Written by Khushwant Singh
Village folklore has it that the oxen would get tired, but Fauja Singh wouldn’t. The writer, former state information commissioner of Punjab, wrote Turbaned Tornado: The Oldest Marathon Runner Faujaasked to write Fauja Singh’s obituary one day, but I believed that day was still far away. Never did I imagine that a man who single-handedly redefined the meaning of living with dignity would meet such a tragic end on the same highway that had once claimed one of his sons’ lives. The highway had been a backdrop to his life’s most crucial experiences: It had set in motion his running career as he sought solace after his son’s death. It became the place where his own was taken away, prematurely, as it feels.
True to his name — Fauja, meaning “army” and Singh, meaning “lion”– Fauja Singh was an extraordinary man. I often told people he was the
romanticised prototype of a Sikh and a peasant, embodying sabr (patience), courage, wit, resilience, and above all, decency. He embodied the original meaning of the word Sikh: A seeker. On this foundation, he built his kirdar (character), becoming a global symbol of human resilience and inspiration, especially when he completed the Toronto Waterfront Marathon in 2011 at the age of 100.
The first time I met him was in 2005 in the UK, while I was writing Sikhs Unlimited: A Travelogue from Delhi to Los Angeles via London (Rupa & Co.), a book that chronicled the lives of some extraordinary Sikhs in the UK and the US. Fauja had shot into the limelight after the sportswear company Adidas signed him for their “Running 2004” campaign, and his billboards appeared all over the UK. It’s a separate story altogether that Fauja could never quite pronounce the brand name and always referred to it as “kompany”. It was only after they signed him that Adidas realised how difficult it was to get him to say “Adidas” correctly for the advertisement. Nor did they know that Fauja told me he preferred the “sher waley jutey (the pair with the feline on them)” over “kompany waley jutey”.
He had asked me to meet him at a gurdwara in Seven Kings, Ilford. He had moved in with his eldest son after the tragic death of his middle son. What followed was a friendship that lasted two decades. He looked frail at that first meeting, very unlike a marathon runner. He was wearing a blue turban, had a flowing beard, and was dressed in a blue suit. However, the giveaways were the matching tie, which had marathon runners printed on it, and the sports shoes, which had “Fauja” and “Singh” inscribed on them.
After introducing me to some fellow devotees as “Likhari India toe aaya (the writer who has come from India)”, he told me that he could either sleep or walk, and the interview would have to be done while walking. “We will walk eight to 10 miles, I have to pick up my shoes from the cobbler, and then we’ll have tea at the Singh Sabha Gurdwara,” he said.
“Yes, Babaji,” I replied, and off we went.
About a kilometre into the interview, I realised I would need to find someone else to provide accurate information. For Fauja, everything had happened paroo, meaning “some time back”. Thank God for Harmander Singh, his coach, from whom I eventually got the necessary details. Harmander told me how he had to virtually get Fauja out of his suit and into a vest and track pants to make him running ready. Once set, though, there was no looking back. London, New York, Toronto, Nairobi, Lahore, name a city, he conquered them all. Mumbai, twice, where he was the star attraction both times. Like Adidas, he could never pronounce Mumbai and called it Bumba.
His short biography in Sikhs Unlimited soon turned into a full-fledged book. Titled Turbaned Tornado: The Oldest Marathon Runner Fauja Singh, it was released at the House of Lords, London, in July 2011.
During the 100-odd kilometres I walked alongside him through the streets of London for both books, I was finally able to piece together his life. He was born in Bias Pind, in Jalandhar district, on April 1, 1911, to Mehr Singh and Bhago Kaur. Ironically, the legs on which he clocked endless miles of running were spindly, and his friends used to call him Danda. He was adopted by his aunt, Rai Kaur, and was nicknamed Gallari (talkative), a tag he carried till his last breath.
Run Fauja Singh, Run
Fauja Singh could entertain you endlessly with his stories and wit, albeit frequently punctuated with the choicest of Punjabi expletives. I can hear his favourite one as I write this. But Fauja was not all talk. He was an indefatigable farmer. Village folklore has it that the oxen would get tired, but Fauja wouldn’t. This relentless work ethic eventually found expression on the track. Yet, what many don’t know is how deeply charitable Fauja was. He donated his entire endorsement fee from Adidas to a UK-based charity called Bliss. During the 2016 Mumbai Marathon, Nestlé agreed with his request to send its endorsement money directly to the Pingalwara Trust in Amritsar. During a book tour to Australia in 2013, he was invited by many gurdwaras and showered with dollars. He would simply pick up the dollars and put them in the golak, and I would watch in awe, admiring the man that he was.
Fauja was sharp and observant. At the celebrity chef cookout, part of the Mumbai Marathon carnival, he was paired with Gul Panag. They had to cook pasta. When Gul was trying to explain what pasta was, he surprised her by asking, “Bal waala (fusilli) je, ke nali waala (penne)?” The last time I met him was in December 2024 at his home in Bias Pind, from where I had started the fourth day of my People’s Walk Against Drugs, and he had walked half a kilometre in solidarity.
But even before that, I had asked him, “Do you fear death?” “Yes,” he admitted. “Hunn tey mela laggya, mehmaan ‘Granddad, Granddad’ karde ne. Maran da ji nahi karda (Now that it feels like a fair, with everyone calling me Granddad. I don’t feel like dying),” he said in chaste Punjabi.
Bye, Granddad. And as one of your admirers wrote on social media, at 114, you are still not out. Life cheated on you.
The writer, former state information commissioner of Punjab, wrote Turbaned Tornado: The Oldest Marathon Runner Fauja Singh, the biography of the runner
Village folklore has it that the oxen would get tired, but Fauja Singh wouldn’t. The writer, former state information commissioner of Punjab, wrote Turbaned Tornado: The Oldest Marathon Runner Faujaasked to write Fauja Singh’s obituary one day, but I believed that day was still far away. Never did I imagine that a man who single-handedly redefined the meaning of living with dignity would meet such a tragic end on the same highway that had once claimed one of his sons’ lives. The highway had been a backdrop to his life’s most crucial experiences: It had set in motion his running career as he sought solace after his son’s death. It became the place where his own was taken away, prematurely, as it feels.
True to his name — Fauja, meaning “army” and Singh, meaning “lion”– Fauja Singh was an extraordinary man. I often told people he was the
The first time I met him was in 2005 in the UK, while I was writing Sikhs Unlimited: A Travelogue from Delhi to Los Angeles via London (Rupa & Co.), a book that chronicled the lives of some extraordinary Sikhs in the UK and the US. Fauja had shot into the limelight after the sportswear company Adidas signed him for their “Running 2004” campaign, and his billboards appeared all over the UK. It’s a separate story altogether that Fauja could never quite pronounce the brand name and always referred to it as “kompany”. It was only after they signed him that Adidas realised how difficult it was to get him to say “Adidas” correctly for the advertisement. Nor did they know that Fauja told me he preferred the “sher waley jutey (the pair with the feline on them)” over “kompany waley jutey”.
He had asked me to meet him at a gurdwara in Seven Kings, Ilford. He had moved in with his eldest son after the tragic death of his middle son. What followed was a friendship that lasted two decades. He looked frail at that first meeting, very unlike a marathon runner. He was wearing a blue turban, had a flowing beard, and was dressed in a blue suit. However, the giveaways were the matching tie, which had marathon runners printed on it, and the sports shoes, which had “Fauja” and “Singh” inscribed on them.
After introducing me to some fellow devotees as “Likhari India toe aaya (the writer who has come from India)”, he told me that he could either sleep or walk, and the interview would have to be done while walking. “We will walk eight to 10 miles, I have to pick up my shoes from the cobbler, and then we’ll have tea at the Singh Sabha Gurdwara,” he said.
“Yes, Babaji,” I replied, and off we went.
About a kilometre into the interview, I realised I would need to find someone else to provide accurate information. For Fauja, everything had happened paroo, meaning “some time back”. Thank God for Harmander Singh, his coach, from whom I eventually got the necessary details. Harmander told me how he had to virtually get Fauja out of his suit and into a vest and track pants to make him running ready. Once set, though, there was no looking back. London, New York, Toronto, Nairobi, Lahore, name a city, he conquered them all. Mumbai, twice, where he was the star attraction both times. Like Adidas, he could never pronounce Mumbai and called it Bumba.
His short biography in Sikhs Unlimited soon turned into a full-fledged book. Titled Turbaned Tornado: The Oldest Marathon Runner Fauja Singh, it was released at the House of Lords, London, in July 2011.
During the 100-odd kilometres I walked alongside him through the streets of London for both books, I was finally able to piece together his life. He was born in Bias Pind, in Jalandhar district, on April 1, 1911, to Mehr Singh and Bhago Kaur. Ironically, the legs on which he clocked endless miles of running were spindly, and his friends used to call him Danda. He was adopted by his aunt, Rai Kaur, and was nicknamed Gallari (talkative), a tag he carried till his last breath.
Run Fauja Singh, Run
Fauja Singh could entertain you endlessly with his stories and wit, albeit frequently punctuated with the choicest of Punjabi expletives. I can hear his favourite one as I write this. But Fauja was not all talk. He was an indefatigable farmer. Village folklore has it that the oxen would get tired, but Fauja wouldn’t. This relentless work ethic eventually found expression on the track. Yet, what many don’t know is how deeply charitable Fauja was. He donated his entire endorsement fee from Adidas to a UK-based charity called Bliss. During the 2016 Mumbai Marathon, Nestlé agreed with his request to send its endorsement money directly to the Pingalwara Trust in Amritsar. During a book tour to Australia in 2013, he was invited by many gurdwaras and showered with dollars. He would simply pick up the dollars and put them in the golak, and I would watch in awe, admiring the man that he was.
Fauja was sharp and observant. At the celebrity chef cookout, part of the Mumbai Marathon carnival, he was paired with Gul Panag. They had to cook pasta. When Gul was trying to explain what pasta was, he surprised her by asking, “Bal waala (fusilli) je, ke nali waala (penne)?” The last time I met him was in December 2024 at his home in Bias Pind, from where I had started the fourth day of my People’s Walk Against Drugs, and he had walked half a kilometre in solidarity.
But even before that, I had asked him, “Do you fear death?” “Yes,” he admitted. “Hunn tey mela laggya, mehmaan ‘Granddad, Granddad’ karde ne. Maran da ji nahi karda (Now that it feels like a fair, with everyone calling me Granddad. I don’t feel like dying),” he said in chaste Punjabi.
Bye, Granddad. And as one of your admirers wrote on social media, at 114, you are still not out. Life cheated on you.
The writer, former state information commissioner of Punjab, wrote Turbaned Tornado: The Oldest Marathon Runner Fauja Singh, the biography of the runner
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