Where Every Runner Is the Story
By Manu Shrivastava
This was the 10th edition of the Andaman Marathon, carried forward by the Andaman Nicobar Chamber of Commerce & Industry (ANCCI) and the Administration with an almost spiritual zeal to foster fitness, tourism and love for island ecology under the theme “Run for Nature.”
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| Syamala K says running makes her 'happy' and she sure looks it |
Here, in these narrow streets that later opened onto foreshore roads fringed by palm shadows and emerald sea, there were no colossal corporate billboards blaring celebrity endorsements, no giant inflatable mascots stalking the route, no VIP bleachers roped off for sponsors’ guests. Instead, there was an organic swelling of humanity: locals, youngsters, elders, schoolchildren in bright tee-shirts, robust youth from Kerala brimming with excitement, a handful of visiting runners who had heard about the run through word-of-mouth or social media shorts ... all of them here not merely to win, but to be part of something larger than themselves.
I saw men whose daily lives are spent hauling nets at Corbyn’s Cove, young women teachers from distant districts of Kerala who had taken leave from classrooms to chase sunrise on Andaman roads, and grey-haired uncles whose disciplined footsteps belied their age. There was earnestness in every face, a freshness untouched by showbiz glitz, the way a writer might prefer a candid photograph to a studio shot. It reminded me of Mumbai’s Marathon scene where the roar is for the stars, for the brief flashes of celebrity - the flashy suits, the photographers jostling for frame time - rather than for the common runner. Here in Port Blair, every participant was both story and storyteller.
Watch the film 'Island Run' here: https://youtube.com/shorts/t9nLdVlrBeM?si=SdoQFEaTj67zfYVC
By the time the sun crept up, its coral streaks over the Bay of Bengal transforming sky and sea into molten pastel, the race had threaded its way from the historic jail’s precincts through the quiet streets of Sri Vijaya Puram, past the open bustle of markets and the silent stretch of foreshore by Marina Park, and toward Netaji Stadium, where the cheers awaited the finishers. The route, marked by gentle nudges of encouragement rather than blaring loudspeakers, carried the pace of earnest footfalls, of breathing measured in rhythm with the heartbeat of the islands.
I watched a lanky youth from Coimbatore slow his pace to cheer on an elderly woman in her seventies, not because she was lagging, but because she simply had begun the race at all. I saw children of fourteen weaving through the narrow lanes with smiles that outshone their timid steps; I saw seasoned local runners fall into steady cadence, motivated not by prize money but pride, by the simple joy of moving.
The words of a senior citizen from Kerala stuck with me. At 62, retired BSNL employee, Syamala K laced up with the same early-morning determination that had marked her youth. “I’ve run in many places, running makes me happy," she said, pause punctuating her breath against the rising sun. “But here, every runner feels like a neighbour.” Such sentiments direct, uncomplicated, deeply human, ran like an undercurrent through the crowd. The total cash prizes, ₹10,05,000 spread across categories, were acknowledged with polite applause, but never with a sense of greed or cut-throat zeal.
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| Syamala was cheered on by her BSNL colleagues |
And as I crossed the Netaji Stadium finish line later, with a throat scratchy from cheering, and eyes moist with human stories, it struck me how profoundly genuine this experience was. Mumbai’s big marathons have their place, with their glamour and professional rigour; but here, the spectacle was in simplicity, in unguarded earnestness, in a shared exhilaration that required no celebrity to validate it. Nobody here ran for a sponsor tag or a media reel, but for the pure, uncluttered joy of running, of community, of greeting the day with bare sincerity.
I remember the sun now high, glinting off sweat and sea alike, and the vibrancy of the island air ... sharp, humid, yet wonderfully liberating. I remember the collective sigh of accomplishment, the broad smiles at the prize distribution, and the respectful silence with which every participant cheered for every other participant. In that simplicity, in that naïveté, Andaman Run revealed a truth: that running is, at its heart, an intimate dialogue between the earth and the human spirit, a dialogue unspoiled in Port Blair, and so very endearing.
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