One of running’s great unsung gifts: The unexpected kindness of strangers

Changing this habit, around which my day has been organized for 34 years, was easy because it was physically impossible to run for much of this period. But I did terribly miss running.

Writing about running is now quite a subgenre. Its mediative thrall, its tribulations and triumphs, and its effect on life can make for a riveting read. This piece, though, is about a simpler matter: runs that brought me kindness.

Memories of past runs would randomly pop up in the months when I couldn’t run, both scary and funny. A cobra striking and missing my leg by a whisker; my chest choking in Amsterdam one late autumn like a heart attack; a woman in a Kumaon village making fun of her husband’s belly and telling him to run while pointing at me; a doctor near Udupi chasing me and yelling that walking is better than running. And then there were those who were instinctively kind to a stranger when kindness was needed most.

In the pre-dawn light of that winter morning, I was already 4km from the small hotel I was staying in. The air was bitingly cold and it began drizzling, which I was not prepared for. With no shelter in sight amid those wheat fields, not even a tree, running quickly back to the hotel seemed like the best course of action.

But the drizzle turned heavier. Two teenagers, about 14 years old, were fishing in a small pond beside the road. They had no warm clothing and were sharing a large thick polythene sheet that covered them from head to knee.

Both were laughing as they watched me run. Then they stepped towards me in unison so that the single sheet would keep both covered. Still laughing, they said, “Aapko pneumonia ho jaayega” (you’ll get pneumonia).

All this happened in a flash, as most things do during a run. One produced a kind of razor from his pocket while the other held the sheet to slice it neatly in two. They gave me one half and struggled to cover both of themselves with the other, which amused them even more. They went back to their fishing and I to an awkward run. Holding that sheet over my head, protected from the rain, I reached the shelter of my hotel.

Another time, I had underestimated the August sun in Yadgir. About 7km into my run, with 3km more to reach the hotel, I felt dizzy and dehydrated. I stopped but couldn’t stand, so I sat down. A man on a cycle whom I had crossed two minutes earlier stopped beside me. “Kyaa hua aapku? Abhich toh itna zordaar daudte thhe” (what happened, you were running so well), he said in true Dakhni.

He got it immediately. Telling me to sit there, he pedalled furiously down a side road. He was back in 3 minutes with a bottle of cold water. It helped, but I still couldn’t walk. He got that too. He pedalled away again and came back in 5 minutes on a bike. He took me on it, along the way endorsing the wonders of running and telling me how he has no time for it. He dropped me at my hotel and was gone.

Once on a blind curve, I accidentally surprised a dog. Although it was usually friendly, it instinctively jumped at me. I could have handled that, but there was another one behind me. I fell on the hard tar, rolling to avoid them. I could hear women shouting as I fell, both racing down massive sand dunes.

Within moments, they had handled the dogs. The two elderly women helped me up. One of them went up a large dune to her hut and got a bucket of water. They washed the mud off my scraped and bleeding legs and arms. Then they walked me back to the hotel, apologizing all along the way for the dogs’ aggression. “But the dogs are not yours,” I said. “Jagaah toh humaari hai” (but the place is ours), they replied.

Why were those boys fishing at dawn that winter? I have wondered. They saved me from the freezing rain 20 years ago. They would be in their mid-thirties now. Are they still kind to strangers? Where was that man headed when he abandoned his morning mission? The huts are gone from atop those sand dunes; since I have run on that very road later, I know that. But they believed the place was theirs.

Running has given me much. But this kindness of strangers is among the most precious. Not only were they kind, my memories tell me to be kinder.

The author is CEO of Azim Premji Foundation.