Encounters with the Fit

The extraordinary life of ace athlete Malathi Holla

In 1994, a woman took a train from Bangalore to Delhi to meet Dr Manmohan Singh, who was then the finance minister. The purpose of her journey may seem trivial to most people—she was buying a car and she wanted a tax exemption. But for Malathi Holla, the 46-hour journey was extremely important. She was a paraplegic (she was afflicted by polio when she was 14 months old). She had her first two surgeries before she was three. For many years after that she averaged almost one surgery every six months. She suffers from what is called contracture, a condition where the nerves bunch up in a ball and have to be unknotted surgically. The effect of contracture, especially near the pelvis region, is a painful curvature of the body—the legs get bent backwards and the back forwards. (She has had 32 surgeries in all and she is preparing for another one.) But that did not stop her from becoming an ace athlete with over 300 medals for the country in various international sports meets for the disabled, including the Paralympics. She is particularly strong in the 100 metres and 200 metres wheelchair racing, shot put, discus and javelin throw. All through that 46-hour train journey Malathi could not use the toilet as facilities in the Indian Railways are unimaginably hostile to the handicapped. She made the journey controlling her bowels and the bladder. But there was hope in her heart. “I was told that I could get a tax exemption if I presented my certificates to the concerned ministry.” At the end of the journey and a long waiting period which lasted more than the train journey, she finally got to meet Dr Singh. She showed him her 150 certificates of merit and requested a tax exemption for her car. Dr Singh looked at the certificates and asked, “How can I believe that these are yours?”

“At that time I was very angry,” Malathi remembers. “I looked at him and asked, ‘How can I believe that you are Manmohan Singh?’” Singh was upset. “I really didn’t have to travel 46 hours, not use a toilet for such a long time, and make the trip just to cheat him, right? And moreover he could’ve easily called the sports department at Shastri Bhavan and verified my claims instead of alleging that I was making false claims.” Malathi spoke her mind, politely but firmly. Singh apologised immediately and ensured that the exemption certificate reached Malathi by the time she returned to Bangalore. “My father taught me to always ask for what I wanted. See the world around you and find your place in it, he would say.” Malathi’s memorable encounters with the able-bodied form the most interesting parts of her newly released biography: A Different Spirit. It is intriguing, what she remembers of eminent people. In 1988, Malathi was selected for the Paralympics for the first time and she went to Delhi to collect the relevant documents. Pressed for time, she met with Margaret Alva who was then the sports minister. “I think she was upset and disappointed that our athletes had failed to perform in the regular Olympics,” Malathi says. When Malathi requested her to clear the papers as soon as possible, Alva shot back, “Do you think you are PT Usha?”

“These kinds of comments hurt me more than anger me. I was sitting in a wheelchair. Obviously I cannot be PT Usha. Nor can PT Usha be me. We are all different individuals with different capabilities,” she says. Over the years, in a parallel sporting universe, Malathi has risen as high as PT Usha. Malathi is a Padmashri. Her Arjuna award is a telling commentary on how the disabled have to struggle for recognition. In 1979, the Government had excluded the award from all those who were not ‘normal and able sports people’. When Malathi felt she was eligible, she was not ready to accept the rule. “I fought with the Government,” she says. “It was a preposterous and inhuman rule.” In 1995, she got it.

The bowling coach of the Indian cricket team, Venkatesh Prasad remembers her “unrelenting grit and determination”. Former wicketkeeper Syed Kirmani calls her a “great inspirational and motivational soul”. Malathi was born in 1958 in Bangalore to a middle-class family. She was the last of four siblings. After she was struck by polio, she spent 15 years at the Ishwari Prasad Dattatraya Orthopaedic Centre in Chennai. “My mother (Leelavathi Holla), hardly visited me,” says Malathi. “But my father, (Krishnamurthy Holla), would visit me every week. He was a loving man. He taught me to give and to receive love.” One could sense a chasm between mother and daughter in Malathi’s biography. And you don’t even have to read between the lines.

“She used to tell me that I should have a hysterectomy as I would never have a baby anyway, it would at least avoid the mess of menstruation. She always treated me like an outsider. She had a negative attitude towards my disability. If anyone came home, she would tell me to go to another room and not come out till they left. She didn’t like me using my wheelchair inside the house. She always discouraged me from attending relatives’ weddings and other family functions. She didn’t like my friends coming home.” However, Malathi denies that her mother was evil in any way. “She was not a bad mother at all. In fact, for the first two years when I was a baby she would carry me to the hospital every day for treatment. I guess later she didn’t know how to handle my disability. So she completely shut out anything that brought my disability into the picture.” Malathi feels that her story is no different from the one played out in most homes with disabled children. “It’s not that they hate their children. They just don’t know how to cope.” Malathi made peace with her mother before she died. “I loved her and I believe that she loved me too—in her own way.”

Malathi is now a happy person. “My motto is to live life to the fullest. Laugh and love. The rest will take care of itself,” she says. What about the love of a man, I ask, do you miss having a man in your life? She says, “Maybe when I was younger. But today, I have 16 children to love. I am a mother to them.” She runs Mathru Foundation, a safe haven for disabled children from impoverished backgrounds. All are boys. “Right now, I don’t have the resources and facility to take in girls,” she says. “Though I want to because I know what a handicapped girl goes through in life. God willing, one day I will have a place large enough to take care of both boys and girls.”

I am aware that there is a fencing champion in Australia who loves Malathi dearly and proposed marriage many years ago. Jordan is his name. Sitting in her office in Syndicate Bank where she works as a manager, Malathi laughs in response to my remark. “He is my best friend.” Why isn’t he more than just a ‘best friend’? “There was a time when I thought about it. But love marriage was taboo in my family. So we decided to remain friends.”

Malathi has been surprised by love twice. Two men have professed undying love for her, yet they balked at the altar. While the first one cited “different religious backgrounds” as the reason for not marrying her, the second could not even come up with a reason. “Yes, one needs love and companionship in life,” says Malathi. “But I have realised you can find that with family, friends and colleagues.”

Malathi has acted in a Kannada film as the disabled wife of matinee idol Rajkumar. After the movie’s release she received a lot of marriage proposals for an outrageous reason. A typical love letter to her would read: ‘I want to marry you because, namma annavaru (our elder brother, as Rajkumar is affectionately referred to by his fans) married you.’

Needless to add, the letters always found their way to the trash can.

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