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MILKHA SINGH AUTOBIOGRAPHY PDF

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SINGH PDF. A brand-new experience could be obtained by reading a publication The Race Of My Life: An. Autobiography By Milkha Singh. Milkha Singh has led a life dominated by running, running, running From a boy who narrowly escaped death during Partition (most of his family was not so. After downloading the soft documents of this The Race Of My Life: An Autobiography, By Milkha Singh, you could begin to read it. Yeah, this is.


Milkha Singh Autobiography Pdf

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The Race of My Life book. Read 86 reviews from the world's largest community for readers. Authored By: Milkha Singh, Sonia SanwalkaForeword By: Rakeysh. In this remarkably candid autobiography, Milkha Singh shares the amazing highs of winning India's first ever gold in athletics at the Commonwealth Games, the. About the Book: 'Portraying [Milkha Singh] in Bhaag Milkha Bhaag made me understand that no matter what hand life deals you, it is up to you to decide if.

There are instances where I felt he was being hypocritical, but on reading further, understood his reasons behind those actions. Overall, India needs more people like him to change the face of it's dismal sports record as it stands today. Very inspiring By Srinivas Ponnaluri The book is very inspiring and filled with lot of true facts of what is happening in the Indian sport.

The approach towards sport he had is very much required in other areas too if India wants to be one of the leading nations in the world. Before it becomes too late, India needs to plan developing the talent in every area right from the very early age. The talent not only needs to be recognised but systems need to be set up to groom the same.

The Race of My Life: An Autobiography, by Milkha Singh Kindle.

The Race of My Life: An Autobiography

Posting Komentar. Sabtu, 16 November [U An Autobiography, by Milkha Singh. Sales Rank: Unabridged Original language: English Running time: See all 9 customer reviews An Autobiography, by Milkha Singh Doc. Diposting oleh Robert Huffman di Tidak ada komentar: Transformative Ideas for India by Amitabh Kant.

Free PDF The Race of My Life: An Autobiography, by Milkha Singh

Priyanka Chopra: Hungry Gods by Richa Lakhera. K Knows: Dead or Alive by Shailendra Singh. Unfettered Wings: Winning Like Saina: Stumbling Through Life by Ruskin Bond.

Spectrum Politics: The Infidels of Mecca by Abbas Zaidi. Khushwant Singh on Humour: Selected Writings by Khushwant Singh. The Glass House by Chanchal Sanyal. In a Cult of Their Own: A Broken Sun by Aditya Iyengar. Rebound by Sanil Sachar. Invisible Ties by Nadya A. Makhan and his fellow jawans were then asked to drive to the police station, but when they reached there, they were thrown into jail.

It was at that moment that Makhan realized how shockingly they had been betrayed, and that instead of providing succour, the police had paved the way for the destruction of our village by passing on the details of our village to the marauders. At the police station, Makhan urged Father to leave Gobindpur, warning him of the imminent danger the village faced, but Father refused.

He stated that he would rather die than abandon his home and land and flee like a coward. As my brother had warned, catastrophe was awaiting the people of Gobindpur. The policemen at Kot Addu had not only passed on the name and location of our village to the Muslim fanatics, but also equipped them with guns and ammunition and instructed them to obliterate our Sikh village.

The following evening after my father returned, hordes of militant fanatics and looters fuelled by the flames of communal hatred, besieged our village, camping just five hundred yards away. We could see the flaming torches they had placed on the ground and hear their angry voices shouting that we must convert at once.

Heroically, our lambardar sarpanch leapt on to his horse and galloped to the Muslim camp to tell them that we would neither convert nor leave our village and homes. Incensed by his boldness, someone shot him in the back as he was riding back, killing him instantly.

We were terrified by what had happened and fervently prayed to our Gurus to give us strength and courage to fight the ferocious mob. The attack came soon after at about 4 a. The hordes, waving guns and talwars, broke through our defences, killing anyone who came in their way. It was a bloody encounter women hiding in the gurudwara while outside, every man and boy put up a brave fight, in a desperate attempt to ward off the attack, but our lathis were no match for their guns.

They were killing everyone in sight. I tried to hide, running from one spot to another to escape being caught. I saw my father fighting valiantly, then I saw him fall, fatally struck by a horse-riding murderer. As he fell, Father screamed Bhaag Milkha, bhaag. I was petrified and could barely move.

As the carnage continued, I thought I heard my mothers wails of anguish as our village gurudwara, where she had sought refuge, went up in flames. It was only much later that I found out what had happened to the rest of my family that night; how my brothers, Daulat and Amir, killed their own wives and daughters lest they fell into wrong hands, before they themselves were slaughtered; the deaths of my baby brother, Gobind, and sister, Makhani.

My sister, Hoondi, who was in Gobindpur that night, was the only member of my family who escaped. She was outside the burning gurudwara when she heard the terrified cries of her one-year-old daughter who was trapped inside.

Fearlessly, she braved the flames, rescued the baby and ran away. Such is a mothers love.

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With my fathers warning Bhaag Milkha, bhaag running through my head I fled for my life, sometimes running, sometimes walking all the way to Kot Addu. It was one of the most terrifying journeys of my life. In my traumatized state, I imagined that every sound or rustle was that of a lurking assassin waiting to kill me. I was in such a trance and till today, I do not know how I reached the railway station.

The blood-smeared train to Multan was standing at the platform and I jumped into the first compartment I saw and hid under the berth. It was reserved for ladies, and soon some burqa-clad women entered. When they saw me they tried to raise a hue and cry, thinking that I was a thief, but I fell at their feet with folded hands, and begged them to save my life by not revealing my presence to the authorities.

My pathetic plight evoked their pity and they allowed me to remain in their compartment Back at Kot Addu, Makhan collapsed when he heard the news about the villages annihilation. During his period of confinement, his commanding officer CO in Multan had made repeated telephone calls to the police to free his men.

But when he received no response, he arrived in Kot Addu with two trucks filled with soldiers to secure their release and take them to Gobindpura. As Makhan, his CO and the other jawans entered the village, the sight before them was terrible to behold and the stench overpowering. The fields were soaked with blood and decomposing bodies lay scattered around, a feast for vultures and dogs.

Identification of the dead was almost impossible, and in desperation, the soldiers placed all the bodies, including those of my family, in one big heap, poured kerosene over them and cremated them.

More than fifteen hundred villagers perished on that fateful day in Gobindpura. It had taken just a few hours to annihilate my family, home and native village.

When I reached Multan, I went straight from the station to my brothers quarters in the army barracks. His wife, Jeet, was there and we both waited eagerly for Makhan to return from Kot Addu.

It took him about three or four days to get back to Multan. I broke down and wept inconsolably upon seeing him standing at the door. We hugged each other tightly and kept crying for a very long time. Then he gave us the full story about his confinement in jail and the gory massacre in my village.

I had lost everything I cared forit was the end of my childhood. As the days went by, we heard other terrible accounts about what was happening all around us, and it seemed obvious that we would no longer be safe in Multan. Finally, an official order was circulated stating that the families of all Hindu and Sikh armed forces personnel in what was now Pakistan were to be evacuated to India immediately. The regiments were asked to stay on until further notice.

Jeet and I, along with other families, boarded a military truck for a long, eight-hour drive to the HussainiwalaFerozepur border. It was a silent journey.

We were all displaced people who had lost what had mattered most in our lives, and an uncertain future lay ahead of us. How would we start anew? How would we put down roots in a land we knew so little about? My mind was still numb due to the enormity of the tragedy and I had no clue how to pick up the pieces of my shattered life.

We were all in the same boat, searching for survivors or finding shelter. After days of aimless loitering, I came upon a dilapidated house abandoned by a Muslim family. Though we had some sort of a roof over our heads, it was almost impossible to find food that would feed the two of us. But the lack of money had made me resourceful. I made frequent forays into the army barracks, where I would polish shoes or do some other menial chores for the soldiers, in exchange for leftover or discarded dal and rotis, which I would take back to share with Jeet.

On some days we went to sleep hungry. We had by now lost all contact with Makhan, who was still in Pakistan with his regiment, but there was little time to worrywe had other, more immediate problems to cope with. At the end of August, the swollen Sutlej river that runs through Ferozepur overflowed its banks and the city was swept by devastating floods.

Jeet and I managed to save ourselves by climbing on to the roof of a submerged house, but what little possessions we had with us were washed away. By now I had had enough of Ferozepur and was very keen to leave and move to Delhi, where, I had heard, that it was easy to find jobs. Clinging to one another, we waded through the floodwaters towards the railway station. Once again, a sea of humanity surrounded us. There was absolute chaos at the station with people moving this way and that with no sense of direction.

Getting to Delhi was my priority, but the refugee trains were so overcrowded that it was almost impossible to find a seat. Luckily, Jeet managed to squeeze into the ladies compartment, but I could only find place on the roof. From my elevated position I could see caravans of men, women and children, some on foot, some on bullock carts, cycles or any mode of transport, moving towards India or Pakistan.

It was a heart-rending sight, this mass migration of people who had lost loved ones, homes and belongings in what must be one of the greatest tragedies of history. Memories of those bloodthirsty events of that August still haunt me.

I had lost most of my family, and yet, I recall the kindness of the ladies on the train. Although I bemoaned my lost childhood, I also knew that I had to find the strength and courage to face whatever lay ahead. Once we reached Old Delhi railway station, we, like thousands of other refugees, were stranded on the platform with no clue of where to go or what to do.

We had no money or contacts, so I teamed up with a couple of other boys to try to find work, but we soon discovered that in those unsettled days, people were wary of employing refugees.

Finally, I found a cleaning job in a shop at Ajmeri Gate, which would give me a salary of ten rupees. Jeet and I spent a few chaotic days at the station, mingling with the other displaced people; we were always scared about what would become of us, where would we go. I can still remember how desperate people were and the intense hunger that would drive them to grab the free food distributed by charitable trustsit was like vultures attacking their prey.

When we had arrived, we had registered our names at one of the help desks in the hope that we would find some members of our families.

Throughout the day and night, regular announcements were made, giving the names and whereabouts of relatives. It was then that I heard that my sister, Isher, her husband and his family, had survived the holocaust and were living in Shahdara.

When we reached their house, the family reunion was tearful and poignant. At last we had found some family members who were alive and a place to stay. My joy was short-lived, however. I had barely been in that house a few days when I saw how badly Isher was being treated by her in-laws, particularly her mother-in-law, an enormously fat lady, who would sit on a manjee cot all day, issuing orders to Isher.

Jeet, on the other hand, was treated with great respect; she was the only daughter among seven brothers and her husband was in the army, which was regarded as a steady profession in those days.

It hadnt taken her long to forget our recent hardships and the bond we had shared travelling from Multan to Delhi. My poor sister worked like an unpaid maid in that house, waking up at 4 a. At the same time, she was a dutiful wife and would present her husband with a child at regular intervals.

It was a large family, in keeping with the times, and my sister had to labour from morning to night to keep them happy, but they were never satisfied, and even if she made the slightest mistake, they would thrash her mercilessly. Their unkindness and ingratitude upset me deeply, but there was little I could do to stop them. I kept hoping Makhan would come back and save his sister.

As the days passed, I soon realized that I was not welcome. Jeets family constantly taunted and mocked me by saying that I was a useless, good-for-nothing fellow, who could only sit around all day and eat their food; that I should go out and fend for myself rather than being a burden on them. It reached such a point that I was given only one meal a day.

I would then remember my mother and how she would feed her husband, children and extended family with what little was available. I missed her so much that I would sit and cry, indulging in bouts of self-pity at my helplessness. Isher was deeply distressed by my plight and would surreptitiously give me a couple of rotis, whispering, Bhaag ja, bhaag, if they find out they will beat me. These I would eat with salt or an onion, as I was not allowed any dal or vegetables. By now we had heard that Makhan and his unit were back in India, but we had no idea where he was.

The situation at home had made me so unhappy that my health deteriorated. Yet, on some days I reverted to being a carefree lad againracing trains, flying kites or laughing and cracking jokes with my friends.

I would have liked to have resumed my education, but there was no money to pursue that avenue. It was at this time that I had my first infatuation. I was just seventeen and the object of my fancy was the beautiful fifteen-year-old who lived next door. In those days, the mohalla had only one municipality water tap and everyone lined up there to fill their buckets. Thats where I first saw her.

She was standing behind me and I offered to let her fill her bucket before me. That day onwards, I tried to help her in small ways, by allowing her to take my place in the queue, or carrying the bucket back to the house.

The Race of My Life by Milkha Singh and Sonia Sanwalka

But we were so young and innocent, and there was little else I could think of to further the romance other than waiting to catch a glimpse. We would look at each other when she left for school, or when she went up to her terrace, or when she stepped out of the house on errands. I would talk incessantly about her to my friends. Finally, I decided to pour my heart out and sent her a letter written in Hindi, wrapped in a ball which I threw on to the terrace of her home.

To my delight, she reciprocated my feelings. Our romance took wings, but our flight did not last long. I still vividly remember the day when I had taken her for a walk after school finished. It seemed magical. We lost track of time and she reached home late. Her parents found out about us and were furious. She was thrashed and locked up in a room.

The Race of My Life: An Autobiography

She also stopped going to school. Soon after, her parents got her married off. I was heartbroken. The following eight or nine months that I spent in limbo were the worst times of my life. It was also a period that I am still deeply ashamed of.

As was inevitable, I fell into bad company, and began to gamble. There was no elder or role model to give me advice or direction or to supervise my actions. As a result, my life went rapidly downhill. My friends and I would indulge in all kind of nefarious activities.

We would steal bags of sugar or rice from the goods trains that were standing at Shahdara railway station and sell them at cheaper rates at the local bazaar. But the thefts were soon discovered and reported to the police, who began to keep a close watch at the station. One day they caught us in the act, and though some of the boys were arrested, I ran so fast that I managed to escape the dragnet. Fate, however, had other plans for me. In , I was travelling by a local train from Shahdara to Delhi without a ticket, a jaunt I had successfully managed several times before.

But as luck would have it, this time I was arrested and brought before a magistrate who stipulated that I either pay a jurmana of fifteen rupees or go to jail. I had not a penny, let alone fifteen rupees, and was thus sentenced to three months rigorous imprisonment. I was deeply humiliated when the constables handcuffed me and threw me in jail. It was only after a couple of days that I managed to send word to Isher.

She secretly sold her gold earrings and paid the fine. I was released, after spending ten days in the company of thieves and dacoits.

Often, while in jail, I would get so dejected that I seriously thought of becoming a feared dacoit after my stint behind bars. Nothing had changed in the house in the ten days that I was in jail. Isher was working as hard as she always did, and the newly instituted rewards for her were regular beatings. I was still humiliated by my stint behind bars and would sit around the house moping.

Then we heard the news that Makhan had been posted at Delhis Red Fort. When he came to visit us, I fell upon him in desperation, bombarding him with tales of our troubles, and about how harshly his wifes family treated Isher.

Although he was a hen-pecked husband, completely dominated by his wife, he did try to make an effort to ease the situation during the short time he stayed with us in Shahdara.

But his military duties prevented him from being in the house all day, and the ill treatment never really stopped. One day, all my pent-up frustration and anger erupted at the sight of Isher being violently abused yet again. I went into Jeets room, picked up Makhans gun, which he had forgotten to take with him, brought it out and aimed it at Ishers in-laws.

I said menacingly, Khabardar, agar meri behen ko phir se haath lagaya to jaan se maar doonga! If you dare to touch my sister again, I will kill you all. They looked at me with fear, and I would like to believe that the beatings became less frequent after that incident.

While Makhan was in Delhi he managed to get me admitted in the local school, but it had been more than a year since I had looked at a book and I found it difficult to concentrate on my studies.

Regretfully, I must admit, I could not renounce my bad habits and was back on the streets again, in the company of delinquents. When my brother discovered my truancy, he would beat me. Despite the thrashings Makhan tried hard to find me a vocation, but before a suitable job could materialize, he was transferred to Jhansi and I was back to my bad old ways. Somehow, deep within me, I knew that I wanted to lead a better, more productive life.

I yearned to join the army, but it was and there were thousands of unemployed refugees who had the same ambition. Hopeful young boys like me would throng the recruitment centres, but there were too many of us and too few vacancies to fill. I was rejected two or three times. At my first attempt at the recruitment centre in Red Fort, I was one of almost five hundred lads who had queued up, waiting for our turn to come.

Then, we were asked to stand in line in our shorts, where we were weighed. Thereafter, the medical officer asked me to run a hundred yards, after which I was asked to expand my chest and my chest measurements were taken. A cross was then marked on my chest and I was informed that I was not fit enough to be recruited. At that time my height was 5 feet 9 inches, and my weight 65 kilograms.

Dejected but not defeated, I tried again but with the same outcome. To occupy myself and earn some money, I began to work as an apprentice at a rubber factory, with a salary of fifteen rupees a month. I would hand my wages over to Jeets parents only to receive in return dry rotis and onions for my morning meal. The poor diet and miserable work conditions ultimately had an impact on my health and I was seriously ill for almost two months.

Makhan was now posted in Kashmir and I gave him an ultimatum that he must get me recruited into the army if he did not want me to give the family a bad name. In November , with my brothers recommendation, I was selected at the armys recruitment camp held in Kashmir.

I was overjoyed. The other new recruits and I were taken by military transport to Srinagar and then on to Pathankot. Time governed every minute of our waking hours, and besides our duties out of doors, we had to make our beds, wash our mugs and plates and store them, with all our other possessions, in a tin trunk under our beds. We would rise every morning at 5 a. After breakfast, we returned to the ground where we had daily drills on how to march smartly and in tandem with our fellow soldiers.

The rest of the morning was spent performing several military duties, including practising shooting at the firing range.

What we all dreaded most was fatigue duty, which meant the non-military duties we had to do every day like digging trenches, building roads, gardening, peeling potatoes, washing utensils in the mess, polishing senior officers shoes and other types of manual labour.

If a jawan disobeyed orders or was unruly, he was made to do push-ups and front and back rolls. The harsher punishments were running around the grounds carrying a knapsack full of rocks on the back or the threat of being sent to the quarter-guard or army jail.

Our days were long and very tiring and we all looked forward to relaxing in the recreational room to play carom, read or just sit around and chat or listen to the radio. Each night, just before lights out, there was the final roll call for the day to check if all were present and accounted for.

Our salary then was thirty-nine rupees a month, of which it was compulsory to send ten rupees home. The balance went towards paying the dhobi, tailor and canteen charges.

What little was left over we spent watching movies. The training was so rigorous and the regime so strict that often I would despair that I couldnt cope and wanted to run away.

Some lads from my group had done so because they couldnt cope with the rigours.With my fathers warning Bhaag Milkha, bhaag running through my head I fled for my life, sometimes running, sometimes walking all the way to Kot Addu.

My Autobiography.

Unabridged Original language: June 25, That night, my Punjabi friends and I could talk of nothing else but the forthcoming race.

Michael Blackwood JAM Milkha Singh. I had lost everything I cared forit was the end of my childhood.

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