I used to run. Not like Fauja Singh, of course. But I did run. Early mornings. Dodging dogs, potholes, and the determined scooter that seemed coming my way.

These days, it’s more of a shuffle. A quiet negotiation between my feet and my pride. But every time I see a runner glide past, I pause. There’s something magical about steady feet and flying shoulders. Especially when your joints creak like old furniture.

Which is why Fauja Singh leaves me speechless.

He didn’t just run marathons. He began running them at 89. Yes, began.

Most people that age are asked to slow down. He tied his laces tighter.
And he kept going. Past 90. Past 100. Till 104.

That’s not just inspiring. That’s gently rebellious.

No fancy shoes. No watches that beep. Just a turban flapping in the wind and a belief that age was just the starting line.
He once said,

“I won’t stop running until I die. The day I stop running, take me to the crematorium.”

He ran for healing. He ran for joy.
He ran for something deeper that words can’t always catch.

To me, Fauja Singh is an anchor. A reminder that ageing isn’t about winding down. Sometimes, it’s just the warm-up lap.

And when he finally stopped? He wasn’t running. He was simply walking, in his village in Punjab, when a speeding car hit him.

The reports called it a hit and run.
Even the accident, it seems, couldn’t resist referencing his life.

He may be gone. But every shuffle forward, every second wind, every late start? That’s still his race.