Marathon- the perfect metaphor for life

Wee hours of winter mornings seem shrouded in secrecy. The curfew clamped on the roads by the cold, breached by the bone- chilling breeze/wind/ gusts, adds a certain eeriness to the pregnant silence. And the wee hours of a Sunday morning? It is almost sacrilegious to be irreverent to the somnolence of the favoured ones, by any indulgence, other than, by the inadvertent rustle caused by the quilts/ razais/ duvet/, in the elusive and almost always unsatisfactory attempt at covering the freezing toes.


The inexplicable need on the part of most Indians to "seek health" outdoors, during these unforgiving times, (for most, ONLY during these times) wreaks havoc with the sanctity of the mornings and sanity of the siesta seeking somnolent. For eons, serious damage has been inflicted on the dear ones by my obsessive early morning training schedules. These wounds had almost healed. But recently the scabs were mercilessly peeled off and the wounds resurfaced to fester again, as the marathon seasons blossomed and the races sprouted around the globe.


Cross country running in the city, is possible only in the really really early hours. It is a toss up of choosing lesser of the evils.I have forever trusted the pie dogs, ( fiercely protecting their personal fiefdoms, especially against the early morning intruders ) than the frenzied maniacs behind the wheels on Ahmedabad roads. Hence my belief and the conviction born out of it, has altered my body language when confronted in a mock combat by the canines. Somehow, despite repeated alterations in the course, facing or along the traffic directions, my paranoia and fears of being "hit and run over " variety have refused to leave me.but come the Boxing day and the fears be damned. Ahmedabad is seriously trying to shake off its embarrassingly huge prevalence of sedentary habits, and gearing up for its first international marathon.


Training for marathons has always worked its magic on every one, the beginners, the seasoned and the laggards, all want that experience. Running a mile feels like a chaotic promo of a thriller, while marathon running is like having the best seat in an opera and experience the subtle nuances of drama and music, gently unfold. The magic lies in deliberate, leisurely courtship and not an instant gratification of a marriage.Glide on the wings of a gentle breeze, hear the inner voices of your tough yet relaxed mind during the humbling jog, reminding you that anything is possible- always.


We all have been stung, either by the ends of a lit cigarette stub, the matchstick or the inadvertent contact with a, just extinguished sparkler. The startle, the pain, the sting, they all are such short lived. That is a sprint, running a mile. Now, look at the glow of the charcoal slowly getting scorched in a fireplace, roasting, burning slowly. Pertinently, feel the warmth of the fire gently percolating the fingers and creating the magical glow on the face when sitting around a bonfire, that experience transcends us some place else- that is marathon running. It may even roast, but still the burns are painless.


The freedom and the unbridled joy of running - on the empty Peddar road flyover in Mumbai, the bay area of San Fransisco or as it shall transpire on the usually choc- a - bloc, chaotic Astodia Darwaza on the Boxing day marathon in Ahmedabad - are a great outlet to the bottled up steam of a stifling, restricted, opinionated and pathologically constipated society.


Running seems a perfect metaphor for life. When peaks are scaled, successes achieved, unfortunately, the methods are glossed over and only the end result is overemphasized. Whether you crawl, walk, run, sprint, scorch the tar and melt it, the joy is in finishing it. As it transpires, the people who brave the ordeal are either made differently or transform themselves to be different. The front runners were still there to applaud in unison, all those, whose weary bodies were the slaves of the still ticking strong minds, egging them to reach the finish line last Sunday at the dress rehearsal of the marathon. Ahmedabad feels different when you run on its roads. Its citizens behaved differently yesterday. The toothless smiles of the shivering pack of three, tumbling out of the mosque, the wholehearted applause of the couple of beedi smoking, middle aged gents pumping their fists in vicarious pleasure of achievement through the grit of the runners, the shy and almost apologetic hand waving of the decked up pillion rider (behind the back of her portly husband) were great motivators and warmed the cockles.


I hope and pray that the spirits are reignited by the presence of the thousands on the road on the Boxing day.The miracle does not and shall not happen at the finishing line.The miracle will happen silently when the troubled, questioning and doubting bodies shall be silenced by the indomitable spirit of a dogged mind. Come, cheer and see the magic unfold- as subtly as the almost air born Kenyan or Ethiopian's strides shall move their lithe bodies, or as harshly and grossly as punctured egos and hurting, squeaking bodies shall be made willing to inch forward and hurtle along, till the applause of the finishers rings loud and forever in the heart at the finishing line.