The Last Hundred Meters

Sunday mornings don’t usually begin this full—of people, of music, of something quietly swelling beneath the skin. But that’s Jatre for you. A runner’s carnival at HSR, where the roads are shut to traffic and handed over to the feet that love them. The CM might get protocol—but runners, on this day, get the road.

It was my first Jatre as a participant. Until now, I had only ever been on the sidelines, dropping off my son—he, the real runner in the family. Fourteen, with a smooth gait and the kind of effortless rhythm you only get when you don’t think too much. He’s a long-distance guy, prefers the 10K. But at Jatre, his category limits him to 3K. Still, it’s one of his favourite events.

And now, mine too.

This year, I was finally running. A late bloomer to the sport, but I’ve taken to distance like it’s a second skin. Ten kilometres—not fast, but steady. Stubborn. That morning, I’d signed up for the 10K, and my son for the 3K. His race was nearly an hour after mine, which meant he'd have to be there early—just to wait.

I didn’t want to do that to him. His sleep matters. Especially before a run. So I ditched my usual plan of cycling to the venue—though that would’ve been perfect warm-up—and chose to drive instead. Just so he could catch a few more winks in the backseat, shoes off, legs stretched.

When we reached HSR, parking was tight. I found a spot a kilometre away from the stadium. My friend Shibin had already picked up our bibs. I was clumsy with the pins—nervous fingers, fumbling like I’d never done this before. My son watched, amused.

“Relax, Acha. You’ll do fine,” he said.

A fourteen-year-old calming his father down before a race.
Life, in its gentlest irony.

I handed him the keys, told him to rest in the car. His run would start later. I warmed up, plugged in my earphones—classic rock, full volume—and joined the crowd at the starting line.

And then I ran.

Hated the first kilometre. Cursed the second. Settled into pace by the third. Found my rhythm by the fourth. Somewhere between chasing a personal best and ignoring a rising cramp, the phone rang. Odd. No one calls me this early. Especially on a Sunday.

It was him. My boy.

He couldn’t find the car.

HSR can be disorienting—all its parallel roads identical, like memory traps. He sounded unsure. Lost. I was five kilometres in, breath tight. But strangely, I wasn’t angry. Running does that. It quiets the temper. Or maybe my brain, short on oxygen, just forgot how to be upset. Either way, I kept my voice even. Told him to wait by the gates. We'd make it work.

And I ran harder.

By the seventh kilometre, I’d caught up with the 45-minute pacer. Briefly. Held on till the eighth. Then faded. But not entirely. I was close. Close enough. I pushed through the ninth, all out. And then, at the last hundred meters—there he was. Waiting.

We didn’t say anything.

We just ran that final stretch together.

I collected my medal. A quiet kind of pride tucked in my chest. No fanfare. Just walking forward, son beside me. We headed toward where the car should’ve been. But the streets looked different in daylight. Landmarks had shifted. The Kotak board I’d noted earlier—the one four or maybe five floors up—was missing. Or hidden. Or maybe I was too tired to see.

We asked an old man for directions, but I didn’t wait for his reply. We kept walking. Searching. Hoping the car would be at the next turn.

A two-wheeler passed. I waved him down. He didn’t stop.

It stung.

But I told myself, this isn’t their burden. They don’t know our morning. They haven’t felt what this means to a father trying to hold it together. This is mine to solve. Mine to carry.

And then—there it was. That red Kotak board. Dim now in the morning light, but unmistakable. I pointed. My son ran ahead.

But it was time.

His race would’ve started.

And that’s when kindness arrived—on an Activa.

A Disha volunteer. Not even near the main venue. Off the map. Off the route. Just... there.

“You’ve got ten minutes’ grace,” he told my son. “Don’t worry, the chip will record. I’ll drop you.”

I wanted to hug him. Break down in his arms.

But all I could offer was a small, breathless “Thank you”—far too plain for the avalanche of feeling behind it. I had handed him a matchstick when he’d just saved my house.

My son laced up his shoes, climbed on, and rode away.

I stood there, catching my breath. And my heart.

He didn’t need the grace time.

He made it to the start line.

And he finished first.

And now, here we are—basking in that quiet glow of victory, while the one who made it possible rides away nameless.

A kind Disha volunteer, a stranger on an Activa, who showed up exactly when we needed him most.

I never asked his name.

Never thanked him enough.

May he never lose his way, like we did that morning.

This—this is all I have to give: a soft, silent wish sent into the world.

Wherever you are, brother—thank you. Truly.

https://www.novarace.in/events/bengaluru-runners-jatre