [Far East and South Pacific Games for the Disabled]. I struggled with mobility. I had no one to wheel me around and my wheelchair was too heavy for me to manoeuvre it on my own.
Hitesh had been a great help till we arrived in Kuala Lumpur. But his coach did not deem it appropriate for him to be my wheelchair pusher, arguing that pushing my chair would fatigue the muscles he needed for his own field event. All the athletes had to look out for themselves, he said, delivering a spiel about a boy who had lost his chance at a medal at a previous international meet in Rio because he had tired himself out by pushing someone else.
My mental strength had lasted a long time, but now, I had reached breaking point. I felt so totally alone and helpless. In tears, I had a showdown with my coach and accused him of not taking care of me or helping me.
Word of our exchange spread among the Indian contingent. During one dinner, I had met Sukhbir Masterji from Bhiwani. We had connected as my cousin was married to the niece of former Haryana Chief Minister Bansi Lal. This Haryana connection was enough for Masterji to come to my rescue. He rallied the other Haryana para-athletes, urging them to protect me.
Rajesh Lathia, who was from a village close to my husband’s in the district of Sonipat, stepped forward to address the issue. He came to “talk” to my coach along with three other boys and told him in no uncertain terms that I was to be treated with care. “She is our bhabhi,” he said. “Think carefully before you make her cry again. Any further problems and you will have to answer to us.”
He later reassured me. “Beta, bhai, devar – you can call me anything you like. But just know that I am there for you.”
Suddenly, I was no longer the outsider, no longer the privileged English-speaking madam. I was one of them. I belonged. From that day forward, I always had one of the Haryana boys by my side.
The day of my competition arrived soon – the 50 m backstroke. My particular disability category is so rare that I had no direct competitors. In para-sports, if such a situation arises, then two or more categories are merged. This was to my disadvantage as I, with chest-below paralysis, was competing with swimmers with less severe disabilities.
Despite the odds, I came second.
Unfortunately, there was another rule that went against me. In events with only a few participants, medals are awarded only to first place. Second and third place are given certificates. Despite deserving a silver medal, I received just a certificate.
My spirits were dampened. I had so wanted a medal as proof of my achievement. There had been so many people back home who had doubted me, who had tried to hold me back, who had sniggered at me. My medal was meant to justify everything: my time away from home, the strenuous training camp, flying to a foreign country, leaving my daughters behind.
To distract myself, I began spending more time with the Haryana boys who had been helping me. I began to understand and enjoy their events – shot put, javelin and discus throw.
One day, I heard a loud and cheerful “Good evening, ma’am” in the lobby of the hotel we were staying at. I turned to see a young man marching briskly towards me. I recognised him as one of the officers who had frequented Dee’s Place. He was a Sri Lankan officer who had attended the Young Officers course in Ahmednagar. Bikram had been his instructor. An amputee with a prosthetic leg, he was here to compete in archery. As we caught up, he fondly remembered the special pains I would take for him while he was homesick for Sri Lankan food. He recalled the fish I would cook specially for him – full of spices, coconut and curry leaves, instead of the ubiquitous coriander, which was as close as he could get to home cooking. It was now his turn to repay my good deed for him. As an officer, the Sri Lankan embassy had given him a car for the duration of the Games. He offered me full use of the car. Since my event was over, I began playing the role of intrepid tourist from the very next day. I went to the theme park Genting Highlands and enjoyed every ride, including the roller coaster. I roamed the flea markets of Kuala Lumpur, shopping for myself and my girls: skirts, tops, lacy gloves, hair accessories – things I thought they would like.
When we touched down in Delhi, it was Rajesh who pushed my wheelchair this time. We had grown quite close over the course of the Games. The silver medal he’d won in his category proudly hung around his neck. He was going to go home to Sonipat by road, and I had planned to take a flight to Jaipur to meet Devika, who was studying there, before returning to Ahmednagar.
As we said our goodbyes, my tears spilled over. I could control them no longer. Rajesh reassured me, telling me that he was my brother and that whenever I needed him, all I had to do was call. His words only made me cry harder.
I don’t know what came over him, but without giving it a second thought, he took off his silver medal and put it around my neck. “You have put in so much hard work, so much effort. You cannot go back without a medal. You deserve it. You won it.”
That was how my brother from Haryana gave me a send-off I can never forget.
I was waiting for my flight to Jaipur, when a young woman in the striking red Kingfisher Airlines uniform approached me with a clipboard in hand. “Are you taking the Kingfisher flight to Jaipur?” she asked.
“Yes,” I confirmed.
‘Ma’am, could you please sign this form?’ she asked, proffering the clipboard and holding out a pen.
I had a look. It was a standard indemnity form. But there was a term in it that made me see red: “wheelchair patient”.
“I will not sign this. I’m not a wheelchair patient. I’m a sportsperson who has just represented India internationally. I’m wearing the Team India tracksuit. I have a medal around my neck. And you are denigrating my achievement by labelling me a patient. I refuse to sign any such form,” I said.
The young woman was totally flustered. Nothing in her training had prepared her for this kind of situation. After staring at me for a moment, mouth agape, she said, “Ma’am, if you don’t sign this form, we will be unable to allow you to board.”
At this, I completely lost my cool. The cumulative stress of the FESPIC Games, where I had acutely felt my disability at every juncture – having to beg for assistance, being unfairly categorised, losing a rightful medal – boiled over.
“If you dare deny me boarding, I’ll call the media right now. Then we’ll see how Kingfisher – ‘the king of good times’ – gets out of being in the headlines for off-loading an international athlete,” I replied, ready for the fight.
It was crucial to me that she, and everyone else, realised that not all wheelchair users are patients. A wheelchair is an assistive device, an aid for an active lifestyle for people post-recovery from medical setbacks. It is a symbol of activity, not of restriction. Just as everyone who wears spectacles is not blind, everyone who is in a wheelchair is not a patient.
Clearly overwhelmed, the young woman kept trying to cajole me, but I dug my heels in. “If you want me to sign this form as a patient, then get every passenger on the flight to also sign this form stating their medical conditions, whether it’s a heart condition or high blood pressure or anything that might affect their health during air travel,” I countered.
I now insisted that the manager be called, but instead of a face to-face conversation, I got a phone call. “Ma’am, please sign the form. It’s a Directorate General of Civil Aviation requirement. We cannot allow you on board unless you sign it,” he said.
“And you cannot treat people with disabilities like this. I strongly object to the use of the word ‘patient’,” I told him.
After a lot of back and forth, he agreed to replace the word “patient” with “passenger”, and I took the flight.
But that was not the end of it. While onboard, I opened my laptop and drafted a complaint detailing how insensitive it is to label wheelchair users as patients. As soon as I landed, I sent the email to Kingfisher’s customer care and all the top brass of the company.
This email of mine would have a great impact on all future wheelchair flyers, as well as on me personally.
Excerpted with permission from Bring It On, Deepa Malik, HarperCollins India.
