The Hills are alive with the sound of music

My heart wants to sing every song it hears....... Yes, my heart sang nostalgia; the song and its words playing in my mind, as I looked out the large window of the Panorama Tours bus lazily making its way thru' a mountainous landscape.

I gasped at Salzburg' panoramic beauty panning out before me. Green meadows encircled by thick coniferous trees, cosy cottages dotting the countryside, church spires with their unmistakeable patina, azure skies with wispy clouds, mountainous peaks and glistening lakes fed by glaciers. We got off to take a look at where it all happened. I lost myself in the majestic beauty of the Von Trapp mansion almost seeing Julie Andrews and Baron Von Trapp' children holding hands, dancing and singing. And how can you see the 'Pavilion' and not sing,

You are sixteen going on seventeen

Baby, it's time to think

Better beware, be canny and careful

Baby, you're on the brink

It was one of those memorable days soaking in the climate and bliss of one of the most breathtakingly beautiful places on earth.

Later in the afternoon we went to the Salt Mines in Berchtesgaden; an area blessed with a vast underground treasure of sea salt buried deep into the earth when the Alps rose in an upheaval of nature' forces eons ago and the ocean got sucked below it. We had an enthralling experience deep into the earth' cavity where the temperature was a brrrr 10 deg C, tracking mining technology and equipment right since it happened in 1541 to the present the day. The budding engineer in Bryan paid rapt attention to every word of the guide. He was especially incredulous when he saw the actual 14 ton bronze pump built in 1870 and which ran for 110 years without any breakdown!! We had a big laugh after a heart sinking ride down the wooden slide that took you to the depths of the mine in a jiffy.

We returned to our hotel room weary from the trips we'd done. At the evening dinner I stared into my tall glass of local lager with a heart warming realization that Bryan at 20 yrs of age still prefers to travel with his mum and dad. The alcohol dulled my senses as Maria' (Julie Andrews) favourite things from the Sound of Music, came floating to my head.

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens
Bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens
Brown paper packages tied up with strings
These are a few of my favourite things

Long cold lonely winter

Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter
Little darling, it feels like years since it's been here
Here comes the sun
Here comes the sun, and I say
It's all right

Little darling, the smiles returning to the faces
Little darling, it seems like years since it's been here
Here comes the sun
Here comes the sun, and I say
It's all right

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n6j4TGqVl5g

'Here comes the sun' but the ice is far from completely melting in the longest winter of my life. There have been brief moments when the sun has peaked out and I've felt its warm sunshine soothing my soul. One such moment has been when Bryan received his admission letter from VIT for a B. Tech in Mechanical Engg. When did the years go by? 

We stepped down to the lobby of the building with him all packed for his hostel stay. Monsoon hugged him and wept as it dawned on both of us that the house would be sans the typhoon that blew in and out every day; the untidy room with school books strewn on the study table, the football boots on the window sill, the stinking socks in the dustbin instead of the washing machine and the Man U jersey hanging from a drawing pin on the board meant for posting his school notes. I sat in silence next to him as the car pulled out of our society gate. He asked for a tissue to wipe a tear that rolled down his cheek. The enormity of the task at hand for the next four years of his life had struck him just then. 

I bought him a mattress, buckets, mugs, glasses, mops, dusters and all the other paraphernalia he'd need. He waltzed thru' these two years living in a hostel, washing his own underwear and muck filled T-shirts, eating food from non-negotiable menus at regulated times in the mess, waking up on his own and probably rushing late to his lectures. We celebrated his birthday yesterday with a quiet dinner at 'Le Pain Quotidien'. He is all of twenty now and I can see girls giving him not just second glances. We have a small birthday party scheduled for tonight with our friends that have seen him grow from a thumb suckling baby to the broad shouldered six foot frame that intimidates them now. 

Meanwhile, I had begun running hesitantly about a year ago and even completed a few half marathons at a bumbling pace, a far cry from the breezy gait I possessed. It didn't matter though because it felt good to run again and I clutched my finishing certificates with a prayer on my lips. You will surely find the exhilaration and joy on my face as I come in for the finish at SCMM 2015, refreshingly motivating I hope. My excitement with getting back on the road was short lived because the medication I've been taking since falling ill has caused me to develop an over-active Thyroid. I was punched to the ground once again because the hyper-metabolic state this condition brings on, does not allow even the slightest of exertions without bringing on palpitations; something I've learned to dread.

I've been blighted often in my life and each time I've picked myself up after remembering that to my parents, quitting was never an option. They trudged on like weary travelers on a rock strewn meandering and undulating road. Why should I then not attempt to make a lemonade from the lemons that life hands me? After running 20+ kms several times over the last 8 months, I'm now back to being able to run just 3 kms. Arms akimbo and my chest heaving after just 20 mins of jogging, I shake my head and grin at the vicissitudes in my running life. With that same grin I wag my finger and delude myself that some day after retirement I will run the Comrades :). But when I look at my aging body in the mirror, despair engulfs me with the realization that I'm over the hill and such a goal is surely 'A bridge too far'.

One day, in retrospect, the years of struggle will strike you as the most beautiful - Sigmund Freud

Blue Winter

The faint glow of dawn
A crisp nip in the air
Glistening dew covers the earth
It is winter

I woke up from a soothing dream
An angel whispered "Please....continue your dream"
Will this be a long winter?
I hope not; I'm aching for summer already

Mon - 10K time trial! No! It should be a 21K time trial! Adjust the long run for 'training load'! Is the race plan right? Will he bonk? Is she jaded from over-training? Will she survive the distance?

A maelstrom of training schedules clutter my dream and flit across my mind like a ticker tape in a news channel on TV. A dream in which I run the SCMM strong; flanked by a fleet of smiling angels. I know nothing can go wrong. From the swirling mist comes a clutch of fear and I drift up from the calm and dark bottom of a lake to a restless surface. I lie in bed, staring in the dark. Did I skip a beat? Did my heart race? Is it because I fear being left in the lurch.....insecure? Is it because my faith is shattered?.....and I'm running scared and wild? Or, is it that trust is a utopian value? Will the Goan adage of 'when the patient is cured, the doctor can go to hell', ring true?

I realize I am in Guntur, on tour. I make out the dim outline of the spacious suite; a luxury affordable in the hinterland of South India. It is 3am and I am unable to sleep. I brood about the past few days. The Bangalore Ultra just went by and the excitement of completing a race, personal bests and podium finishes fills the air. Eulogies and approbation rant the air. Animated but foolhardy discussions on speed and distance. Pictures of beaming smiles and stoic resolve. Some making a statement. High fives and welcome hugs. They elicit a cynical smile on my countenance as I ponder the vanity amongst runners. I shoved aside the sheets and padded to the bathroom. I turned on the shower and lounged in the tub to soak myself in the warm spray, willing the flurry of troubling thoughts to subside.

Judgments, value judgments concerning life, for or against, can in the last resort never be true: they possess value only as symptoms, they come into consideration only as symptoms - in themselves such judgments are stupidities.
Friedrich Nietzsche

"Confirmation"

I've been off the running scene with the idea that a break will do me good. I have come to realize that I'm not really the runner that I used to be; in terms of my ability to race. I decided to stay away from racing for the moment. Also, the running fraternity and among them, a few runners that I've come to know, have revealed themselves to display personality traits varying from immature, subversive, and furtive, to plain diplomatic. Some have shown outright animosity and aggression. It is something that not only appalled and shocked me, but also left me saddened.

And so it was welcome relief from the pangs of longing to run and being unable when Bryan told me yesterday that I have to visit our church along with him, for mass. He has been going thru' intense catechism in preparation for his sacrament of "Confirmation". The church periodically wants that he should be present for a special mass along with a parent. And so I was delighted to accompany him to church. The 'community hall' was abuzz with teenagers greeting each other excitedly before mass. The parents all hovering around with benevolent smiles on their faces. Even as the priest delivered a homily on the 'Apostle' Creed', I retraced my reverie and thought of the years that have gone by. I recalled right from paying his fees at playschool and taking him to Goa on my lap by air as a three year old, right thru' to the years of teaching him studies and football and taking him on vacations. How he' grown now! I thought of my own father and Paul Anka' words came to mind from the song of yesteryear.

Ev'ry day my Papa would work to help to make ends meet,
To see that we would eat, keep those shoes upon my feet.

Ev'ry night my Papa would take and tuck me in my bed,
Kiss me on my head after all the pray'rs were said.

Growing up with him was easy, time just flew on by,
The years began to fly, he aged and so did I.

Mother of mine

My mother can be described as a feisty woman that has borne pain, sorrow, hardship and has withstood all the vicissitudes life threw at her. The nadir of despair that hit her in her twenties (she is seen in the pic above with my father and his mother), would have wrenched sanity from most women. It was the darkest day in her life. Both her children came down with small pox and while one died in the morning, and no sooner she had returned from burial services, the other one passed away…..the same day! I am not sure even the most stoic man will withstand such trauma. It is perhaps this tragic turn of events that compelled her to bring me into this world, to complete her wish for a family of six children: Leena, Lucy, Martha, Selve, Francis and Daniel

In 1955, when she conceived the idea to build a colonial bungalow in our village in Goa, her family and neighbours, green with envy sought to dissuade her with traditional ridicule, saying, “She doesn’t have enough children and she is planning such a big house!” The last three of the six children, including me were born long after the foundation stone was laid for the house.

Her foresight paid off and our large family was treated to some of the most exciting and fun-filled holidays during school vacations, in Goa providing dreamy nostalgia to us in the years that followed: the squeak of the brass pulley when you pulled on the rope to draw water from our well; earthen cooking ware and wood smoke that lent a special flavour to cooking; hen’ coop and pigs’ sties for ready-to-cook meat and eggs; a modest garden with papaya, mango, jack fruit and coconut trees bearing succulent and prodigious fruit; the aroma of pork, chicken, beef and fish in delectable recipes only my mother with her ‘par excellence’ culinary skills could concoct even as we all sat on floor mats to devour such a spread with gusto; exhausting football matches in meadows wherein Francis and I came home unrecognisable with red-brown mud streaks; mid-morning baths in sulphur springs followed by rice soup with marinated pork; fishing expeditions in streams around our village with the excited uproar and expletives on strategic gaffes in placing the nets; watching torrential downpours whilst reclining in chairs on the patio, eating roasted cashew nuts or steamed jack fruit seeds and the tearful farewells when it came time to go back to Bombay and resume school, to cite a few.

My mother cooked, washed clothes, cleaned, stocked larders, schooled and tended to her six children while my father toiled to provide the finances to support such a large family. In retrospect, with one or two children to personally tend to, we realise that it must have been back-breaking work for her. But she did it all without complaining and always with a cheerful smile when we got home from school. There were those times when she made a proposition (never a plea) that if we could only wash our own dishes, iron and fold our own clothes and stow our bed-sheets, she would be free to provide much more of all that she did for us. We willingly acceded to this request and today, we are wiser and can manage a lot of our own chores as if it were second-hand nature to us.

When I visited her on Thursday last week, my mother’ health had deteriorated but then a day later, Francis with whom she stayed, assured me, that she was well again. The end when it came makes one lend credence to the belief that our subconscious mind sees things before they happen. It is coincidental that my mother passed away just a few hours after receiving Holy Communion, in some way her final sacrament. Francis is convinced that mummy held her breath until Saturday; the day she would receive communion when the representative from the church came over regularly to offer this for ailing people in the parish. It is coincidental that I stepped out to go to church on Saturday, but turned back because of a sudden downpour, consoling that missing mass one weekend would not make it a sin. God had a plan that I would hear mass on Sunday; my mother’ funeral mass. It is coincidental that the night before her death, I discovered the ‘phone calls only’ mode on the volume status of my Black Berry; something I did not know existed and until then my BB was always ‘silent’ at night.

When I received the call at 3:52am my worst fears had come true. Lucy informed me that mummy had passed away. The full impact that she is no more in flesh and blood drained the blood from my head and I fell back on the pillow, sobbing like a baby. I drove frantically on a dark highway, a faint dawn peeking between dark clouds of rain; a sign of the sombre mood for my day. I arrived to a house that had wailing hysteria wafting down the corridor; Martha had got there before me. Francis and I worked thru’ the formalities for the burial in a daze. The funeral mass was a service that would make my mother proud. A full choir of twenty-something youth, friends of my nephew Ian, provided the melancholy but mellifluous quality to the hymns. The final burial with lowering the coffin into the grave done, we returned to an empty home and empty hearts.

I woke up this morning and while, yesterday I was numb with shock, today I was in deep despair with the full import of our loss sinking in. I realised that the only antidote I had was to wear my shoes and go out for a late morning run. I went to a deserted Aarey forest and ran an easy 15K. The breeze whistling thru’ the trees whispered to me and I felt the miles go by lulled by the priest’ reassuring prayer for my mother; in the lord’ own house shall I dwell, all the days of my life. Surely goodness and kindness shall follow me all the days of my life. I sobbed mid-run and shamelessly allowed the tears to flow down my face as I shuffled on. The occasional passing motorist unknowingly frowned and wondered why I flogged my body if the pain and fatigue brought tears. I returned home feeling solace in the relief that my tears had cleansed my soul and the baritone of Jim Reeves wafting thru’ my mind.


When my way grows drear precious Lord linger near
When my life is almost gone
Hear my cry, Hear my call
Hold my hand lest I fall
Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home

Precious Lord, take my hand
Lead me on, Let me stand
I am tired, I am weak, I am worn
Through the storm, through the night
Lead me on to the light
Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home

When the darkness appears and the night draws near
And the day is past and gone
At the river I stand, Guide my feet, Hold my hand
Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xRbP6scGmGE&feature=related

The One-Legged Marathon

The Mumbai running fraternity looks forward to the Borivali National Park (BNP) Half Marathon; an event being held in this evergreen forest and organized by Ram, Kaushik, Bharatbhai, Giles and Ashok, amongst several stalwarts. Amit planned to do his 8th Marathon in 8 months along with Dr Oak, at the invitation of the organizers, and I was there to keep him company part of the way. This account is a tribute to Amit’s grit and guts.

BNP was abuzz with runners strolling to the start point with bags and rucksacks slung over shoulders. Regular walkers looked on bemused with the bustle of activity. There was the canopy below which a volunteer was meticulously storing bags deposited by runners as if his life depended on it; long lost runners greeting each other excitedly with hugs and high-fives; across the road, at a table a few women peered at sheets as if reviewing forest census data; a table laden with water and electrolyte, caused a few bold walkers to ponder helping themselves, not sure if it were offered free to one and all; and, race officials ceremoniously waving notepads while shouting instructions.

Amit, Dr Oak and I embarked on our long haul to cheers and applause. Seldom do you get a hint in the first 30 minutes of a full marathon, that your run would go south: this was one of those days. Amit had a tooth extracted 2 days ago besides nursing an inflamed thigh muscle. Dr Oak confessed to having fasted since the last one month and raised his eyes heavenward, speculating on the outcome; while, I had done a full marathon at Amby Valley just two weeks ago, not sure whether my legs would hold up for another onslaught. Towards the end of the first lap, at 5K, we realised that our individual affliction was to be compounded with an unfair double-whammy: the weather, which seemed to have concocted a cocktail of what felt like a steam-bath and sauna, combined.

The route meandered thru’ thickly wooded brush, over spans below which ran streams, undulating with deceptive inclines that cause consternation when you are feeling beat and the sky vanished in some shaded parts. The surface itself was smooth asphalt, part of the way but transitioned to concrete that was marred by some treacherous stretches that were fractured. On our return lap, we waved out to runners that had started out the half marathon, cheering many by calling out their names. The first loop being uneventful, we started out for the second and along the way saw that Dr Oak’ exertions were causing him to slow down. Through a pain tinged grimace he gestured that we should move on. Amit was floundering in pain and the relief he got from the ‘reli-spray’ was short-lived. We both managed to do the second loop in a one piece.

Dr Oak was now glycogen-depleted and decided to take a break. I had somehow managed to hydrate well and felt fresh enough to take on the role of ‘drill-sergeant’ for the rest of the journey. I set a timer for 1 min walk - 4 mins run, but it all went awry as the inclines forced Amit to walk at odd intervals. He sat down at aid-stations massaging his leg; willing it to come to life from its benumbed state. I looked at him in reverent commiseration, yet admired his stoic resolve. He was not to be deterred by this temporarily blunted appendage. I barked, “Time up! Let’s move!” and he rose in response, with a limp, as if to a military camp command, and fell into a lop-sided rhythm with me.
You have a choice. You can throw in the towel, or you can use it to wipe the sweat off of your face. - Gatorade

I had set the pace now and he followed me tamely with an unseeing stare and slurring feet. I stated matter-of-fact style, “We finish this third loop and the last one is a given”. His subconscious mind saw my ruse on auto-suggestion. He must know that he blindly needs to nod ascent, which he did, despite the incredulous haze of heat and humidity that seemed to engulf us in a clammy embrace. My urgency had driven all tactical thought of run-walks from my mind. The next few kilometres went by in a hypnotic flow: Blurry recollections of a group of girls and boys flirting, soft strains of “Sheila ki Jawani”, monkeys on the wayside with a plaintive gaze, a car whizzing past, and its occupants waving a thums-up in mock admiration. I propelled us both to the end of the third loop where Amit staggered gratefully to a seat to eat a banana and drink up thirstily.

We saw promise of victory when Dr Oak offered to run the fourth loop with us since he felt recovered. After all he has done Comrades, and in jest it felt like Moses would lead us to the Promised Land. Amit and I were clutching at straws now. We set off for the final leg of this arduous and seemingly never-ending journey to “C’mon guys….do it!” It soon became plain and simple that the body had rejected running as an option. I set the timer for a 1 min walk-1 min run which seemed like an acceptable compromise to Amit’ battered body. The kilometres went by inexorably, every step feeling like a death march. Ashok and Ram drove past with their kind offer of placing the aid station where we’d need it.

The final lap had to have 2.2 kms to be added to make the full marathon of 42.2 kms, a credible claim. We took a side road that extended for 1.1K, at the end of which Amit looked up in bewilderment like he’d blundered into the wrong conference room at work, his pain-racked body refusing to move anymore. I could see agony writ large on his face as he listened keenly for the beeper that would allow him to walk. Dark clouds gathered and covered the trees in a kind of stale twilight, as if portending darker moments.

I glanced at the pallor of Amit’ racked cheeks and the tracks of pain that ran down them. His eyes had acquired a doleful look of submission to my soft murmur of, “Let’s go, let’s go!!” Between hysterical highs and lows of delirium stood the moderation of an even beat of sanity, as I joked that my job was to shore up Amit’ spirits, to which he jovially exclaimed, “Right now, I feel as if my spirit has left my body!” There was a thunderous cackle from all of us; painful convulsions that our hunched forms could ill-afford. Finally it was 500m to go, and we felt the warm clasp of victory in our hands. Amit’ eyes lit up as we increased pace, holding hands as Brothers in Arms, ready to collapse in a heap as we crossed the finish line with Dr Oak.

When you get to the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on.
--Theodore Roosevelt

We’d done just that; hung on! Amit had his 8/12 marathon in the bag; a marathon that was one-legged for the most part. And I’d notched two marathons in two weeks. Amen!

Down, but not out!

Even if you fall on your face, you're still moving forward.
Victor Kiam

We arrived at 7pm at Lal Chimney a bungalow in Lonavala, reminiscent of a colonial hunting lodge. Its dilapidated facade of red brick, dim illumination from flyblown bulbs and defunct fans hanging from wooden rafters on high ceilings, antique furniture that if burnished and varnished to a sheen, would fetch a kingly sum at "Sothebys" and a leaf strewn courtyard that hadn't seen a gardener for eons, gave it a dank musty ambience.
A maharashtrian caretaker beamed a smile as if I had arrived at The George Cinq:) The Parsi cook with her kindly heart but iron stare, answering your queries in a monotone made up for it all with her superlative culinary skills. I took the corner room, away from the excited chatter of runners that arrived a while later.


Venkat and Ashok brought on an atmosphere of a 'situation room' after a night raid by enemy bombers, with their discussion on logistics for the run next day. A delicious fare of chicken, vegetable curry, rice and bread, polished off with a jelly for dessert, saw the runners sufficiently carboloaded and ready to call it a day. I awoke to the muted sounds of Varun moving around in the room. I fixed myself an "English Breakfast" tea and pondered my fate for the day.

It was Sunday, 7th August; exactly one hundred days since I got discharged from hospital; a watershed event in my life: a near death experience and a resurrection of sorts. I had begun hesitantly about 60 days back, with a body that had been bludgeoned to extreme debility, but my bravado won me just 400m of run, after which I had to walk. I endured this walk-run sequence for 30 mins. A humbling experience for one that has completed 23 full marathons. I persisted though, and scripted my recovery with a training plan that allowed me to complete 22K in my last run, two weeks ago. How far would my body take me today?

For a gallant spirit there can never be defeat.

Wallis Simpson

We started at dawn with staggered starts for runners, from different points. I thought it prudent to stick with Roshni because I estimated her pace would most likely suit my blighted endurance. Our group comprised Roshni, Natasha, Rohit, Varun, Nikhil, Harbhajan and me. We started out from the bungalow and made steady progress in the early dawn light, crossing the bridge over a placid lake formed by the Tata Hydel plant and then past Bushy dam, which seemed serene sans the din and rowdy clamour that would engulf it later in the day. At the start of the climb leading to the Amby Valley road, I muttered warnings of steep ascents but the group coasted this hill with ease, having conquered a much challenging climb such as Rajmachi, just a week ago.

At the crest we saw the road level out into a vast breathtaking expanse of lush green landscape scarred by a smooth line of asphalt that seemed to extend into the distant horizon. Clouds engulfed us, billowing like smoke, revealing opaque revellers in a now-you-see-me-now-you-don't dance. SUVs sped past with excited picnicers hooting wry encouragement at what they surely thought, was a looney set of ascetics on an austere junket. Unfazed by the mocking catcalls, we trudged on to the first car placed as a make-shift aid station. This was the 10K mark and thankfully runners slaked thirst, refilled handheld bottles and helped themselves to dates, bananas and peanut ladoos. Roshni, in a self-deluded notion of glycogen depletion helped herself to more than a fair share:)


The cavalcade of runners made steady progress. A cool embrace of light wet breeze felt like bliss. We felt strong as we kept a steady pace, running past dense undergrowth on either side, trees dripping rain drops from leaves that glistened with beads of moisture. After another halt at the next aid station car, we'd done 18K and we were still warming up:) Further ahead we hailed Varun, Nikhil, Raj, Srinivas, Kingshuk, Kapasi and Vivek with some runners from Pune.


We reached the 23K mark at the Amby Valley entrance gates where Roshni decided to take a few pics with her phone. I felt fatigue building up due to inadequate intake of fluids. I was tiring on the return leg and took walking breaks to not only allow my legs to recover but to also ingest some gel, with the hope that it would stave of 'the wall'. I struggled to keep up, with my exertions now an audible wheeze. We met up with Usha and Kingshuk struggling with their pace too. Srinivas joined us with his additional loop and it was his stacatto chatter in Tamil, to the driver, that ensured we got some additional aid-station stops from the guy....much to my relief. The timely fluid intake helped me recover to reach the 36K mark, and the final aid-station where we met up with Venkat, Ashok, Sejal and Jitendra.


I felt recovered enough to take on the final 5K steep descent like a man possessed. I quickened pace within shadow-distance of Srinivas and Raj, who were sprinting ahead. I reached the base at Bushy Dam and realised I did not have Rohit' garmin to tell me what distance I'd covered. I ran on for what I felt was an approx distance that would certainly mean the full marathon. I was completely spent but elated with my achievement. I looked heavenward and crossed myself in gratitude. I felt a sense of reincarnation: A new Dan; a new milestone.

Always continue the climb. It is possible for you to do whatever you choose, if you first get to know who you are and are willing to work with a power that is greater than ourselves to do it.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox