Shiva Keshavan: An impulsive and reckless sled took me to six Olympics

CRASH! Little did I know that a crash in 1995 would be the first of several over the next 23 years. A 13-year-old me had ended up in a ditch and damaged the sled. Falling or getting hurt wasn’t new. Gymnastics, athletics, football, and hockey, played during the summer months, had exposed me to both, and trained me to endure pain. 

But the feeling of exhilaration while I zoomed downhill was something I
would get addicted to for life. The blur of speed, the cold air rushing over my body, the thrill of chasing time.... it was a journey that no individual in India had tried before. 

I was born in a tiny Himalayan village called Vashisht, 3 km from Manali, across the Beas river in Himachal Pradesh. It holds a special significance in our mythology, because sage Vashisht was the guru of Ram and Lakshman, and this was his village. 

Growing up in a rural mountain setting, where community life is based on outdoor activities, was a blessing because it taught me life lessons early. During the winters, we were cut off from the entire world. We had to fend for ourselves without electricity. For the kids, mountaineering, sledging and skiing were the top fun activities. There was already a budding winter sports community in the region, and as I grew older, I took skiing courses from a private school in Manali. 

Both my parents were adventurers. My father (originally from Kerala) was one of the first to set up adventure touring company in that part of the world. My mother, an Italian, had travelled to India by land, and was an athlete and national-level volleyball player in Italy. Sports came naturally to me. 

Getting scouted

The crash occurred during a scouting programme hosted by the International Luge Federation (ILF) under an Austrian coach, Gunther Lemmerer. He was a former world champion. The programme was organised by the Indian Amateur Luge Association. Since I was already excelling at sports and had won many national medals in skiing, the boarding school I was studying in (the Lawrence School, Sanawar) nominated me for the programme. About 30-40 of us gathered for a week-long trial. 

My friends and I would make wooden sleds with ball bearings for wheels. Sometimes we would use wood to make the wheels. And off we would go, sledding down the mountains. It was our favourite pastime. This experience, of knowing how to use a sled and anticipate turns, gave me an edge. For the selections, the hosts had cordoned off a small part of the highway around Kalka in the Shivalik mountains.

Lying face up on a rectangular tray-like piece of equipment and zipping down the road wasn’t out of the ordinary for me. In fact, it was mundane. So on the last day, I decided to go on my own trip when I overshot the barrier and continued down the state highway until I went off-road and down the ditch. It felt amazing! I remember hopping onto a tractor to go back up, thinking I would get into trouble for breaking one of the two sleds Gunther had brought along. I mean, they were so much more advanced than the rudimentary ones we made back home.

When I walked back up, to my surprise, Gunther was excited. He screamed, “You are the kind of young person the sport of luge needs.” Had I carried out this stunt at school or in front of my parents, I would have been reprimanded. But in the eyes of this big Austrian guy, I had done something amazing. Shortly after my heroics that day, I received an invitation from the ILF to be a part of their fully-funded development camp
in Austria. 

Up in the Alps

And just like that, one impulsive slide had helped the Himalayan boy fly to the mountain town of Igls in the Alps, just off Innsbruck in Austria. It was here that I first saw and got access to a professional luge track. When the rookie me entered the facility, I heard a loud ‘whoosh’ similar to the one made by a jet plane. As a reflex, I looked up because planes would pass overhead in our village and it was a spectacle with all of us looking skyward.

But this wasn’t a jet, it was a sled coming down the track at 130 km per hour with G-force (gravitational force equivalent) ranging from 4G to 6G. I was awe-struck. This is what I had come here to do. From potholed open roads with trucks and vehicles to this — a closed ice-walled canal perpendicular to the ground with 18 curves. There were two of us from India among the junior and senior athletes from around the world. We got a bit of extra attention from the locals and athletes. 

I had no equipment, sport-specific clothing, shoes or visor. On my first run, I took off from the ninth curve wearing a tracksuit that ballooned and blocked my sight. I kept punching it down. It felt like the highway again. The dangerous mix of being on the edge while speeding down and free falling had truly become my essence. I had discovered my purpose, and I decided to chase it relentlessly. 

Since my nationality had garnered curiosity, many juniors gathered around me at the base after my first run. “Have you ever seen snow in your life?” was the most common question followed by laughter. I told them: “Look, I come from a place where the mountains are much bigger than these.” They were interested in my culture. We got talking and I made a lot of friends. Soon, a guy handed me his old suit, another gave me his shoes, and a third handed me a helmet. They were keen to make my experience better. 

Community effort

People from across the world coming together to support my dream became one of the driving forces of my career. Individuals and corporate houses came forward to get me the right equipment, coach me, and support me financially throughout my career. It was a community of my own.  

The coaches and the programme heads decided to invite me to more events in the following two years. Back in India, I was still skiing competitively. But despite winning medals at the nationals and qualifying for the junior Asian Championships, I was left out. The sport was under arbitrary governance with a lot of favouritism. I took it as a sign and stopped skiing in 1996. Eventually, the luge facility in Igls became my training base and second home. It was in 1997 that another trial run here flipped the script for me completely. 

The Olympics were nowhere in my vision. I wasn’t even remotely considering it. The World Cup circuit had come to Igls, with serious professionals walking around with their team kits. I was mesmerised. But the media were interested in the 16-year-old Indian training at the facility. “Have you ever seen snow in your country?” was the question I again had to answer multiple times. 

Anyway, the organisers observed the attention I was getting and thought it would be ideal for me to be the official opener (someone who tests the track before the actual race starts). As I knew the conditions well, I wanted to put on my best run. When I finished, the coach was all excited. “The timing that you posted in this opener would have made you eligible to compete in this race. All you have to do is do the same run five times in five World Cups and you will qualify for the Olympics at the end of the winter,” he said.

It opened my eyes. The ILF got involved, and they convinced my parents to allow me to compete at the four-month World Cup cycle. Out of the five chances, had I messed up even a single one, I would have been eliminated. With hand-me-down equipment, I was competing with professionals double my age, but I was successful in all five attempts and booked my ticket to my first Winter Olympics in Nagano, Japan in 1998.

Wet blanket

I felt a sense of accomplishment. Almost immediately, I was also appalled by the ridicule from one of the bureaucrats at the Sports Ministry when they had to get the paperwork done. They called it ‘fake Olympics,’ and insisted I produce a certificate to prove that the Winter Olympics was the real deal! It was an important lesson early on about how this contradiction would always co-exist. Those who believe and those who mock. Those who encourage and those who dismiss. The few who appreciate my effort and the many who label it insignificant. 

Thankfully, as a sportsperson, I have always focused on the positives. While my family got busy taking loans, some pressure from the media and my father’s frantic follow-ups saw the ministry clear my documents. I landed in Japan and was the only athlete representing India at the Winter Olympics. At 16, I became the youngest luge athlete (a record that still stands) to compete at a Winter Olympics. 

Nagano in 1998 was my first and most special, followed by Salt Lake, USA, in 2002, when I hitchhiked to the venue from Montreal. The Turin, Italy Games in 2006, was the first I competed in with my own sled. Shortly after, I quit the sport because it had become a burden on my parents. That is when my childhood school friend and wife, Namita, took charge and put me back on track. Thousands! The number of sponsors she approached. (Trivia: In 2002, Keshavan declined Italy’s offer to represent them — he wanted to stay true to his Indian roots). 

Losing a friend 

My fourth Winter Olympics in Vancouver, Canada 2010, was the toughest because I lost a friend and competitor from Georgia. He crashed and died on the track during the last practice run, a day before the main race. I had just finished my turn and he was right behind me. Such moments ground you.

The next was Sochi, Russia 2014. It was the most complicated because the Indian Olympic Association was suspended and it created a lot of problems in terms of funding and qualification pathways.

(Trivia: A crowdfunded Keshavan had the names of 50,000 donors imprinted on his suit during the Sochi Games). 

And the sixth and final one was Pyeongchang, South Korea, in 2018. A lot of people came from India to cheer for me, which was rare, and I competed with my three-year-old daughter watching from the stands. Life had come full circle. I think I had two more Olympics in me. But as I had evolved over two decades, from a teen to a family man, it was time to say goodbye to the grind.

(Trivia: Keshavan has won 10 Asian Luge Championship medals — four gold, four silver, and two bronze). 

I decided to be the voice for athletes after my retirement, and joined the first ever Athletes Commission of the Indian Olympic Association (IOA). Later, coaching the Argentinian team for the next Olympic cycle kept me close to the sport. In the meantime, an opportunity opened up at the Reliance Foundation, where I started leading their Olympic scholarships programme in 2020. Irony? I am now working for the International Ski and Mountaineering Federation (headquartered in Lausanne, Switzerland) which seems like a return to my skiing and mountaineering origins. ‘Skimo’ made its debut at the recently concluded Winter Games in Milano-Cortina, Italy.

(Trivia: In 2020, Keshavan became the first Winter Olympian to be honoured with the Arjuna Award). 

Status in India

I think there were more winter sports athletes when I was a kid than there are now. We currently don’t have a single winter sports association recognised by the government. When I started out, there was the Winter Games Federation of India, which was recognised. Winter games stopped being a priority in 1998. It is sad because this means there will be no funding or development. 

The Khelo India Winter Games is a good platform. I was responsible for conducting it in the last three years. However, without a structured pathway from the grassroots all the way to international level, India is losing out. We have an abundance of talent. If we want to compete against the world, where people are counting each millisecond, we must really understand the value of sport. 

Eventually, it is not about how many medals you win. It is about creating stories that inspire and uplift, setting examples to promote fitness and health, and earning your country respect on the world stage. The medals and the tag of being a six-time Olympian are nice but sport means so much more — the friendships I made, the learnings I gained from the corners of the world I travelled to, and the experience of putting my own physical and mental limits to the test. 

Maybe sporting ambitions look reckless from the outside. For me, it was meditative. I was always in pursuit of my highest potential. The snow, cold air and nature gave me a sense of freedom. Well, going off the beaten track requires you to be a little bit crazy, and that is how we grow.

(As told to Hita Prakash.)

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