09.07.2017
India’s most decorated wrestler is also deaf and mute. He is not just fighting against his opponents, but the entire system that wants him to stick to his “own category”This is the story of a man who rose above his circumstances to become a champion. It is, therefore, a story of determination, luck, hard work and joy. This is also the story of a man who was prevented from rising above his circumstances. So that makes it a story of apathy, discrimination and disrespect. It is also, therefore, the story of Indian sport.
The man is 31-year-old Virender Singh. He is probably the best Indian athlete you have never heard of, so let him introduce himself: “I am a wrestler for India. I have won six international medals. I am an Arjuna Award winner.” Those six medals make him India’s most decorated wrestler, but what he doesn’t say, what he literally can’t say, is that he is deaf and mute (his fellow wrestlers typically call him Goonga).
Two of his medals are golds, from the 2005 and 2013 Deaflympics (held every four years). A third gold was clinched at the 2016 Deaf World wrestling championships. Later this month, he will attempt to win yet another gold medal at his fourth, and possibly final, Deaflympic Games in Turkey.
However, less than a month before the team is due to depart, Virender is at the Bal Vyayamshala Akhara in Delhi, which is run by his father Ajit Singh, instead of Ahmedabad, where the training camp for the Games is being held. The akhara, founded in 1886, is basic. Four flat one-story concrete structures make up the living quarters. Bathing is done outdoors, under a tap, at the far end. Behind the akhara are the railway tracks. In front is Sadar Bazaar in old Delhi, a cacophonous mess of handcarts, bullock carts, rickshaws and roadside hawkers. Across the road from the gate, a loudspeaker pumps out devotional music.
It is late in the evening and Virender is dressed in a blue Nike T-shirt and dark blue shorts. His physical presence is imposing but he smiles easily and often. The room he sleeps in has five beds — four coir beds and one wooden frame on which sits a thin mattress. That is his bed. On a shelf above the bed sits a collection of his trophies, with the Arjuna Award in the middle. It is an improvement from the room he used to stay in at the Chhatrasal Stadium, which was shared by 17 wrestlers.
Virender explains that he is not in Ahmedabad because he is worried about his preparation for the Games. Sparring partners are hard to find because the wrestling culture isn’t as strong in Gujarat and, Virender says “the diet is not good” either. He wants to train in Sonepat, where fighters are plentiful, but arranging this is proving difficult. His coach, Maha Singh Rao, has written a letter to the Sports Authority of India (SAI) asking for Virender to be shifted but has been told accommodation is unavailable. Ajit, a former wrestler, scoffs at this excuse. “We will find our own accommodation,” he says. “We just want him to be able to train there. If they want Virender to win a medal, should they not give him the best chance to win?”
It is hard to imagine Sushil Kumar or Yogeshwar Dutt, India’s Olympic medal-winning wrestlers, having to face the same problems, and Virender is well aware of this. “Sushil and Yogeshwar have received so much recognition and so many awards. It hurts to be treated like this. Is it my fault that I am deaf? I train as hard as everyone else.”
Virender communicates using sign language. His cousin Ramvir functions as his interpreter. What Virender wants is to be treated with the respect he believes his medals have earned. “I must do everything in the right way,” he says, so that people cannot fault him in any way.
A twist of fate
When Virender was around nine, his father Ajit took him to Delhi to treat a recurring foot problem. Once he was cured, Ajit wanted to send him back to their village in Jhajjar, in Haryana, but his friend, “Surender kaka”, an inspector with the CISF, convinced him to let Virender stay. The young boy had begun helping out at the CISF akhara, running errands and serving the wrestlers their badam milk. Before too long, Virender was wrestling himself and by the time he was a teenager, his talent was obvious. Soon enough he was fighting in dangals.
Today, Virender is a legend in the world of the dangal, where he is known as Goonga Pehelwan. Crowds of up to 5,000 chant his nickname the moment he appears (though he can’t hear them). In international competitions he fights in the 74 kilo category, but in the dangal he often battles giants; wrestlers who weigh over 100 kilos. He beats them all. He has to. Winning at dangals is how he supports himself. Without the prize money, he would not be able to afford to represent India. Ajit says Virender’s expenses work out to Rs 1 lakh a month, so his son must fight in 30 to 40 dangals every year. Every time he does, he risks injury. Every time he does, it is time taken away from training to fight for India.
Ajit is the ultimate helicopter parent, but how could he not be? He needs to protect his son from those who might exploit him for their own ends. He is a bear of a man, with a square jaw and silver-flecked hair. Dressed in a beige, checked lungi and slippers, and chain-smoking beedis, he claims he will not let Virender go back to Ahmedabad. “A father’s job is to lift his son up, not bring him down,” he says.
In order to help his son, Ajit works every connection he has. He solicits donations from anyone who is willing to help. The family has gone into debt supporting Virender’s career. The next morning he and Virender go to visit Jai Prakash, the vice-president of the BJP’s Delhi unit. Prakash is known to be close to sports minister Vijay Goel. Virender hopes that through him he might be able to get permission to train in Sonepat. Prakash assures them he is trying, but asks the family to wait a few more days.
The next port of call is Virender Sehwag’s father-in-law. The idea is to get the cricketing Virender to tweet about the wrestling Virender because the Prime Minister follows Sehwag on Twitter. Perhaps if Sehwag tweets, those in power will notice. But Sehwag is in Canada. He won’t be back for a few more days. Again, nothing can be done. Virender must wait but every day he waits is another day of training lost.
Through all this Virender, wearing his India T-shirt, made by designers Shiv-Naresh, sits in silence, absorbed in his phone. He has no choice but to rely on others to make his case for him.
It took two more weeks, but eventually the director general of SAI gave Virender permission to train in Sonepat — that’s the good news. But the bad news is he just has nine days left to train.
Continue...2
Running out of time
The 2017 Games potentially represent Virender’s last chance for recognition and financial redemption. While Olympians and more recently Paralympians have been compensated handsomely by the Centre and their respective state governments, Virender, and deaf athletes in general, have largely been ignored.
In 2014, Goonga Pehelwan, a documentary on Virender’s life, was released. Made by three young men — Vivek Chaudhary, Mit Jani and Prateek Gupta — in their early twenties, it would win a national award and gave Virender a certain amount of mainstream exposure. Over the course of researching and shooting the film, Vivek Chaudhary, who co-directed the film, discovered that the government’s sports policy did not include compensation for deaf athletes. “We all know who Sushil Kumar is,” says Chaudhary. “But Virender is living in anonymity and is also going through a difficult financial struggle. We wanted to fight to change the [sports] policy.”
Chaudhary put together a proposal for both the central government and the Haryana State government that explained why deaf athletes such as Virender should be compensated at the same level as paralympians.
Perhaps in part driven by this campaign, the central government’s sports policy finally changed in 2016 but the new policy counts deaf athletes as one-third of Olympians and Paralympians. Win gold as a para-athlete and you will get Rs 75 lakh; win gold as a deaf athlete, and you will get Rs 15 lakh. “There is still a disparity but at least it is in the policy,” Chaudhary says.
The All India Sports Council for the Deaf (AISCD) has since taken up the battle and challenged the Centre’s decision. According to Ketan Shah, Project Officer and interpreter for the AISCD, a writ has been filed with the Office of The Chief Commissioner for Persons with Disabilities, which has held a few hearings and expressed the opinion that the Centre is discriminating against deaf athletes. “But the sports ministry is not acting,” Shah says.
Still, the policy is an improvement on the past, when rewards were arbitrary and small (Rs 2 lakh to Rs 5 lakh). “Administrators don’t give two hoots,” says lawyer Rahul Mehra, who has fought a number of sports-related cases over the years. “Rather than be empathetic, they [the administrators] are dismissive. They feel they are giving a largesse rather than as a matter of right.”
In 2013, the Haryana government promised Virender the same compensation as an Olympic champion — Rs 5 crore — if he came back with the gold. The money never materialised. This year, reports appeared in the newspaper that the Haryana government had changed its sports policy to include deaf athletes, who would now get Rs 6 crore for a Deaflympics gold medal. The Haryana Sports Ministry did not respond to Mirror’s attempts to confirm this, but Virender is banking on it being true. He needs the money to pay off the family’s debts, build a new house and, most importantly, to get married.
Despite the lack of reward and recognition, Virender has never considered throwing in the towel. His face lights up every time he talks about his career and his medals. In 2008, he won a silver at the World Deaf Wrestling Championship in the 96 kilo category. He puffs his chest out and flexes his muscles to demonstrate a much larger person. A big smile is plastered on his face, as if to say this is all part of the fun of the wrestling life. “I am happy as a wrestler. I don’t wish to be anything else,” he says.
The dream
However, there is one part of his career that Virender does wish was different. He has always wanted to compete against able-bodied wrestlers and to qualify for the Olympic Games. But the wrestling federation has typically refused to let him do so. In fact, administrators are often unaware of who he is altogether. Vinod Tomar, the assistant secretary, struggled to remember Virender when asked about the possibility of a deaf wrestler competing for a spot in the Olympics. He then proceeded to offer this explanation: “The reason he cannot participate in normal Olympics is because the referee whistles, the instructions he would be giving, the hearing impaired person won't be able to follow. It is good that the government is supporting him but right now we don't have a policy right now to have him play in the normal category.”
This is a specious argument. For one thing, the Olympics are an open competition, and two deaf wrestlers have participated in the Games in the past, the second one in 2004. For another, all it requires is for the referee is to give Virender visual or tactile clues, such as making eye contact, or tapping him on the shoulder. Yet, for some reason the general impression seems to be that he should stick to his “own category”.
It is ironic that in the modern world of the mat, attitudes prevent Virender from fulfilling his potential but in the ancient world of the dangal, there are no such restrictions.
What makes this explanation even harder to take is that Virender’s first big victory came in the national cadet championships in 2002. However, he was prevented from representing his country after attending training camp. He says the coaches made him turn around so his back was to them and blew the whistle. When he could not hear it, they replaced him on the team. It broke his heart. “It is the only time I cried because of wrestling.” The pain of that disappointment still lingers. Especially since the general consensus seems to be that Virender is as good as any other wrestler in the country.
The day after meeting with Prakash and Sehwag’s father-in-law, Virender is at Chhatrasal stadium, where he often practices. About 40 young wrestlers jostle for space on the mat, where Georgian coach Vladimir Mestvirishvili is teaching them different ways to take down an opponent. Some of the younger wrestlers in the camp notice Virender and bend to touch his feet as they pass him. Alongside Mestvirishvili is Anil Mann, one of the coaches at the stadium. Mann has known Virender for almost 20 years. “He is a champion of India. If he could hear, then he would have been at the same level of Yogeshwar [Dutt]or Sushil [Kumar].He is not scared of anyone,” Mann says.
It is an opinion that Sushil Kumar, twotime Olympic medallist, shares. Sushil and Virender used to train together. Sushil happens to be sitting outside the auditorium watching another group of wrestlers exercise and practice in the mud pit. “There is nothing lacking in Virender,” Sushil says. “If he could have gone to the Olympics, he would have had a good chance of winning a medal.” But both Sushil and Mann express the same opinion as Tomar about why Virender hasn’t been allowed fight in able-bodied competitions — his lack of hearing puts him in a different category. It is the one barrier Virender hasn’t been able to break through.
‘I want to be me’
Chaudhary, one of the three directors of Goonga Pehelwan, says they started out wanting to make a tearjerker but Virender’s personality didn’t allow for it. “He is a happy champion. He is not a sad tragic hero”.
But he also found was that Virender had come to be defined by his deafness rather than his athletic ability and talent. “He gets a lot of love and respect, but for me it was also like a freak show. You get the sense that because he is of a certain type — he can't speak, he can't hear — people look at him that way.”
Virender says he is happy that the film was made about him, because it made him more popular and without it, he probably would not have got the Arjuna Award. But the movie also furthered his reputation as Goonga Pehelwan. While the nickname is an affectionate one, it obscures who he really is and defines him by what he can’t do rather than what he can. “What I want is to be known as Virender Singh,” he says.
█ Sushil and Yogeshwar have received so much recognition. It hurts to be treated like this. Is it my fault that I am deaf? I train as hard as everyone else
— Virender Singh
█ We just want him to be able to train there (Sonepat). If they want Virender to win a medal, should they not give him the best chance to win?
– Ajit Singh, Virender's father
The 2017 Games potentially represent Virender’s last chance for recognition and financial redemption. While Olympians and more recently Paralympians have been compensated handsomely by the Centre and their respective state governments, Virender, and deaf athletes in general, have largely been ignored.
In 2014, Goonga Pehelwan, a documentary on Virender’s life, was released. Made by three young men — Vivek Chaudhary, Mit Jani and Prateek Gupta — in their early twenties, it would win a national award and gave Virender a certain amount of mainstream exposure. Over the course of researching and shooting the film, Vivek Chaudhary, who co-directed the film, discovered that the government’s sports policy did not include compensation for deaf athletes. “We all know who Sushil Kumar is,” says Chaudhary. “But Virender is living in anonymity and is also going through a difficult financial struggle. We wanted to fight to change the [sports] policy.”
Chaudhary put together a proposal for both the central government and the Haryana State government that explained why deaf athletes such as Virender should be compensated at the same level as paralympians.
Perhaps in part driven by this campaign, the central government’s sports policy finally changed in 2016 but the new policy counts deaf athletes as one-third of Olympians and Paralympians. Win gold as a para-athlete and you will get Rs 75 lakh; win gold as a deaf athlete, and you will get Rs 15 lakh. “There is still a disparity but at least it is in the policy,” Chaudhary says.
The All India Sports Council for the Deaf (AISCD) has since taken up the battle and challenged the Centre’s decision. According to Ketan Shah, Project Officer and interpreter for the AISCD, a writ has been filed with the Office of The Chief Commissioner for Persons with Disabilities, which has held a few hearings and expressed the opinion that the Centre is discriminating against deaf athletes. “But the sports ministry is not acting,” Shah says.
Still, the policy is an improvement on the past, when rewards were arbitrary and small (Rs 2 lakh to Rs 5 lakh). “Administrators don’t give two hoots,” says lawyer Rahul Mehra, who has fought a number of sports-related cases over the years. “Rather than be empathetic, they [the administrators] are dismissive. They feel they are giving a largesse rather than as a matter of right.”
In 2013, the Haryana government promised Virender the same compensation as an Olympic champion — Rs 5 crore — if he came back with the gold. The money never materialised. This year, reports appeared in the newspaper that the Haryana government had changed its sports policy to include deaf athletes, who would now get Rs 6 crore for a Deaflympics gold medal. The Haryana Sports Ministry did not respond to Mirror’s attempts to confirm this, but Virender is banking on it being true. He needs the money to pay off the family’s debts, build a new house and, most importantly, to get married.
Despite the lack of reward and recognition, Virender has never considered throwing in the towel. His face lights up every time he talks about his career and his medals. In 2008, he won a silver at the World Deaf Wrestling Championship in the 96 kilo category. He puffs his chest out and flexes his muscles to demonstrate a much larger person. A big smile is plastered on his face, as if to say this is all part of the fun of the wrestling life. “I am happy as a wrestler. I don’t wish to be anything else,” he says.
The dream
However, there is one part of his career that Virender does wish was different. He has always wanted to compete against able-bodied wrestlers and to qualify for the Olympic Games. But the wrestling federation has typically refused to let him do so. In fact, administrators are often unaware of who he is altogether. Vinod Tomar, the assistant secretary, struggled to remember Virender when asked about the possibility of a deaf wrestler competing for a spot in the Olympics. He then proceeded to offer this explanation: “The reason he cannot participate in normal Olympics is because the referee whistles, the instructions he would be giving, the hearing impaired person won't be able to follow. It is good that the government is supporting him but right now we don't have a policy right now to have him play in the normal category.”
This is a specious argument. For one thing, the Olympics are an open competition, and two deaf wrestlers have participated in the Games in the past, the second one in 2004. For another, all it requires is for the referee is to give Virender visual or tactile clues, such as making eye contact, or tapping him on the shoulder. Yet, for some reason the general impression seems to be that he should stick to his “own category”.
It is ironic that in the modern world of the mat, attitudes prevent Virender from fulfilling his potential but in the ancient world of the dangal, there are no such restrictions.
What makes this explanation even harder to take is that Virender’s first big victory came in the national cadet championships in 2002. However, he was prevented from representing his country after attending training camp. He says the coaches made him turn around so his back was to them and blew the whistle. When he could not hear it, they replaced him on the team. It broke his heart. “It is the only time I cried because of wrestling.” The pain of that disappointment still lingers. Especially since the general consensus seems to be that Virender is as good as any other wrestler in the country.
The day after meeting with Prakash and Sehwag’s father-in-law, Virender is at Chhatrasal stadium, where he often practices. About 40 young wrestlers jostle for space on the mat, where Georgian coach Vladimir Mestvirishvili is teaching them different ways to take down an opponent. Some of the younger wrestlers in the camp notice Virender and bend to touch his feet as they pass him. Alongside Mestvirishvili is Anil Mann, one of the coaches at the stadium. Mann has known Virender for almost 20 years. “He is a champion of India. If he could hear, then he would have been at the same level of Yogeshwar [Dutt]or Sushil [Kumar].He is not scared of anyone,” Mann says.
It is an opinion that Sushil Kumar, twotime Olympic medallist, shares. Sushil and Virender used to train together. Sushil happens to be sitting outside the auditorium watching another group of wrestlers exercise and practice in the mud pit. “There is nothing lacking in Virender,” Sushil says. “If he could have gone to the Olympics, he would have had a good chance of winning a medal.” But both Sushil and Mann express the same opinion as Tomar about why Virender hasn’t been allowed fight in able-bodied competitions — his lack of hearing puts him in a different category. It is the one barrier Virender hasn’t been able to break through.
‘I want to be me’
Chaudhary, one of the three directors of Goonga Pehelwan, says they started out wanting to make a tearjerker but Virender’s personality didn’t allow for it. “He is a happy champion. He is not a sad tragic hero”.
But he also found was that Virender had come to be defined by his deafness rather than his athletic ability and talent. “He gets a lot of love and respect, but for me it was also like a freak show. You get the sense that because he is of a certain type — he can't speak, he can't hear — people look at him that way.”
Virender says he is happy that the film was made about him, because it made him more popular and without it, he probably would not have got the Arjuna Award. But the movie also furthered his reputation as Goonga Pehelwan. While the nickname is an affectionate one, it obscures who he really is and defines him by what he can’t do rather than what he can. “What I want is to be known as Virender Singh,” he says.
█ Sushil and Yogeshwar have received so much recognition. It hurts to be treated like this. Is it my fault that I am deaf? I train as hard as everyone else
— Virender Singh
█ We just want him to be able to train there (Sonepat). If they want Virender to win a medal, should they not give him the best chance to win?
– Ajit Singh, Virender's father
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