The Ranting Jahaji

So let's set the scene... Typical Mumbai summer morning. Not comfortable. Far from it, in fact. Humid enough to make you crave a thanda bisleri with every pore of your sweat-soaked skin. A little past rush hour, so you are actually looking forward to getting in a local train just so you can stand at the door and feel air move, even if it is not exactly a cool breeze. Like countless (quite literally) other Mumbaikars, I take the local train to get where I want - which today is a god-foresaken maritime training institute, at god-foresaken Reay Road. It always makes sense to spend 25 minutes in close contact with sweaty, smelly, mostly ugly strangers than be comfortable in a taxi but end up sitting in it for an hour plus 25 minutes. Yes, thanda bisleri instead of simply a water bottle from home; entitled enough to claim Reay Road as god-foresaken; shamelessly brands people in local trains as "mostly ugly"; but will always prefer the C.S.T. Slow local from the ha...

“Don’t walk! You have not come here to walk!” she said.  Simple words, really. It is a wonder how words out of the mouth of a juvenile in a school pinafore with slick, twin plaits tied with red ribbons can stick with you even a year after you hear it shouted out over a cacophony of music, screams, yells and cheers. Over the sound of your own labored breathing. Over the sound of your heart thumping louder than the dhols , struggling to pump hot blood to your throbbing veins.  That one sentence is what defines my first half-marathon experience for me. Although an avid runner for many years, the Satara Hill Half Marathon was my first half marathon, and as they say, you never forget your first. The sheer energy and positivity that SHHM brings to the table is unparalleled. Never before, and not ever since, have I been surrounded by a vibe so pure, so exhilarating!  I always knew it would be a challenge to run the distance, but I had grossly underestimated the powe...