Mr/Ms/Mrs… Late No More

Have you ever wondered 

Why do we call the dead “Late”

The Late Mr so and so

The Late Ms, or Mrs, so and so

But what were they late for?

Definitely not for their Death

Cause death, like time and tide

Waits for no man, or no woman

And happens at the destined time

And when it happens, you can never be late

So definitely death is not late

And if they are late after that

Then they are not to blame

Cause they are dead and gone 

And definitely can be pulled up

For being late!

So if we don’t call them 

The Late Mr so and so

The Late Ms, or Mrs, so and so

What do we call them

Do we call them

As they say in Hindi, Swargwasi

That is Heavenly in English 

But what if they are hell-bound

Would we refer to them as Hell-ly

Now is that even a term?

Or is it a new term that we can coin?

And wouldn’t it be really strange

To call someone heavenly or he’ll-ly

So in the end, 

Though we may never know why

Let’s continue to refer 

To our dearly departed, as the 

The Late Mr so and so

The Late Ms, or Mrs, so and so

Even though we may know that 

The poor soul can be late no more!!!

Running under the Moonlight, In a Cloud

Running the Tata Ultra Marathon, or TUM as it’s known amongst runners (something that I was actually not aware of), has never been on my bucket list of races to run. After all I am no ultra runner, and I share a love-hate relationship with the hills, they love to kill me with those slopes, and I hate that they love to test me so much. Add to it, post COVID, my pace has dropped drastically where as my weight has inversely increased. Not to forgot the gruelling Mumbai summer, which get hotter and more humid with each passing year ( I blame global warming, who else do you blame).

But still I had the keedas (big ones), to register, not for the Ultra (praise the Lord), but for the 35k challenge. I reasoned that this was an early morning race (which starts at 2:30 am (yes that’s right, we runners refuse to sleep)) I wouldn’t have to face the brunt of the sun, so there was no question on being baked under the sun. Besides the race is in Lonavla,, and not in Mumbai, so you could expect the weather to be a couple of degrees cooler. Lastly, I went with a mindset of completing the race, let pace go out of the window.

So as you begin your run, you constantly remind yourself of these points. You constantly tell yourself that the run is not about pace, it’s about going strong and completing it. But then kya kare, ye do pair mante he nahin. And so you have constantly have to find a way to pull you back, and just trudge on, running under the light of the moon, and the light from your head lamp.

Thanks to Naresh sir and Sachin, you are able to navigate the first climb, and go strongly till the 15th km. 

All through the run the moon seems to play hide and seek with you, hiding behind the clouds, and at times coming out to light your way. And then there’s a beautiful cool breeze that helps you stay cool. And if that wasn’t enough, running through the fog makes you feel like your running in a cloud that laden with mist helping you stay cool, even though the visibility isn’t good.

Bath then there are patches of roads where, if you are not too careful, you could stumble and fall, and yours truly, being the clumsy nut, who’s blind as a bat, and in his own world, managed to do just that (it made me wonder if I too like Christ, would stumble three times).

If you thought inclines were tough, then going down hills could take a toll on your poor knees. To add to it, there’s huge patches of kaccha roads, that make it tough to maintain a pace, forcing you to slow down, even to walk. But volunteers do a great job of helping guide and cheering us on. And you’re got to really appreciative and grateful that they are standing there in the dark right from the start (say 12 am) to the finish (which I guess would be 9:30 am). So a big salute to them. 

The water stations/hydration stations/refuelling stations are adequately stocked, and you greedily grab at the oranges and bananas, and the cups of coke. I personally loved the lychee flavoured glucose drink (had at least 3 of those).

As  you approach the 23rd  your doubts once again begin to make you it’s ugly head as it was the distance you were able to cover in your training run. You ask yourself, kya tumhe pagal kutte ne katta ye sab karne ke liye?  But then you tell yourself, you’ve got this, just keep running, running, running!

All through the run you dread the sunrise, but the when the sun finally does make an appearance, it’s bathes the route in its soft light, gratefully not heating it up, bringing to light that was hidden in the dark of the night.

So you take in the gorgeous sights of the Pawana Lake, the mountains, the little hamlets stirring from their slumber, chicken darting across the route (dang, I should have asked them why did they cross the road, the internal unanswered question).

You feel a pang of guilt, a pang of e envy, especially runners who you could easily out pace, at one time. You hate this feeling, cause you know it’s ain’t right, but can’t help but feel this silly feeling.

Now back to the running, just when you thought you had safely navigated all the inclines, you have to face one last deadly incline. You mutter who the F puts a deadly incline at the 33rd km. If that wasn’t all, you are greeted by Satish sir and Loki, who have done and dusted with their run.

By now your legs are as heavy as led, and every time you think of jogging some part of leg decides to pull you back. But no matter what, you are determined to finish, even if you have to crawl over that finish line. But thank God it didn’t come to that.

So after finishing, albeit a bit stronger on tired legs, you make way to collect your medal and towel (what’s with races giving towels!), you go on to meet and greet your friends, but before that you make a beeline to the physio to help loosen up some highly tightened and sore muscles.

Before I end this rather long write up I wanted to take this opportunity to thank the organisers, especially the volunteers, for not just supporting us but also pampering us, even spoiling us all throughout the race. A big shoutout to my StrideWithGB and MRR family who’s support has always been a source of inspiration and motivation, especially Coach Girish. A big thank you to Yash and Rohan for your hospitality and helping with the travels. Thank you Naresh sir and Sachin for helping stay focused on those initial incline.

So finally glad to have another race under my belt. A tough one, but an experience that will stay with me long after the excitement of the run is done, though I am not sure if my body would permit me to put it through the wringer all over again!

The Great Password Conundrum

I sat there minding my business, as busy as a busy be can be., when all of sudden there appeared that oh so familiar message, informing me that to change my password, of days I had three.

Not wanting to put off any longer, I decided to change my password to something that way more stronger, even than Thee.

So I thought, and I thought, till I racked my brains and scratched my head, almost pulling off all the hair from from them top of my head. 

I couldn’t use my name, or the day I was born, or the name of my mother, my father or even the name of my dog. And no I couldn’t keep “Password123” as this would be a password that could be easily hacked.

So finally came up with password ideas three.

But then the first wasn’t too long, the second wasn’t too strong, while the last was one that I had kept no too long.

So I was back to the drawing board to think of a password that was really strong.

I tried every permutations and combinations that this silly boy could think. I even tried to think out of the box, and by out of the box I meant I was sitting at a coffee shop! I was afraid that I would create a password that would be forgotten not too long.

I applied every trick, followed every rule, till I was able to come up with a password I knew the system would took (forgive for my cardinal grammatical sin).

So keyed it in and waited with bathed breath, hoping that it would accepted and bring my ordeal to an end.

And when it was accepted, I raised by hand it triumph only to realise that in three months I would once again I would have to go through this great password conundrum.

The Stage… His Home

As he got ready, he stared at his reflection. He had clearly outdone himself. The person staring back at him was not a young handsome man but a beautiful gorgeous woman, who was decked in regal splendour. 

Her face was painted just right, as if it was painted for the Gods. The beautiful , dark red bindi adorned her forehead. She had her hair tied in a bun and covered with sweet smelling kajra. She was wearing a beautiful necklace and the most gorgeous and colourful bangles.

She was draped in the most beautiful nauvari, and had a kamar patta across her waist. On her ankles she wore ghungroos that created sweet sound with each step. He had certainly outdone himself.

He was introduced to the dance form as a child, in the films his parents took him for. As he grew up, his love for it grew deeper and he decided to do research on it. The more he learned about it the more he fell in love with it. He wanted to be part of it. But he couldn’t be a nat, he had to be in front centre. He was mesmerised by the movement of the dancer and the way she not only entertained her audience but how she captivated and held their attention, how she got them involved in her performance.

As a child he was bullied for being effimate. He was called names like bhailya, chackha, Hijra that really hurt him. But as he grew up he realised that the names he was called had more honour than the people who called him those names.

He was a disappointment to his father. He wasn’t the son he had hope for. He wanted a son that was more manly and not domesticated and effimate. He didn’t leave single moment to let him know his disappointment. And knowing what he was doing he was all the more a disappointment to his father , and he had somehow managed to soils the good name of his family.

His mother on the other hand was supportive of him, more kind and loving. She loved him unconditionally. In fact, he was wearing a nauvari she had given. How he wished she could be here, to be part of his first stage performance, to witness how happy he was.

He dabbed off the tear that was welling in his eyes, trying not to let let it smudge his kajal.

Just then the stage hand came into the dressing room to inform that it was time for his performance.

His heart began beating hard against his chest, racing at 100 miles an hour. He could feel the butterflies fluttering around in his stomach.

As he walked to the stage he tried to drown the voices in his head, in each step he took, in the sounds of his ghungroos. He tried to tune them out. 

He draped his palo over his head so he was able to conceal his identity. He wondered if they would be able to guess that this performer was a man, not a woman who traditionally performed it.

As he climbed up the stage, he touched it, paying respect to this stage, grateful to the  platform it provided, seeking its blissing for what he was about to do.

He held his breath as he patiently waited to hear the dholki. Once it started he began to move his feet so that the sound of his ghungroos were in sync with it beats, while at the same time keeping his pallo draped over his head, still concealing his identity from the audience.

When he finally threw over the pallo, he waited for a second to see the audience’s reaction. Were  they able to guess his gender?

He felt a sense of triumph when he realised that they couldn’t. For them he was just a beautiful performer.

As the song began to play he let the music take total control of him. All his nerves, his fears, his anxiety, went right out of the window. He felt one with the stage.

He lip synced the lyrics of the songs as if the words were coming out of his mouth, as if he was actually singing the song. As if he was lip syncing for his life, lip syncing for his legacy. 

He used every part of his body to express every word  of the song. He used the gunghroos on his feet to keep beat with the song. He let his hip sway to the music, using his hands to gesture and his eyes to express the sensuality of the song.

He felt an unbridled joy, and he let this joy fuel the energy he needed to performance. He let it flow from every pore of his being.

He danced with all his heart. He danced, not like a fool in a trance, but with elegance and grace, with the right amount of sensuality, that didn’t come across vulgar or obscene. He danced with all his heart, getting swept up by the music.

He occasionally stopped to tease the audience l, to get them involved in the performance, and they in turn, hooted and howled, whistled and cheered even louder, egging him on.

Just as the music began to reach its crescendo, he began spinning around the stage, going faster and faster as the the music picked up pace, finally falling to his knees and sliding to the front of the stage as the song reached its climax.

He raise his hand in pose, breathing heavily, almost panting from the exertion of the spins, waiting with bathed breath for the reaction of the audience.

And they erupted with applause, clapping and cheering for him, asking for an  encore. The whole auditorium reverberated from the sound of their applause and chants of “once more”.

It was in this moment he realised that this was what he was meant to do. This was where he was meant to be. This was his stage, this was his home!

The Wrinkle

She sat in front of the mirror, softly humming as she combed her tresses…

“I feel pretty, oh so pretty

I feel pretty and witty and gay

And I pity anyone who isn’t me today!”

Oh how she wish, she could say…

“Mirror, mirror, on the world

Who’s the fairest of them all?”

And if her mirror could reply back, it would have sure declared she as the fairest of them all.

She seemed mighty pleased with her reflection, borderlinning on being vain. It didn’t matter to her, she was pretty and beautiful and vain.

And then she saw it! A wrinkle on her face. How was this even possible! She was only… she stopped short… a lady never reveals her age… even in her thoughts.

How was it even possible, considering her skin care routine?

“Why God why!” She lamented, “why are you doing this to me? Why have you forsaken me!”

Now she would have to go to the spa, adopt a new skin care routine. She would need to buy better brands, the ones she used weren’t working. And those new brands are showing going to cost her lot.

What if these too didn’t work, she would need to take Botox injection. She wondered how much would they cost? Would it be painful? How many injections would she need to take? How big a hole is it going to burn in her pocket? Could she even afford to take at least one? If she could, would it be affective? Would men find her attractive anymore?

So many questions, and no answer insight. She was stressing herself thin.

And just as she continued to stress herself, a second wrinkle appeared causing her to faint on the spot on its sighting.