IT is 6.45am on Sunday and Budhia Singh is pounding the streets of Bhubaneswar, his home city in the eastern Indian state of Orissa. An old tyre, tied to his waist by a rope, drags on his heels. Biranchi Das, his coach, rides a bicycle alongside, uttering words of encouragement to his protégé. Three other two-wheeled escorts flank the little runner, who seems nonplussed by the bizarre scene around him.
My presence is integral to this circus, which would be comic were this 4-year-old boy not taking his task so seriously. Sweat is pouring down his forehead as he pelts along behind our white Ambassador saloon, which contains my photographer perched in the open boot trying to snap the world’s youngest marathon runner in action.
Although this is Budhia’s daily routine, I feel horribly uncomfortable encouraging him for the camera and providing the publicity that Das is seeking. As our unlikely cavalcade progresses, it attracts more and more frenzied attention. It now has on its tail a throng of excited locals.
It takes the smallest curiosity to draw a crowd in an Indian street. Budhia, rescued by Das from the slums to a life more extraordinary, is small and a curiosity.
Since he ran 65km (40 miles) from Puri to Bhubaneswar in 7.02 hours on May 2, at the age of just 4 years and 3 months, to win a place in the Limca Book of Records (which celebrates the achievements of Indians), he has become a national celebrity.
His remarkable feat of endurance also turned him into a symbol of concern about child exploitation in the developing world. Five months on, he remains at the centre of controversy as Das, 38, a judo instructor, pursues a quest to make him India’s first Olympic marathon champion.
The coach’s ambition defines the pupil’s life. Every day, Budhia dutifully dons his trainers and runs around a dirt track or on the roads. He covers between 15km and 45km a day, at an average pace of 12km an hour (7½mph).
While he obviously has natural athletic talent, displaying eye-popping flexibility during his stretching routine, it is a punishing regime for someone so young. Marathon experts say that children under 5 should not run more than 15 miles (24km) a week, let alone each day. The minimum age eligibility for marathons — which are 26 miles 385 yards (42.195km) long — is 18.
Bill Roberts, professor of family medicine at the University of Minnesota, presenting a paper entitled “Can children and adolescents run marathons?” before the Chicago marathon this month, said: “I do not condone long-distance running in that age group unless it is the child’s idea and there is no press or fame associated with it.”
That is exactly the point. It is hard to know whether it is Budhia’s idea. What normal four-year-old really wants to run 30km a day? Would he run if he were not told to? The answers are almost definitely “none” and “no”. Yet Budhia’s life is arguably better than it might have been had he remained in the slums.
Two thirds of India’s children go to bed hungry and more than half suffer chronic malnutrition, according to Unicef, the United Nations children’s fund. They merely exist from day to day. Budhia’s life has a purpose, albeit potentially a misguided one by Western moral standards, and he is at least getting an education. Despite my gut reaction that this is all so wrong, over two days spent with Budhia and Das, I edge towards grudging acceptance. His story is more complicated than a case of child exploitation.
Das came across him in Bhubaneswar’s Gautam Nagar slums when he was just a baby. His mother, Sukanti, was a domestic worker earning 250 rupees (£2.90) a month to feed a family of six. His father was a drunken beggar who died when Budhia was about 12 months old.
As president of the slum association, Das is a magnet for the destitute. Of the 300 children he freely instructs in judo, he has fostered more than 30. Budhia joined their ranks after his mother sold him to a street hawker for 800 rupees, with which she bought a quintal (100lb) of rice and some polythene to cover her shanty dwelling.
Das bought Budhia back. Whether it is true, the story goes that he discovered his extraordinary stamina after ordering the students to do laps of the courtyard as punishment for swearing. “I went out at 6am and came back at 1pm and Budhia was still running,” Das said. “The other children told him he could stop but he said only when ‘Sir’ told him. Later I was watching ESPN, the sports news provider, and there was a Kenyan marathon runner whose style was the same as Budhia’s. India has never qualified for the Olympic marathon, so I decided to give him this career.”
Watching man and boy, there is clearly genuine mutual affection, even love. Budhia seeks approval from the only father he has known and is rewarded with a ruffle of his hair or a playful embrace. While the other children are dealt harsh words for failure to complete chores, Budhia is rarely scolded. He is the centre of attention, a position he covets.
Much of the time, he is like any little boy. He plays with the other children, including two of his sisters. He tries to keep up with the bigger boys by jumping off a roof into a water tank, adding his own gleeful shout of “Hanuman”, the mischievous monkey god known for his courage, strength and selfless service.
But sitting cross-legged beside Das, Budhia is once again placid — like a puppy eager to please. When I question him directly, his answers are predictably positive. “If I run, I will become a big man,” he told me. “Every day I want to run.” Surely he was very tired after 65km? “I was not exhausted,” he replied. “I felt proud because I could get fame for my state as well as my country. I want to be a big name.” But didn’t he vomit after his run, as some of the Indian newspapers reported? No, he did not.
Das denies that he is using Budhia for his own gain. “I am not worried about my fame and name,” he said. “I am not worried about the money. It is my good duty.”
Yet for a man unconcerned about money, he mentions it a great deal. His conversation is littered with the phrase “many, many rupees”. He claims that Budhia’s daily overheads are 700 rupees, although this is more than most local workers earn in a month. He complains that he had a commitment of more than 10 million rupees (£120,000) from potential sponsors but has received just 140,000 rupees. He claims that a cheque for 20,000 rupees from the state of Maharashtra bounced but is unable to locate it when I ask him to show it.
He says he is funding Budhia and the judo school (monthly cost: 60,000 rupees) from his own pocket. He runs a fleet of 16 hire cars and a telephone business. “I am not a big, rich man. I manage my life hand to mouth,” he said.
Planning ahead, he has set up the Budhia Singh Trust for the Welfare of Children, to provide for the boy, his mother and his three sisters. The trustees include local lawyers and accountants. While it is also intended to fund slum children in sport, and build a stadium for Budhia, a flick through the legal document reveals that the coach and his family are direct beneficiaries.
While Das has many foster sons, he has only recently fathered his own. He happily shows me pictures of his gurgling, nine-month-old baby on one of three mobile phones he carries. I ask him, if his own child showed athletic potential, would he push him as hard as he does Budhia? “Definitely,” he fires back.
It is hard to believe that a man would put his own flesh and blood through the kind of physical exertion that Budhia endures, particularly if he was aware of the potential damage.
After Budhia’a record-breaking run, doctors at the state hospital examined him and said he was “undernourished, anaemic and under cardiological stress”. They said: “If the boy continues to run for long distances it may aggravate his condition and result in renal failure.”
Das, who describes Budhia as “beyond science”, retaliated by procuring a clean bill of health from a private cardiologist. This is not the only “expert” opinion that Das has received. A trophy in his office bestowed by the Royal College of Science and Technology in Bhubaneswar reveres India’s “Marathon Boy” as “Buddhadev”, or the Lord God Buddha himself. “One of the royalites [sic], the pride of the nation”, the plaque boasts.
With such hyperbolic tributes flooding in from supposedly authoritative quarters, it is not hard to see why Das persists despite the fact that he has no marathon training experience.
“I am satisfied about my coaching because Budhia made the [world] record. When he reaches the Olympics, everybody will stop their talking,” he said. “After running, he is laughing and his face is glowing. I am not forcing him. It is his choice. If one day he is feeling so tired, he will stop.”
Buoyed by public support, Das has developed a victim complex about the Indian authorities. Pramila Mallick, Orissa’s women and child welfare minister, has waged a battle against him for using Budhia as his “performing monkey”, describing the boy’s treatment as “inhuman”.
On three occasions the police have tried to arrest Das and take Budhia into care. But the boy, who shares quarters at the Orissa State Judo Association with 56 other children, is his legally adopted son.
Das says he is breaking no law and, indeed, is filing his own complaint against the state for harassment. “What’s the problem? I do not understand. There is no order against Budhia. They have no right to tell him not to run,” he said.
Local officials are becoming concerned, however, not just for Budhia but for a host of other children trying to emulate him. The story of “Little Budhia” has led to a disturbing trend as the rural poor queue up to push children over longer distances in a bid for fame and fortune. The craze is getting out of hand. In Bombay last week an eight-year-old boy from a village in Orissa collapsed 11km short of his 80km target and was admitted to intensive care with dangerously low blood-sugar levels.
The organisers of Mrityunjay Mandal’s run, dubiously promoted under the banner of world peace, admitted that they were “trying to cash in on the Budhia fever across the country”.
His father, Padmacharan, an Ayurvedic doctor, was unapologetic, blaming pollution and uneven ground for his son’s collapse. As he was discharged from hospital, the smiling boy — known as Akash — told the assembled media that he wanted to “run 100km and win medals”.
This week Anastasia Barla, 10, also from Orissa, ran 72km in the sweltering heat before exhaustion and sore legs got the better of her. She had been attempting to pass the 100km mark, a target she will aim for again in the winter.
More wannabe Budhias are waiting in the wings. Dilip Rana, 13, also from Orissa, wants to run 100km despite protests from the district government.
The problem is that the role of Indian officialdom is confused. Some politicians are against children running long distances, while others actively encourage a “God-given gift”. Barla’s run was sponsored by Gregory Minz, a former state hockey player and local legislator, who declared: “All of us should encourage her to run.”
The central Government has belatedly stepped in. Last month, the ministry of youth affairs and sports wrote to the Orissa government stating that under-16s were not allowed to compete over distances greater than 3km.
It gave a warning of “undue hardship” caused to Budhia “who cannot even understand the implication of undertaking such activity, which could damage his health irreversibly”. Sadly, for Budhia, the damage may already have been done.
Budhia’s diet
Porridge, molasses
Murg, bananas
Glucose water
500g liver, lamb, paneer
Milk, juice
500g rice, dal,
Vegetables, eggs
Mutton/chicken curry
Pineapple juice, porridge
Chappatis, lamb soup
