.. Here We Go Again!!!

Mamma mia, here I go again

My, my, how can I resist you?

Mamma mia, does it show again

My, my, just how much I've missed you?

That’s exactly what goes through your head when you’re back to running in live events. Yes you’ve said you’ll not run in BKC again, (too many loops, too many twists and turn for my liking), you’ve said that you’ll do only three events a year, one of them being the Mumbai Marathon, but you yet couldn’t resist the temptation of doing another one. And no I am no running snob!!!

But the thrill of running a race, the adrenaline rush, the joy of being able to run with friends, and not to forget all those photo-ops all along the way, and before and after the race, it keeps you coming back for more. 

Plus, if COVID and all the lockdown showed us anything is that you have to make the most of what you have, you never know when it will be taken all away. 

And yes, it’s also shows how good your training is coming along. Let’s face it, for someone like me training is never as fast as actually running in a race.

So you lace up, you dress up, ensuring you are on point (and by that I mean my running gears needs to match, how else would you look good in those running pics, especially when you’re an awkward runner who constantly has the t-Rex arms when he runs). And even though you’ve missed your alarms, you try to stay calm and not go into full on panic mode.

You put on your music, switch on all your running apps, damn I’ve got three, plus my watch, to keep track of your run.

So you try to block out all the twists and turns, which seem more than any twists and turns in a Hindi film (damn I need to retire this dialogue, used it one too many times), you have sweat trickling down your face, while Mark Knofler singing in your ears, “Money for nothing, but the chicks for free!”

You constantly fight the urge to speed up every time you are passed up (and that happens often), but you fist pump every time you better your pace at the end of each kilometre.  You avoid trying to look everywhere, here and there and be focused in the moment. But for a highly distracted soul, that’s next to impossible.

Though the weather maybe horribly humid (it rained the previous day but not a drop to be seen on race day), you remind yourself, this is Mumbai, and the weather is going to be humid! This is what you train for, so suck it up and run! Before thank god there’s a breeze in this concrete maze, so the weather isn’t all that bad.

Finally when you approach that finish line you let the adrenaline surge through your vein and carry you over that line, with all the speed you can muster, hoping that you get at least one good pic to post on Instagram. Or if you are someone like me you are already composing your post while you ran. But before that you need to the most important thing… stop that damn watch and apps and what not you use to track your run.

And then comes the fun part. You get to meet and greet your fellow crazies, who like you may complain about the route and the weather, but will never shy to race again. Not to forget all the post run shenanigans which for me is the cherry on the top, no matter how good or bad your run may have been you got indulge in all the craziness and the photoops.

On a serious note, for someone who has been battling with issues related to weight, speed, loneliness, anxiety, these races really help. It gets your adrenaline pumping, it shows you how far you’ve come and teaches what to do to go even further. Those few moments, amongst your peers keeps your loneliness and anxiety at bay, letting you enjoy yourself, letting you be your crazy Runnaholic self! And even though you maybe far from your best, you always know you can do better, and slowly and steadily you are inching towards your better self. 

So even though you prefer to train rather than races, or you have a quota races you will run in a year, or you feel you are not ready to race, you will still run, you still race, cause…. “Tramps like us, baby you were born to run!!!!”

I Am

Well to quote ABBA

 “I’m nothing special, 

in fact I’m a bit of a bore”

You may think I’m good looking, 

You may think I’m hot

You may even think I am kind of man

You would like to date a lot

But then these are just “may”

And in reality your head says “nay”

Means I end up broken hearted a lot

I am the kind of guy 

Who’s very domesticated 

Who doesn’t drink 

Who doesn’t smoke

Who feels uncomfortable at parties

Who would rather sit in a corner

And watch others dance 

And mind it I can dance

A regular Sandra Dee

But I rather be sober and at home

Than at any party where I feel all alone

Even in a room full of people

I rather go to bed and get up at early morn

Right before the crack of dawn 

Than stay up at night and party

Like a hopeless soul

I am the kind of guy 

You would make love to in your head

You would text and flirt

And exchange explicit thoughts

Of what you would want to do 

together in bed

But when you get there

Leaves cold and unsatisfied

Causing you to let the relationship die

And leaving him wondering why

What he did wrong 

Leaving him shattered and torn

I am the kind of guy 

You would rather take home

To meet your parents

Than rather fall in love and date

Cause all though I am caring and loving

 And generous and kind

I may come across vanilla 

Not your typical kind

Who would attract you

Who would draw you 

Like a moth to the flame

I am not that kind of guy you would love in vain

I am the kind of guy

Who loves in the old fashioned way

Who’s not yet modern in his romantic ways

Who will be there for you 

When you need him

And will continue to be there for you

Even when you friend zone him

I am a kind of guy 

Who you could depend on

Who will always be there for you

Even if you lead him on

The guy who finds it difficult 

To read the signs

Who’s often left heartbroken 

Bruised and with scars 

But will still stay positive 

But will stay optimistic 

Inspite of the heartaches and pain

I am the kind of guy

Who rather be hurt than to hurt

Who’s rather feel anxious 

But refuse to loose hope

Who tries to see the good in everyone

And listen to everyone 

As they tell him what to do

Even though he knows

That they seriously don’t know him

Well and through 

Who tries to encourage, motivate

Be there for those who need him

But when he needs the support

Will find himself lonely and alone

Left to pick the pieces of life

All on his own

I am the kind of guy

Who will love with all his heart

Who will give all he’s got

Who will keep hoping and waiting

Who will keep anticipating 

Who constantly overthinks

Till he becomes an emotional wreck

But I am also the kind of guy

Who will never give up 

Who will pick his broken pieces

And try to heal and mend

Who refuses to stay bitter and complain 

And continue to hope

That one he will find the one 

That he truly deserves 

Running Therapy

I never thought I would need a race, let alone a 10k. It’s not that I am trying to sound like a long distance running snob, which I am not, but somehow never did quite run a lot of 10k races.

Still here I was signing up for a 10k, breaking my cardinal rule of only three races a year (yep I have my NEB Mumbai Half Marathon coming up, and I’ve already done three), I found myself registering for a 10k because I needed to race, I needed to see the progress I’ve made, I needed a confidence booster, a shot in the arm, get my head back in the so called game, to have something to look forward to, to be excited for.

2022 has not been quite kind to me so far. Through the loneliness and the heartaches , the heartbreaks, the disappointments, the stress and the anxiety, I knew I needed this. I needed to get out of the rut I found myself in. So I registered.

People go to parties to meet friends and socialise till late mornings, I on the other hand prefer to wake at the ungodly hour, dress in my running gear (which need to match or I’ll look like a clown) and go out for run.

Races is where I meet my fellow runners and my run buddies. It’s where I go to socialise. My kind of socialising. You may call me a Runnaholic, and I maybe one. But it’s just that thing I do!

So it doesn’t matter that the route has more twists and turns than any Bollywood film, or the weather is awesomely humid (my drenched shorts made be feel like I’d peed in them), or that I am no where near my best (not even close, this is what you get when you get your PB (personal best for the uninitiated) early on), I just needed to go out and run.

So through the twist and turns, the cheers and the hugs, the sweat, the smiles and the high fives, I run with music blaring in my ears, some good old fashioned rock music, that keeps me pumped. And though I constantly remind myself that I need to take it easy and not push the envelope (not sure if I could even do that), I can’t help myself wanting to speed up a wee bit, especially when you have your fellow running buddy right there with you.

It may have not been my best (though post pandemic, I am not too sure what’s my best), I may not have ran to a plan. But what  I did manage is run a strong and steady run, completing within my target, minus any aches and pains and soreness, I completed my run in my lowly target time. Thus getting the much needed shot in the arm, that boost of confidence, that therapy session on the road.

And the cherry on the cake was to see your running buddies win podium (so damn stoked that my Neeru Ma’am and Akanksha got their podiums) and then you get to enjoy being part of the post run shenanigans with you fellow crazies!

So where to from here? Maybe another race (the NEB Mumbai Marathon is coming up)? Maybe back to drawing board to train and get better? Maybe to dance classes and do some Salsa? Whatever May come next I know I got that much needed confidence booster, and all I know that life’s gonna get good from here, no matter the situation or curve  ball thrown at you.

So here’s to running, and racing, and therapy on your your feet. Always remember no matter at what stage you are at life, your best is yet to come!! 

To the Sea

To the sea I go

When I feel lonely and alone

When I am sad and a little blue

When I am trying to figure out

What I need to do

I take my trusty Rodster out

And pedal with all my might

Till I reach it the sea 

Whether it’s rough or it’s eerily calm

I find a calmness in the rhythm of the waves

As it is rises and falls

And breaks along the shore

Or crashes against the rocks

It’s in these moments I find my peace

The peace that I seek

And I let it all out

Let the feelings that I hold within

And the tears flow

It’s only when I had a good cry

Can I feel myself at ease

Feeling one with the sea

To the sea I go 

When I feel lonely and all alone

When I sad and blue

To the sea I will go

To find a way to soothe a lonely soul!

Your Constant

Everything changes

People come and go

But your body, mind, heart and soul

Are the only things constant

Through the heartaches

Through the heartbreaks

Through the anxious tears 

Through the sleepless night

Through the joys and sorrow

Treat then right

Be kind to them 

They are the only you’ll have 

So treat then with care

Test them with love and respect

Cause they truly deserve it

When others may look away

They will be at your side

Like faithful friends 

Who never leave your side

Loves and infatuations may come and go

But they will never leave you

Even though you may give it to others

Who play you for a fool

Who leave you broken and shattered

They will help to heal you

And make you whole

So remember this 

Your are beautiful 

Your are handsome

You are kind and loving ans caring

And deserving of love

And let no one tell you otherwise!

It Takes a Village

It takes a village to bring up a child, not just a sperm and egg contributor. And though one may say that one will do it on their own, it takes a village of people directly or indirectly involved in the upbringing of the child, people who become your very own village.

Right from the boss who signs your paycheques, or pays your dues, becoming the enabler of the necessities of life, to the milkman, the farmer, those who put together the things needed to nourish you.

And when you got to get back to earning a living, winning the bread you need to break, you have the daycare, the aiyaha, the babysitter, the people who  take the little tyke off your hand so that you can go out there make a living, when you don’t have a close relative to come to your aide.

You have the teachers, the tuition teachers, the professors, the faculties, who help you shape the lil one, of course with your contribution.

You have the people the lil one will come across, the experiences that will affect which way the lil one will grow.

And not to forget the doctors and the nurses, who help to make sure the lil one grows to be strong and healthy.

All these people, and many more, become your own lil village that help you bring up your lil one, whether you acknowledge them or not. And when your lil one grows, they will have their own lil village to bring their own lil one.

His Blind Parents

His parents were blind. Well, they weren’t blind in the literal sense. They chose not to see the torment, the pain, the suffering he was in, often refusing to believe him. Often turning a blind eye.

He was a sensitive child, different from the other children, someone who would stick out from a crowd. He was not into sports, like boys of his age, in fact he detested it. He loved arts and craft and loved to dance and act, much to the charging of his parents. He was not very studious and had learning difficulties. But most of all he showed no interest in girls.

He was not bold or strong, but at the same time he was not too weak. He walked with a sway in his steps instead of a swagger like most boys of his age.

He was an outcaste who was constantly picked on, made fun of, verbally and physically abused. He was constantly subjected to bullying. When he tried to complain to his teachers they just dismissed his claims, stating he had an agenda against the boys. Even  his parents refused to support him. They believed he was just trying to make an excuse and being over dramatic.

If that wasn’t enough, he had suffered years of sexual abuse at the hands of the one who was supposed to care for him. When he told his parents about the abuse, they once again refused to believe him. They said he was making up stories and telling lies and sullying the good name of a person of great repute and standing in society. They turned a blind eye to the constant rape  he suffered.

In all this pain he found peace and solace in arts and crafts and his dancing, but this too irked his father, who constantly taunted his wife saying “what type of son have you given me, he’s more a hijada than a boy! He’s definitely not my son!”

His father’s words were like a dagger to his heart.

Then one day his parents decided to put in a boarding school. They hoped that being in a boarding would make a man out of him.

Unfortunately, his torment didn’t end. In fact, it got even more worse. The environment may have changed, the tormentors may have changed but the pain and suffering remained the same.

He still was constantly picked on and bullied by the boys, called homophobic slurs, suffering verbal and physical abuse. If that wasn’t enough, he was constantly berated by his teachers for his lack of ability of keeping with his studies.

Then one day some boys caught him staring at another boy in the locker room. They cornered him in the washroom and confronted him and used homophobic slurs. 

They pinned him against the wall. They each took turns at sodomising him. When they were done with him, they left laying there on the washroom floor all bruised and bleeding. They threatened that if he ever spoke a word of what happened they would make his life a living hell. 

This was the last straw. He knew, like always his parents wouldn’t believe him and do nothing, and so would the school  authorities. 

He decided to put an end to it all.

Even in his death his parent turned a blind eye to the trauma he suffered. They believed that their child took his life because of his inability to cope with his studies, the pressure of studies. They didn’t ask for an investigation even though there were bruises on his bodies, especially his privates. They believed a version that the school provided  who were more than happy to cover up the incident that threatened the good name of the institution.

A week after his death, his parent received a courier. They were shocked when they realised that the courier was from their son. It was his journal where he documented every single abuse, every single trauma, every single rape, in detail.

As they read it carefully  the scales that blinded them finally fell off , and they finally saw the torment he suffered, how he suffered for his sanity. They were shaken to the core.

There was so much they wanted to do but they couldn’t do because they had  refused to believe him. It was now too late to do anything. They had lost, what should have been their precious boy, because of their own blindness.