He chose life

I knew Fauja Singh — just like everyone else did. He was a well-known figure, a timeless presence, with a face etched in deep lines like the bark of an old tree. An elegant turban, wrapped in his signature style, sat on his head like a sculpted crown. His slim, graceful frame was usually dressed in a handsome brown suit that matched his turban perfectly — everything had to match, of course. That was Fauja Singh.

I used to greet him at the local gurdwara in Ilford — a beautiful temple of pink handcrafted marble that my father, Bhupinder Singh, helped build: Karamsar Gurdwara, Ilford. Fauja Singh could be found there almost every day.

I remember a typical Tuesday afternoon. My wife and I would stroll the gentle 15-minute walk from our home to the gurdwara. The sun was shining — a rare gift in the UK — its soft warmth brushing the air. Birds were chirping, blossoms just beginning to open. A true spring day.

We entered the gurdwara, removed our shoes, and placed them on the racks. I washed my hands, dried them, and turned around — and there he was. Fauja Singh. He greeted me with folded hands and a soft “Sat Sri Akal”, a warm smile lighting his face, his teeth white as snow, his long white beard flowing freely. I returned the greeting and bent to touch his feet in respect. He was already wearing his brown shoes — likely about to leave — but he stopped me and pulled me up into a gentle hug.

He was always happy to see us, especially my wife, Johanna. He called us the “arty couple”. I had known Fauja Singh for many years — since the Lisbon Marathon in 2007, where I had the honour of running alongside him. Every time we met, we laughed. We shared many joyful memories. One such moment was at a gurdwara in Portugal.

I had brought my dilruba, and together we sang Gurbani in Raag Kalyan. Whenever I opened my eyes while playing, there he sat — slim, upright, hands folded, listening with full attention.

Fauja Singh was a remarkable man. A friend to many, he embodied resilience and courage. After the devastating loss of his son and beloved wife, he didn’t turn to alcohol or drugs. Instead, he rose from the depths of grief and began running — step by step, back into the light. He moved. He jogged. He ran. Each stride a kind of healing, each race a quiet defiance against despair. He chose life.

Wherever he went, people lit up. He was the people’s champion. Youngsters admired him — a centenarian outpacing teenagers. Elders saw him and felt hope stir within them. His age — over 100 and still running — seemed to bend the rules of time. He credited his vitality to the simple diet of daal and roti. But I believe his true strength came from his unwavering positivity. He didn’t just endure life, he elevated it.

To him, running was meditation. “Running took over my time and thoughts,” he once said. “It was God’s way of keeping me alive and making me what I am today, and I’m grateful for that.”

I still believe he could live on — perhaps even break another record as the longest-living human.

He is about to leave Karamsar Gurdwara, Ilford, and as always, he would walk home alone. I see him walk towards the light, out the door.

“Goodbye, Fauja Singh,” I whisper to myself.

— The writer is a UK-based artist