Arshad was only 9 years old when his entire world was collapsing around him. The once quiet and peaceful neighborhood of his youth in Delhi was engulfed with explosions and gunfire. Coffins were carried past his home by weeping relatives. Only months earlier, India was carved up into three separate regions and a Muslim homeland of Pakistan created. What was supposed to be a time of great hope and promise now devolved into chaos.
The community's day long tension baked into an unbearable heat at night and Arshad would often hear the men and women waking up in terror screaming that the rioters were attacking. He would later learn through his extensive career that what he was witnessing were the symptoms of PTSD. Awakened by their fears, his neighbors would climb to the flat roofs out of their homes and converse - it was safer to talk high off the streets.
Arshad’s father, a great scholar and orator, addressed the crowds amassing and said to the Hindus and Muslims and Sikhs, “Have we not lived here together for generations? Our fathers and mothers helped each other. We have helped each other. We have cried with each other’s sorrows and celebrated each other’s joys. Now is the time we must stand together.” And he would call out and pray in unison for guidance: “Allahu Akbar” “God is the great.”
Arshad, however, would describe all this turmoil in two different books with one surprising word; “excitement.” In impromptu races with his friends, he had established himself as the fastest nine-year-old in the neighborhood - and with that speed came a fantasy - a magical thinking - that he could outrun any gunman, terrorists, or would-be assailant.
As the hostilities progressed, makeshift markets began to spring up, selling whatever food merchants could come by. A volunteer was needed to retrieve sustenance for the household. Arshad viewed himself as the perfect candidate and such a task had the added benefit of showcasing his speed. With very few options, his mother reluctantly agreed and he turned his weekly runs to the marketplace into a game, dodging in and out of alleyways and timing himself in hopes of setting a new personal record. He pictured himself in the starting blocks during an Olympic race - like the great Jessie Owens winning the gold and standing up to the Nazi-machine with each stride.
Inevitably, the violence creeped ever so closely to their doorway and Arshad’s father gathered all the family around the central fireplace. It was cold, they huddled in blankets, his mother held his baby sister who was only two months old. His father announced to the children
that they would be leaving in a matter of days to join their grandparents in the more Muslim friendly Karachi. A friend of his father in the Military had agreed to send Pakistani army trucks accompanied with a small contingent of soldiers to ferry them to safety.
When the army trucks arrived, there were no seats and so they climbed into the bed of the truck. Each child - and there were 11 of them in total - were told to take one book and one toy. Arshad chose his soccer ball, reasoning he would start a youth team when settled in Karachi. He recognized the fear in everyone’s face. For Arshad, though, he looked as if he were preparing for a vacation.
On the eve of the 2nd night of their journey the convoy received word there was a large gathering of rioters and that if they proceeded, they would be undoubtedly attacked. It was decided not to press forward but instead to make camp on a nearby sugarcane field. The trucks formed a kind of defensive circle with soldiers nervously sitting on the top of each vehicle as lookout; reminiscent of the Covered Wagons Arshad would later see depicted in American Westerns.
At daybreak, a bicyclist headed toward the encampment with a large canister on the rack. Anticipating the worst, the soldiers raised their rifles and shouted at him to “STOP!”. But he was not an assailant, rather a savior; a local Sikh farmer who brought with him freshly drawn milk and a new route that would keep them safe from rioters.
Arshad’s mother was convinced that this was no man, but the Angel Mikal - Micheal. Whether he was heaven sent, the actions of the farmer planted a belief in Arshad that, even in the midst of the worst of ethnic tensions, there are those for no personal benefit or gain who will instead choose compassion and peace.
The family would eventually reach Karachi. They were a part of the fortunate ones. It is estimated that as many as 2 million men, women, and children lost their lives attempting a similar journey.
While Arshad had to leave behind most of his possessions, one item he was able to carry with him from India was his gift of speed. He would spend most of his adolescent and young adult life finding new and increasingly elaborate venues to test this talent.
It was abundantly clear that his passion for running would not be allowed to eclipse his studies - an edict from his father- and so when the time came, he enrolled in Dow Medical College in Karachi so he could do both. He describes these times as some of the most challenging and exhilarating of his life.
A typical day consisted of attending classes from 8:00 AM to 3:00 PM. He’d come home, take a nap of no more than 30 minutes, then venture to the stadium for 2 hours of training, shower, walk downtown with his friends for a quick respite of tea and patties and then attend a study group from 10:00 PM to 3:00 AM. Bedtime would be 3:30 a.m and the routine would begin again abruptly the next day at 7:30.
Competing in the 100, 200, and 400 meter races, the long jump, the triple jump, and the anchor of the 4 x 100 relay, Arshad won every event he competed in, was a 5-time Dow Medical College Champion, represented Karachi in the interuniversity championship, and was ultimately invited to train with the Pakistani national team.
For a moment - however brief - the image of himself flying off the blocks like Jesse Owen at the Olympics drifted from a dream to a possible reality. It would, however, mean putting on hold his medical studies.
And then fate intervened in the form of a revelation named Rafer Johnson. He stood 6’ 3” and weighed 230 pounds, which contrasted to Arshad’s 5’6” 150 pound frame - or 5’ 9” when he would later wear his platform shoes in an attempt to impress his future wife. Rafer Johnson met with the Pakistani athletes as part of a goodwill tour and this encounter served as the catalyst for a choice Arshad never regretted. You see Rafer was a starter on John Wooden’s UCLA basketball teams, was drafted by the NFL, though the never played football, and would win the decathlon at the Rome Olympics. What was reflected in front of Arshad is what an Olympic athlete truly looked like.
From that point forward, Arshad retired his speed. It had been a useful friend, but was no longer required. Even the numerous trophies, medals, and ribbons he had garnered throughout the years would be appropriated by his younger siblings and they would hold local competitions with their friends where the winners would be crowned with his hard-earned awards.
But you see, Arshad wouldn’t have had it any other way. Not one to hold on to material things, to suffer from nostalgia or pride; it was simply the end of one chapter, with the promise of a new adventure awaiting in the wings.
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