When I was growing up, my family moved from one South Indian city to another every other year, my father working in a transferable sales job. We didn't have much, but we did have an Akai box TV from the '90s (plus basic cable) that we lugged from Madurai to Vijayawada to Coimbatore. We had to -- that was our only source for live sports.
If you were to ever hear loud cursing coming from my family's house in the middle of the night, it was probably because we were sitting in front of the TV watching a Grand Slam, a World Cup match or the Olympics. When Sania Mirza played in the 2005 U.S. Open, my mom and I set an alarm to wake up and watch her in the dead of the night. When Serena Williams and Maria Sharapova went head to head in the 2004 Wimbledon final, we had a bet going: My parents said Sharapova would win, I picked Williams. I ended up sweeping the house for the next month.
Two of the women on ESPN's World Fame 100 and four on espnW's ranking of the 25 most famous women athletes are Indian. My story, in many ways, was shaped by their stories. Each of the Indian athletes has a specific moment when she transcended her sport and became a cultural icon of her generation. In a way, their stories make India the country it is today. Here are four short stories about how they played such significant roles in my life and, I'm sure, the lives of a lot of Indians:
2005: Sania Mirza becomes the first Indian woman to reach the fourth round of a Grand Slam
Back in the day, SportStar, a weekly sports magazine in India, placed posters of athletes in the center page of the book. Most of the time it was a man -- a famous cricketer or tennis player. On some rare occasions, it was a woman. And on even rarer occasions, it was a brown woman. The year 2005 was one such occasion.
Sania Mirza was having a breakthrough season. In addition to her U.S. Open performance, where she advanced to the fourth round, she reached her second WTA finals and beat some of the top players en route to the semifinals of the Japan Open. She was also named the WTA Newcomer of the Year.
But how was she recognized? She was subjected to a fatwa (in this case: an order to cover up) by a Muslim cleric in New Delhi. "The dress she wears on the tennis courts leaves nothing to the imagination. She will undoubtedly be a corrupting influence," the cleric said. She was 18.
Like any tennis pro, Mirza wore athletic gear that made her comfortable. So she responded by drowning out the noise and continuing to do what she did best: She played incredible tennis. She went on to win six Grand Slam doubles (women's and mixed) titles.
In 2005, Mirza became more than just a tennis player. She became a young woman standing up for herself -- and by extension, standing up for all brown women in a country that told us what to wear, how to look and how to be. Years later, she detailed the incident in her memoir, "Ace Against All Odds," about how vulnerable and insecure she felt as an 18-year-old trying to figure out who she was in a country that demands young women to look and act a certain way.
I was 12 then, a decent badminton player. My body was changing. I was trying to figure out what clothes made me comfortable. I tore out the SportStar poster of Mirza. In it, she was midway through returning a shot, her eyes fierce with concentration, her skirt flying in the wind. I stuck the poster right above my bed. Every morning, I saw the same poster when I woke up.
The next day, my mom took me to a local piercer and I got my nose pierced.
Just like Mirza.
2012: Saina Nehwal becomes the first Indian badminton player to win an Olympic medal
There are two things you need to know about India.
One: There is a common room almost everywhere. In hostels, neighborhoods, apartment complexes -- there are even make-shift ones on streets. Where there's a television, there's a collection of people gathered around it. What can I say? We really love getting together, especially to watch our favorite athletes in action.
Two: We are not good at winning Olympic medals. It's the plain truth. We are great at cricket, we perform well at the Commonwealth Games, we churn out some of the greatest minds of the world. But we are terrible at winning Olympic medals. There are more than 1.3 billion people in India. We should be at the top of the medals tally. But we're not. So any time one of our athletes comes close to winning, we freak out.
When I was a sophomore in college, Saina Nehwal had a chance to win bronze at the London Games, so I gathered everybody at my hostel who I thought would be interested in watching. Matches were held late at night India time, and our common room was off limits after 9 p.m. So that night, we snuck into our warden's room, found the key and made our way to the room to watch the bronze medal match between Nehwal and China's Xin Wang.
As to not get caught, we watched the whole match on mute. I had chewed out all my nails by the end of set one, when Nehwal lost 21-18 even after making a strong comeback. Growing up, my mom used to joke, "Would you like to chew my nails as well?" when she saw me that agitated. By the time Xin pulled out of the match due to injury, I was chewing my nails so much that drops of blood formed on my skin. Nehwal hugged Wang and waved at the crowd politely.
I was 19 then. I saw Nehwal do something no Indian woman -- or man -- had ever done before in the Olympics. She proved to India and to the world that an Indian woman can make and break records.
I was glad I decided to be very Indian that day by watching history unfold with a group. There's something special about watching sports with a group that cares about it as much as you do. Even if they are strangers. Especially if they are strangers.
After the match, I turned around to look up at the clock. Our warden stood by the door, one hand on her hip, the other clutching the door. A small smile played across her face.
"That was good. Now lock up, give me the keys and go to bed," she said in Tamil.
I did as she asked, smiling the entire way back.
2012: Seventeen-year-old P.V. Sindhu beats Olympic gold medalist Li Xuerui
We Indians are passionate, especially about sports. We build statues for our athletes because that's our way of showing love. We mob them during their public appearances because that's the only way we can see them and touch them and hold on to them. It's a bit much sometimes, but it's our way of being a part of their journey. While the majority of India's attention gets paid to male athletes, sometimes a woman rises to that stature. I saw that happen again in 2012.
At the time, I was a year into my undergraduate degree, having decided to pursue my education instead of professional badminton. But stepping onto the court still gave me goosebumps; the perfect connection of the racquet with the cork still made my heart race. I played whenever I got a chance.
P.V. Sindhu was fresh off her first big victory -- a win at the the 2012 Junior Asian Games -- heading into the 2012 China Masters. She was 17 and was facing London Olympics gold medalist Li Xuerui of China. Just two years before that, she'd decided to train with reputed badminton coach Pullela Gopichand in his academy in Hyderabad, even though it was 56 kilometers from where she lived. Her commitment was inspiring -- it felt like she was almost too wise for her then 15 years.
She didn't give Li a chance in the first set, and despite bombing the second set, came back strong to pull off a convincing victory in the third set. She punched her fist in the air and celebrated for a few seconds. Then, she walked away like she knew that was going to be the outcome all along. A British commentator captured the moment: "Pusarla Venkata Sindhu. She's done it. Would you believe it? An absolute sensation."
In 2010, she was a kid travelling hundreds of miles to get a chance to train. In 2012, she was a world-class badminton player.
The next day, I saw a photo of her celebrating on the front page of several South Indian newspapers (we still waited for our newspapers every morning). I saw newspaper cuttings of her on stands and fast-food carts across Chennai. I saw T-shirts and bright yellow jerseys with her name at the back in Parry's Corner. I saw sports stores selling racquets titled "P.V. Sindhu replica" like it was the Firebolt of badminton racquets.
I saved up money all month and bought a P.V. Sindhu racquet of my own -- my very own (and first) Yonex racquet. Because, why not? Hero worship is in our blood, after all. And this time it was a female athlete. A brown female athlete that looked like me.
Pusarla Venkata Sindhu. A South Indian badminton player. A South Indian hero.
2013: Jwala Gutta faces life ban from Badminton Association of India
Before Saina Nehwal and P.V. Sindhu dominated the conversation about badminton in India, there was one lone name, standing tall amidst all the talk of cricket and tennis. It was Jwala Gutta. Her left-handed forehand serve was lethal as it was elegant. Off the court, she was a flamethrower -- she said what she felt. She even called out the Indian government for not recognizing her accomplishments. Other athletes of similar stature were receiving national awards, so why not me, she asked. In a country where it was difficult enough for women to break through the ranks and play the sport they loved, here was this woman -- strong, outspoken and unapologetic about it.
In 2013 I was an undergraduate student in Chennai. I woke up every morning in my hostel room and voraciously read everything there was to read about sports. I wanted to become a sports journalist. "Jwala Gutta faces life ban over Indian badminton League row," several headlines read. Why? Because she wouldn't let her team play against Banga Beats after they decided to swap their injured team members with new players. She thought it gave them an unfair advantage to be able to switch players whenever they wanted.
I was confused, to put it mildly. She stood up for what was fair, yet she was facing a life ban? Match fixing, betting, racism -- even these serious problems didn't result in life bans. Players get suspended or fined. This was a Commonwealth and South Asian Games gold medalist, a woman who stands up for herself, and she is immediately silenced.
Gutta refused to apologize. Several days later, the threat of the lifetime ban was dropped.
I was 20 then. I wrote a blog post about Jwala Gutta that day. She didn't let the sexist system silence her. That day she taught me how to be unapologetically brown. That day she taught me how to be unapologetically woman. That day she taught the world how to be unapologetically you. Today, she's the doubles coach of the Badminton Association of India, the very same institution that decided it was appropriate to recommend a life ban.
At the end of the blog post, I channeled my inner poet Margaret Atwood, writing: "Don't let the bastards grind you down."
