A Tale of Pain and the Art of Waiting

It started in September, on a road to Coorg that promised mist, coffee, and a weekend run. Somewhere along the way, I caught a fever, the kind that turns your body into a furnace and your dreams into hallucinations.

By the time I checked in at Coorg, I was down with acidity, indigestion, and something that felt like a general rebellion of all internal organs. I downed five Enos through the night like shots of courage, and still dragged myself to the starting line the next morning.

I finished my half marathon in a slow, aching 3:20. But the kid ran a 10K and was felicitated as the youngest participant there. My proud moment that made the whole misery worth it.

Back in Bangalore, the diagnosis came like a punchline I didn’t see coming - TB - Tuberculosis!

I’d written about that hospital episode earlier, when they extracted what felt like half a litre of my self-esteem along with the fluid from my lungs. Go read that little adventure here, if you haven't already: Fluid Well.

That was the low point. Or so I thought. Because here’s the strange part; I recovered spectacularly. The medicines worked like magic, my lungs cleared up, my spirits soared. By the end of September, I was not just walking but pedalling again. Really, the Velokofi Sept challenge was a piece of cake. I was kind of suspicious of my own recovery.

And then came Vedanta Delhi HM.

I didn’t tell anyone.

I did not even tell the kid. 

I just packed my shoes, my ego, and my barely-healed lungs and I sneaked out to fly-off to run the Half Marathon.

The Delhi HM was pure adrenaline. Flat route, stunning views, and the most electric crowd I’ve ever run with. I couldn’t crack sub-2, and yes, I brooded, but 2:11 wasn’t bad. I told myself that while sipping post-run Red Bull, secretly envying every sub-2 finisher.

On the return flight, I found myself seated next to a trainer. I recognised him, one of those people whose trainees finish in 1:30 types. He didn’t know me. I watched him scroll through timing charts of his runners. All the names neatly listed, each number stabbing at my pride.

I wanted to talk to him, tell him I’d just run too, maybe joke about my TB lungs still finding rhythm. But I didn’t. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the shame of my 2:11. Or maybe I just preferred to sulk in silence.

Besides, there was this strange discomfort brewing. I thought it was the run. It wasn’t.

The night after I returned from Delhi, I didn’t sleep. It wasn’t the excitement of my performance, or lack thereof. It wasn’t the thrill of post-race euphoria. No, it was the slow, creeping discomfort in places I never imagined could hurt so much.

At first, I thought it was just my legs protesting. A half marathon will do that. But by morning, it became clear. It wasn’t my legs. It was worse.

Imagine a kind of pain that makes you nostalgic for all the lesser humiliations of your life. I was in agony. And not the I-overdid-it-in-a-run kind of pain. This was personal.

By Monday morning, I couldn’t even go to work. It was clear I was in need of… well, the sort of doctor who deals with the most undignified corners of the human body. So, off to the hospital I went, half-hoping they’d give me an excuse to just not be human anymore.

The doctor greeted me with that look, the one that says, “Oh, this isn’t the first time you’ve been here.” I’m sure it wasn’t.

“Bend over,” he said, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

There I was, in a sterile room, trying to hold onto whatever shred of dignity remained as the doctor performed what can only be described as the least pleasant version of a push-back exercise known to man. It was… well, it was a pain in the ass, literally.

“I’ll see you on Thursday,” he said with a professional air, and I hobbled out of there, feeling more like a deflated balloon than a runner.

But I’ve never really been one to give up easily. Then why should my pain be any less stubborn? Kiss my ass. Thursday came and went with the same futile attempt at normalcy. The pain didn’t leave; it dug in with a vengeance. I longed for an ice-cold river and another of Vodka. By Friday, I was begging for a solution that involved actual intervention.

Surgery.

It was almost comedic. I went from trying-to-be-a-runner to undergoing-surgery in the span of five days. I guess that’s life’s way of reminding you that sometimes, you’re not in control. Especially not when your body is clearly plotting its own rebellion.

So there I was, post-surgery, on a bed that felt as uncomfortable as my situation. I had to take it easy. No running. No cycling. No movement. I was a prisoner of my own body, and my body seemed to take a twisted pleasure in holding me hostage. 

I should have taken it easy. Should have cherished the stillness. But when you’re the kind of person who craves movement, who lives for the next run or ride, a pause feels less like rest and more like punishment.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t brooding over all the lost time. All those events that came and went without me. Velokofi challenges I won't make, Wipro Bangalore HM that I couldn't run, THV I wouldn't race in, the Mysore HM that I cannot go for, the sheer agony of watching the calendar tick by without my shoes ever hitting the ground.

And there was the missing. The thing that eats at you when you’re sidelined. I missed that strange rhythm you get from long-distance runs. I missed the wind in my face, the adrenaline that floods your veins with each pedal stroke, the endorphins that made me feel like a superhuman, even if only for a moment.

I’ve already mentally crossed off the THV. I don’t even have the energy to mourn it properly. Another event I won’t make it to, but maybe the kid can. We’ll have to manage the timing, though. It coincides with the school term exams. I hope they'll allow a couple of rides at least.

Recovery is a funny thing. You can’t rush it. And while I could tell myself to be patient, to let my body heal, my mind had other plans. It was pacing, restless, gnawing at me. I’d get up, take a walk around the house, and then collapse back onto the bed in frustration. Why isn’t this healing faster?

There are moments, though, when the silence of recovery almost felt peaceful. A strange form of meditation, as if I can just let go of all the running, the cycling, and the chasing. But then, every time, the itch comes back. The desperate need to be moving, to break a sweat, to prove I can still go.

That’s the thing with injury. It doesn’t just hurt physically. It gnaws at your sense of self. You’re not just waiting for your body to heal, you’re waiting for that part of you to come back. The runner, the cyclist, the one who gets things done. The person who doesn’t sit idle.

But I’m still here. Watching the days stretch out in front of me, as I wait for my body to catch up. Slowly. Painfully. But, inevitably.

And my Strava profile had to be updated too.

Unsaid, Yet Seen and Heard

To be frank, I always had this blog in my head as my own personal corner of the universe. A space where I could vent, rant, and sometimes, quite literally, pour my heart out in raw, messy words. A space for catharsis, relief, or whatever else I needed at that moment. I wrote knowing that no one would pay attention. Not because I didn’t care. Rather, because I thought my words were simply too scattered. Too disjointed. Too imperfect to be of anyone’s interest.

Until, I heard from M.

It’s strange.
I just realized that M's been reading me. My words. Not just glancing. Not just skimming. But really taking them in. Understanding them. Analysing them. Processing them.
And it’s even stranger that M has spent time not just consuming but reflecting on my work with such depth. When I had never expected anyone to even notice. And then, worst of all, appreciating them while quoting my lines!

Well, what else should I have been expecting? After all, I wrote to be read, didn’t I?

And M's been reading me.
Really reading.
Between the lines. And beneath them too.

And I? I am both delighted and deliriously anxious.

There’s something humbling about knowing that my words are being read with such care. But there’s also an exposed feeling. Vulnerable even. As if my private thoughts have been pulled into the light, and now, I can’t quite hide them anymore. Or even myself, any longer. I feel ruffled. Almost like I’ve been caught in the act of being too raw. Too real. Too unpolished.

The truth is, much of what I write is chaotic. It’s a release. A scream. Or a sigh even. Depending on the day. But the fact that someone is paying attention gives my words a new weight.
And yet, there’s an honour in it. A deep sense of being seen. Of being heard. To know that someone has not only read but understood, connected with my emotions, my ideas, is humbling beyond measure. It feels like  a satisfaction of my yearnings, a fulfilment of my longings, and a hearing of my unsaids.

I think I’m coming to terms with the idea that writing isn’t just a solitary act anymore. Someone is listening. Someone is feeling the weight of these sentences. And as much as that fills me with pride, it also fills me with an unsettling sense of vulnerability. For I’m caught in this delicate balance. As much as I do want to revel in the fact that my words matter to someone, I also find myself suddenly questioning them. How much of me is in those words? How much is me being shared with the world, and how much should I hold back?

Now, if I can only shake off this sudden anxiety of being seen. 

I cannot thank M enough for the thoughtfulness, for the attention, and for making me realize that maybe, just maybe, my words are worth more than I ever gave them credit for. M's ability to capture the depth I felt while crafting my phrases, to distill meaning into my simplest moments, has strangely made me reconsider the value of my own chaotic thoughts. M's note has helped me see that what I've put out there are more than just words, but they’re fragments of something real that may in fact be worth sharing, after all. And that insight gives me confidence. Not because M explicitly said as much, but because of the way M said it, without really saying it outright.

Speaking of saying things without saying them, I find myself smiling when I think about M's reflections. The way M perceives what’s beneath the surface. The irony. The contradiction. The nuance. The way M caught the rhythm in my obsession with certain monotonies, contrasting it with my aversion to others, each bit of it sharp. Clever. The way M understood the weight of my choices, and my need to own them. If I had imagined myself any reader at all, I would have wanted my reader to catch it. And M saw it. M felt it. M listened to what I left unsaid. Quietly. For now M has in turn made me realize something I hadn’t fully seen before; how nobility isn’t always loud, how it doesn’t always demand a spotlight.

Then there's also the wit that M brings into the conversation. Never forceful. Yet sharp. Gentle. Exactly what’s needed to make a point. Just right. I am amazed by M's remarkable knack for infusing humour into the most unexpected places, subtly weaving in smart reflections on grace, comfort, and life’s small absurdities. Reading M's note was like watching a magician work. One minute, it’s a casual observation, and the next, it feels like a spark of quiet wisdom. That balance of humour and thoughtfulness is something rare. Beautiful. Makes me quietly proud. And deeply admiring. M’s made me see my own work in a different light. Not as scattered thoughts. But something more. For that, I am both grateful and in awe. Humbled too.

For reminding me that even in the mess of words, there’s a thread of meaning. One that can be seen. Understood. Appreciated. And, I am deeply grateful, honoured even, for doing all that with a subtlety and grace that leaves me both in awe and slightly jealous.

Here’s to more words, more thoughts, and more moments where we understand what’s unsaid.

A Hijab-trap We Ran Into

We have been played. Ambushed, even. The hijab controversy in Kerala was never about religion, nor about school uniforms, nor even about a little girl’s right to wear what she likes. It was about provocation, about setting a trap so cleverly that even the reasonable, educated crowd would walk right into it waving their sense of moral clarity like a flag.

And we did.

The communal forces of our time no longer thrive on desire; those days are gone. The promise of heaven or the lure of gold can no longer summon mobs. We’ve grown past such crude motivations. What drives them now, what sustains them, is fear. Not even real fear, mind you, but the mere  suggestion of fear. A carefully whispered 'other.' The ever-creative human imagination does the rest. It doesn’t take much to turn a scarf into a symbol, a child into a threat, or a school into a battlefield.

And so, here we are; arguing, moralising, litigating, over what was essentially, merely, a headscarf. One that could have been defused with a simple colour code and a gentle shrug. The school could have said, “Fine, make it navy blue, make it gel into the uniform,” and it would have ended there. A small act of empathy, a touch of administrative flexibility, and we could have turned a potential flashpoint into a quiet example of coexistence.

Instead, we let it spiral. We fanned the embers until it became a blaze. We made headlines, hashtags, and holy wars out of something that didn’t even deserve a raised eyebrow. We handed the architects of chaos exactly what they wanted. Visibility, noise, outrage. Their machinery feeds on our overreaction. And we fed it generously.

And now, we’ve gone too far into their envelopment tactic. Too deep into the labyrinth they’ve laid. There’s no coming back from this one, not without scorched credibility on every side. Every new statement, every fresh opinion, only fuels the same inferno they started. It’s checkmate, and we walked right into it, stupidly, thoughtlessly, provoked, blind with rage, far too eager to prove something, utterly pointless.

This, right here, is how modern communal politics works. It no longer needs a riot. It just needs a reaction. Every court petition, every prime-time panel, every social media crusade becomes part of their choreography. The trap isn’t the event. It’s our response to it.

And that’s why I’m writing this. Because in all the noise, I haven’t seen anyone call it what it is. A brilliantly engineered provocation that succeeded because we refused to see through it. We’ve been played. The least we can do now is admit it, learn, and stay quiet the next time they dangle bait so bright. Maybe, if we learn to starve the beast, it will finally die of hunger.

Two Dreamers, One Language

It’s hard to believe that beings like John Lennon and Mahatma Gandhi once walked this earth.

I arrived as John was leaving, and long after the Mahatma. Yet every time I read about them, I’m struck by the same disbelief... that human beings could think and live at such frequency.

They were, in their own ways, rebels of peace. Gandhi spun homespun cloth and silence into revolution. Lennon turned guitars and irony into protest. Neither raised a weapon, yet both shook empires. One colonial, the other cultural.

Gandhi said, “Be the change you wish to see in the world.” Lennon said, “Imagine all the people living life in peace.” Different words, same commandment disguised as a dream. Both invited us to believe that transformation begins not with systems, but with the self.

Of course, both were beautifully human in their failings, Gandhi’s moral extremism and Lennon’s contradictions and cruelty. Yet those flaws make them real. Without them, they’d be myth. With them, they’re possible.

They taught us that peace can be a form of rebellion, that love can be a political act. And perhaps what lingers most is the simplicity of their question, still echoing through decades and cynicism alike;
What if we just refused to hate?

Some may call it frivolous to revere John alongside the Mahatma, or even preposterous to study Gandhi in the same breath as Lennon. Maybe it is. But I’m afraid I’m that kind of dreamer after all. The sort who still believes that ideas don’t need to match in scale to rhyme in spirit.