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Hyderabad is hands down my favourite course so far — rolling, unpredictable, and full of character. Everyone had warned me it was tough, but I strangely thrive on inclines. Flat roads bore me or burn me out. Thank my early childhood training for those strong quads and calves! Now for the messy truth — my prep was patchy. Life got in the way. I barely squeezed in five short runs in the two weeks before the race. My coach @harican , rightfully concerned, told me to treat Hyderabad as a holiday, not a race. He even tried to convince me to just enjoy the food, do some shopping and leave the running for later. But I’m not wired that way. If I’m going, I’m running. So we struck a deal — I’d treat it like an LSD, take it slow, listen to my body, and if anything hurt, I’d grab an auto back to the hotel. Fair. The lead-up to race day was all good vibes — great company with my fellow Pettai Rappers (Rajan, Captain, Ashwin, Prakash, Balaji, Velu Sir, Suresh Sir, Vijaykumar Sir, Jyothi Ma'am, Hamsini, JD, Karthik), who shared stories from their training and past Hyderabad runs. We even squeezed in a screening of Coolie , which set the mood perfectly. It also happened to be my coach’s birthday, and he sent me off with just two words: ‘Rock it!’ — the only key I needed, he said. He was right. After a solid night’s sleep, I woke up calm, energised, and unusually clear-headed, carrying those words with me all through the race. This was only my 3rd HM — after FCM and TMM — both of which had me tangled in race plans and timing anxiety. This time, I ran free. No pressure. No watch-checking. Just great music (Hello, Carnatic Run Playlist), hydration, gels, and gut instinct. After my usual pre-run routines and stretches, I was wading through Coral A and ran straight into my coach, standing with Balaji and Velu, both of whom had trained hard for this race. I lingered with them until the clock struck 5:30:00 - and we were off. Normally I’d burst out of the gate, but this time I held back, starting easy: 10K in 69 minutes , just warming up. With my longest run in months being 13K, I braced for the familiar struggle and the inner demons that usually show up around that point. But this time — silence. My body felt strong, and before I knew it, I was cruising past 15K. I picked up pace, stayed steady, and for the first time in any of my HMs, I needed no breaks. No cramps. No panic. Just pure rhythm. I flowed through the course, one kilometre at a time, while time quietly faded away. By the final stretch, I was completely in the zone. Crossed the 2:15 pacer, entered Gachibowli stadium grinning like a kid, and finished at 2:14:11 — my most effortless HM yet. Calm. Controlled. Completely present. For the first time, 21K didn’t feel endless — the time flew, I enjoyed every step, and I didn’t want it to end. I just wanted to keep running! Just past the finish line, was our PR contingent. My coach looked bewildered. “How do you do this?” he quipped. Honestly, I don’t know either. But I do know this — I’m slowly learning to follow through. To stay the course. To grow up as a runner. Hyderabad’s route was abstract, wavy, and wonderfully unpredictable — much like my own running journey. But there is something special about it. If I ever do a full marathon, I might just come back here. This race was a turning point — not for the time, but for the temperament. I didn’t overthink, didn’t chase ego, didn’t burn out. I just ran. And that’s growth. Today felt like a gift from the running gods, one that I am incredibly thankful for. Truly grateful for a coach who patiently puts up with my erratic schedules and occasional disappearances, yet perseveres because he believes. And for this wonderful community that always shows up, has each other’s backs, and makes every run so much more meaningful. At brunch after the race, just as I was about to indulge in vodka shots with Rajan and Hamsini (coach, if you’re reading this, look away), the phone rang — it was coach. We all burst out laughing. The timing was priceless. I promised him no more races this year, just steady, consistent running and becoming better with every step. This time, I intend to follow through.

I restarted my running journey after almost 15 years, driven by a desire to lose weight, get fit, and because I love the outdoors. I enjoyed track in school and thought it would be easy to pick up where I left off. But my first day of C25K was a wake-up call—I could barely run 600 meters without feeling completely exhausted. I quickly realised running wasn’t a hobby I could just pick up and drop whenever I pleased. It was like I was learning to run all over again. At 35, I had to shift my mindset: it required discipline, lifestyle changes, and new habits. This marked the beginning of my journey to become a better runner—not just to reach goals, but to actually enjoy the process and not be weighed down by mental or physical limitations. After completing my first 5k, I rushed to the next goal: the 10k. But that’s when the complexity of running truly hit me. There were so many things to consider—training plans, diet requirements, protein supplements, strength training and even shoe selection. It was overwhelming. Despite the endless advice online, I realised I needed help. So, I decided to work with a professional, and that’s when Vaishnavi suggested coaching. Enter Hari. Hari was patient and thoughtful. He didn’t just give me a plan; he took time to understand my life, my habits, and my schedule. Sometimes, I’d ask way too many questions or be inconsistent, and I’m sure he wanted to pull his hair out at times, but he always responded with understanding and guidance. He didn’t just push me—he believed in me. And that belief, especially when I struggled with my own confidence, made all the difference. But honestly, my running journey leading up to the FCM was far from perfect. My discipline faltered. Sleep was erratic, food was unhealthy and life added on illness, travel, and concerts. In the 50 days leading up to my half marathon, I managed just 7 runs, instead of the 35 I should have completed. I felt lost. The thought of running 21k seemed impossible. My longest run had been just 16k, a month before. But Hari never doubted me. He assured me, “I wouldn’t let you run if I didn’t think you could finish.” That gave me the confidence to keep going, and he even set a challenging time goal to push me. I am a competitive person by nature and I push myself hard, a bit too harshly at times even. But this Race wasn’t about a PB for me; it was just another long run, part of my journey. So I decided to embrace and enjoy it. I learnt a lot of lessons - during the race and especially the day after, reading the stories of all you wonderful fellow runners—I realised a few things that will stay with me for a long time: 1. I need to be more disciplined with my eating, sleeping, and routines if I want my body to keep up with my goals. 2. Strength training isn’t optional. It’s key to running well, without fatigue or injury. 3. The most powerful lesson: community. Running isn’t just about the miles; it’s about the people you share them with. Having friends to lean on, to encourage you, makes all the difference on tough days. These are the things I want to focus on in 2025. I have a target for FCM 2026 already, but for now, I’m learning to go with the flow and enjoy running—not as a task, but as part of my life. I had already signed up for the TMM HM too before I came under Hari. Running 2 HMs in 2 weeks seems naive in hindsight. But I'm just going to embrace the challenge. Through all of this, I’ve rediscovered my love for running in a way I didn’t expect. It’s become a core part of me now, even spilling over into my music in ways I didn’t anticipate. I’m so grateful to this community and most importantly to Hari, for guiding me through this journey. I’m excited for what’s next, and I look forward to creating more memories with all of you.

Artistes are sensitive and diverse creatures. They are highly creative, deep thinking and intellectually sharp beings who constantly evolve. They bring imaginative ideas to the fore and explore them at will, while giving external minds the permission to be privy to this very personal art experience. There are many words which we freely use today, sometimes interchangeably. However, in application, they have vastly diverse meanings. Let us look at the words art and craft. In modern understanding, to put it in simple terms, anything with individual creativity is deemed art while the result of collective production is classified as craft. Art is a concept driven subject that requires varied levels of understanding, constantly driven by abstraction and aesthetic imagination. Craft on the other hand, is technique driven, with methods and processes in place. Craft is also driven by physical objects, whereas art is driven by intangible abstractness that is open to interpretation. Thought many strongly believe that there is art in everything we do and art is anything that ‘moves’ you, the term ‘art’ remains to be one that is constantly evolving. To describe a performance, we use words such as artistic, artistry and sometimes refer to the performer as an artiste too. A person who is naturally gifted with aesthetic understanding and creative skill, even with something as simple as colours and patterns, might be considered artistic. Similarly, a display of admirable skill or ability while performing a practised and predetermined action can be termed as artistry. A performer is someone who is skilled at a particular art form, with a solid grounding and understanding of the art itself, in order to perform it with ease and entertain a gathering of people. An artiste, on the other hand, is a trained performer who introspects and delves deep into the art form to find aesthetic meaning and explores the contours of the art itself, thereby revisiting the existing values and eventually creating an individual expression that give the art form tangible identity. When does a performer also become an artiste? A performer might be highly artistic and his craft of presentation can be smartly polished. But the content of the art itself is packaged to address the requirements of the audience, who is given priority. An artiste, on the other hand, is someone who uses this experience of being a performer, along with their individual talent and imagination to seriously indulge the aesthetic core of an art, thereby creating an intellectual stimulation, that incidentally transforms the by-stander to a different plane, where only the art is in complete focus. Art, by itself, is a broad classification that includes performing art, fine art, visual art and others. Let us narrow down to a specific form of art like music, where the art is also meant to be presented as an ‘artistic performance’. Does every performing musician then qualify as an artiste? A performing musician might be highly artistic, while exhibiting great technical mastery, precision and grace in his concerts. But as long as the thought process of the musician was directed towards the success of a concert and satisfying the pressures of a proscenium, the value of the presented art remains a limited quantifiable entity that is then forcefully transferred to arouse very specific reactions and emotions from the audience, based on their familiarity. There are times when ‘artistic performances’ are coupled with subconscious moments of art being explored by the musician, which is when we see glimpses of the true artiste within. We have ample proof of many musicians who sang extraordinary music through many years, but the amount of change or metamorphosis that their art went through was very minimal. On the other hand, we also have musicians who have constantly evolved and grown with the art through the years, who transcend the necessities of a performance, and evolve to become an artiste. These are the artistes that truly leave a mark behind in history as path breakers and game changers. Not because they wanted such labels, but because their path of exploration with the art led them through a journey that they joyfully embarked on. An artiste is not someone who is happy with just learning, practising, performing and teaching. She is one who sees value in reading about the past, learning about the history of the art, interpreting its past aesthetic, and most importantly, enjoying the process of unraveling the mysteries of the art itself, through serious thinking and honest questioning. An artiste is always on a journey, where neither goals nor destinations exist. Artistic awakening and musical receptiveness is not possible without complete surrender to the spirit of art. And to achieve this, while being true and honest to the art itself, is to be an artiste. Originally written as part of my column titled ‘Unheard Melodies’ for Bangalore based Performing Art Magazine – Saamagaana, The First Melody

What is the role of a voice? Is it a vehicle that carries the melody, the instrument that drives the song, the distinctive character that gives identity or the intangible that adds an important layer of emotion? What makes certain voices stand out, even if they are not texturally pleasing or tonally resonant? Does a very melodious and pleasing voice, though incapable of producing certain nuances essential for the music, rank higher than one that has a slight nasal twang or a crack in the timber, but capable of producing the necessary elements that form the core of the music itself? The nuances of a voice and its multiple interpretations are very genre specific. Any voice that is pleasant to the ears, pleasing in tone and robust in nature doesn’t necessarily qualify for music. What makes a voice special, more than its tonality and melody, is its music. There are many misconceptions in our understanding as to what qualifies as a good voice. There are also very interesting ironies that exist. Our understanding of a voice is so strongly driven by the music, that often, great voices are interchangeably attributed to great musicians with average voices, because of their superior musicality. Striking a balance between both, where the singer understands the complexity of his voice and his strengths as a musician, is where the challenge lies. Open throated singing is also sometimes wrongly attributed to those with loud voices. There are times when this excessive volume sacrifices the beauty of music. The subtlety of a Ramnad Krishnan singing a restrained, yet powerful rishaba in the top octave while exploring Bhairavi, is aesthetically as important as Brindamma's hauntingly nuanced raga delineations which are more driven by free flowing musicality, rather than pointless open throated exercises. We constantly hear declarations from the assumed aficionados and even experienced music listeners that Karnatic musicians practice poor voice culture and do not pay enough attention on improving their voice quality. Keeping the voice in shape means to maintain good voice health, to understand what diet and exercise works for each voice, and to practice good voice culture. Voice culture is deeply ingrained in this system of teaching, beginning from sarali varisai. A student's voice starts taking shape from the first class, when the first note is taught. Finer aspects of how to use the voice, where to use syllables and where to take pauses for breaths, are so beautifully and naturally positioned in the alankaras, gitas and varnas, that it becomes a part of the subconscious of every student. These tools also help serious musicians to maintain and strengthen their voices over the years. Being a genre that is strongly driven by the usage of gamaka, roughly understood as an oscillation of a note, there are innate challenges that come along with it. The subtlety of plain notes is used as a contrast and adds value only as an occasional participant between these gamaka oriented notes, depending on context and usage. The concept of gamaka is introduced very carefully during the formative years of a music student, who gains comprehension of its nuance over time. The voice is moulded with this specificity towards gamaka, to create music that is true to this genre. Voice culture is not a two month course that magically transforms your voice; it is a continuous process that needs rigorous work. While seeking alternative methods of voice culture is fashionable, it is important to note that each genre requires a particular method of voice training that patiently sculpts a voice, groomed and shaped in a specific fashion, to suit that particular genre of music. Seeking voice experts from alternative musical genres and coaching your voice under a different atmosphere and then adapting that training to a completely different form of music that requires an entirely different understanding of vocalisation, might not necessarily be the right choice. Musicians who effectively used their voice to communicate their musical values through genuine human layering, have always had a lasting impression with listeners. When we think of great voices in this genre, there are a few widely accepted names that include MSS, Voleti, KVN, Maharajapuram Santhanam, among others. But, weren't the voices of Madurai Mani Iyer, Ramnad Krishnan, T Brinda, MD Ramanathan, and Semmangudi equally special, even though they don't fit the criteria of being a conventionally melodious voice? What made them so distinct? In experiential terms, do we want to listen to mundane music from a crystal clear voice or passionate music from a recalcitrant voice? I can't think of anyone who can pour their heart out with more passion than Semmangudi mama, while exploring a raga like Kharaharapriya or excel at shruti shuddham like a Madurai Mani Iyer, whether he is adventurous with a Kapinarayani or singing the traditional Kambojhi. MDR's interpretations were solely his own, stunningly adapted to suit his baritone voice, while DKJ's intrinsic struggle in his voice added an unimaginable layer of emotion and modulation that made even the seemingly simple songs like Mahadeva Shiva Shambo and Gangadgishvaram stand out. RK Shrikantan and Nedunuri Krishnamurthy are two of the most prolific examples of people who maintained their distinctively quirky voices till their very end. TV Sankaranarayanan and Dr. Balamuralikrishna are modern day instances of longevity, who continue to demonstrate top notch voice quality, painstakingly preserved through the years. The voice and the music are manifestations of human expression. This deeper layer of comprehension gives us the complete picture of what a voice can be. When musicians find their inner voice, they find their expression of music. To appreciate this freedom of creative expression is to capture the idea of the voice. Every artiste has a unique voice and a distinctive style that suits their musical values. To understand both of these independently, and to be able to bring these two together in a seamless manner, is where the intellect of the musician makes a difference. To recognise that the music and the voice do not exist independent of each other is to know that the beauty of music is in the emotion of the melody, which is transported by the voice. Without honest music from the heart, what chance does a good voice stand? Originally written as part of my column titled ‘Unheard Melodies’ for Bangalore based Performing Art Magazine – Saamagaana, The First Melody

I was at a gathering today where a conversation took place over coffee and snacks in a well known coffee shop, which was followed by an interactive session between the audience and the speakers. One of the questions that came up was whether Carnatic Musicians are doing enough to promote themselves or whether they are selling themselves short in today's fast paced world. At that point, my mind went to the usual stereotypes; that it might not be worthwhile unless one actually has the talent and the ability, that Carnatic music doesn't actually require such an approach, and that Carnatic music is an art form for a niche audience. While I was going through my Facebook timeline for my customary fifteen minutes before I went to sleep, I came across a few posts by indie rock bands, contemporary artistes and 'independent' musicians (a term I don't fully comprehend), who were promoting their upcoming performances, album releases and foreign tours. Embellished profiles, glamorous photo shoots, testimonials from fans, photos with celebrity guest musicians, the works! There is nothing subtle in the way they put themselves out there, irrespective of their popularity, quality of music or age. At this point, I wondered if maybe Carnatic musicians were a few steps behind in effectively reaching out to sections of the population who haven't taken equal notice of the classical arts. In today's scenario where enough and more attention is given to the media, maybe just being good at what you do isn't purely enough anymore. So, what is the benchmark based on which an artiste is gauged; the quality of the music, the amount of money they make, the number of concerts they sing, the number of followers they have on their twitter handle and their Facebook page, the number of likes they get for every single one of their posts? Social media plays a huge role in today's world, and though limited in number, there are many established classical and contemporary artistes who have warmly embraced it and tread this line with ease. Will Carnatic Music actually benefit from such an approach and help bringing in a wider audience into its realm? Will the purists be open to such a methodology or will there be harsh criticism for being an unconventional sell out? Can one survive on being an extraordinary musician with just the hope that everything else will follow? Are Carnatic Musicians actually selling themselves short?

Listening to pristine music while travelling or sipping on a nice hot cup of tea is something I’ve always been fond of. The beaches of Chennai, the scenic roads on the ECR and the lovely routes through the Ghats while on a train, were my favourite listening haunts. But my recent experience of driving through the terrains of Leh and Ladakh whilst listening to Semmangudi, Brindamma and Ramnad Krishnan, was something very different. The ice glazed mountains and the coral blue lakes provided an apt backdrop for the music I was listening to. The battery on my iPod was dead for the first few days and I was left alone with my thoughts while admiring the beauty of the mighty Himalayas. When I had the opportunity to charge it, I wondered if music would continue to keep me in this mind space and add to the pleasant time away from the crude reality back home which involved noisy traffic and an unnecessarily busy life. What followed were 7 days of amazing beauty, both visual and aural. I realised even more, how fortunate I actually was to be part of such wonderful art and culture. Embarking on the voyage to Jammu (enroute Leh Ladakh) There was even a time when Semmangudi Mama’s Todi came to my rescue. Leh is a city that shuts very early except for a very few shops and restaurants. It was about 10.30 at night when I had packed a bunch of cheese potato steamed momos for dinner to take back to the Home Stay. The market was about 2 km from where I stayed and walking was the only form of transport. As I started my lone journey through the forest road to head back home on a very cloudy night, the lights on the small path suddenly went completely dark. I had a meagrely lit torch and a bag of hot food, while travelling through a street that had many hungry dogs. When a journey through a dark, remote and deserted road with a bunch of unrecognisable sounds coming from all directions is all that’s left to look forward to, the kind of fear that engulfs you is unimaginable. I decided to switch off the torch, plug in my earphones, and listen to Amba Nannu Brovave by Semmangudi, Lalgudi and Karaikudi Mani and just walk. What followed was 20 minutes of absolute bliss. I had forgotten all about the dogs and the sounds and the scary scenarios that my mind had started making up. The music took over and led me home safely. I had a hearty dinner, thanked my lucky stars and slept. I might’ve still been safe without the music and reached home in one piece but the kind of mental ease that music provides in the most dire of situations is astounding. True and honest music never ceases to amaze me. I did continue the rest of the journey with the music of these three legends, that made the mountains and waterfalls seem even more beautiful. But now, I sit in a coffee shop at Leh while waiting for my bus in a couple of hours to take me back home, which leaves me wondering if I’ll ever be able to experience music in such a wonderful atmosphere ever again. Is it ever going to be the same listening to music while driving through the narrow crowded roads of Mylapore or the innumerable glass IT buildings? Originally written for Sruti Magazine, in July 2013. Listen to the track below

Old vs New Reminiscing about the past and thriving in its glory is normal in all walks of life. Efficient ways of archiving, with the effective use of modern technology, has given us unimaginable ways to relive and connect with the bygone days. Music is no exception to this rule. Nostalgia is something that is a strong driving force in classical art forms, especially Carnatic Music. Today, we continue to interpret and listen to music through this layer of nostalgia that gives us a feeling of comfort, warmth and familiarity. Being respectful of the tradition and learning from its heritage is an important process. Even the greatest of artistes, in their early formative years, gave us music that was undoubtedly an echo of their past musical generation. Eventually, the echo always slowly faded away and from its silence emerged the distinctive music of each artiste. Through this essential and predestined journey of understanding the past and discovering themselves, they were able to freely explore the art form and ultimately find their own voice. The past has always supported and determined the future and has organically paved the way towards the next rational phase. But is the music we sing today any different from that which existed numerous decades ago, has there been any natural progression of the art form itself, or do we continue to allow the music of the present be strongly influenced by the past? The availability of historic recordings of celebrated musicians has played a very interesting role in today’s evolution of Carnatic Music. It has made sure that the music we practice today is a compulsory reflection of the olden days. While making the artiste more self aware and mindful of his or her own music in relation to that of the past, it has also placed the present music within the bubble of a past interpretation. By analysing the earliest recordings available of musicians from the 1900s, it is very clear that the music of their succeeding generation, which we constantly refer to as the ‘golden era’ of Carnatic Music, was a vibrant and radical break away from that which preceded them in terms of aesthetic orientation and structural construct. Though the majority of the available recordings of many musicians such as Ariyakudi, Musiri and others are merely samples from the final years of their musical output, it helps in reiterating the fact that the evolution of the art has always been constant, with artistes searching for their musical expression sans inhibitions, relentlessly daring in their approach to creatively express their beliefs. When we listen to unearthed vintage recordings of our favourite artistes, we are immediately hit with a jolt of musical nostalgia. For an ardent listener today, he is constantly bombarded with music from two different time periods. There are yesteryear doyens who continue to live through their music, whose music is constantly falling on one ear, while the music of the present generation artiste falls on the other. The mind automatically draws biased parallels between the two. For example, anyone who sings Kshinamai is immediately compared and equated with Semmangudi Srinivasa Iyer, irrespective of the interpretation or style of that particular artiste. Music listening isn’t disconnected from the past anymore, and this mindset has redefined the understanding of an historical construe, a standard against which all present music is equated with. The connoisseurs of the past also lived in the moment, and embraced the music that was presented to them at that time. Memory was the only tool that they associated and recollected past music with, and this gave them the liberty to embrace the music around them without any reservations and expectations. The art remained the focus, with both the artiste and the listener enhancing and accepting changes that came along the way, towards aesthetic development. This wonderful and dynamic approach towards evolvement made sure that the artistes were true to the musical form and the times that they lived in. One of the boons of their time was the pure experience of live music. Because live concerts were few and far in number with rare repetition of artistes, sharp listening skills and utmost focus were vital. It gave musicians the exciting prospect to understand and assimilate music in a conducive environment that provided the creative space to absorb the melody around them, make it their own, and then present it, in a manner that was wholly theirs. This naturally made every interpretation of each artiste tremendously, effortlessly unique. When we revisit the music of these masters with this comprehension, we realise that their grasp of manodharma sangita was in stark contrast to the way we comprehend it today. Every artiste approached music in a fashion that was profoundly different from the others. Every artiste understood their strengths and highlighted them, while giving us glimpses of magic in other areas of expertise that they subtly underscored. Every artiste sang at a different kalapramana and used different facets of their voice and musical understanding to enhance the beauty of music. Every artiste approached the same phrase of a raga differently with their own layering of aesthetics, gamaka, usage of syllables, vocalisation, style and individuality, because of which the same phrase got new colour and import when sung by different artistes. However, when we honestly introspect and faithfully look at the approach towards music in the current scenario, the comparative styles and interpretations of artistes are not strikingly distinctive and unique. The method and approach towards the various aspects of manodharma sangita in particular, have all merged into one common design idea that is widely practiced and taught. Linear thinking and methodical interpretations have arrested the organic evolution of music. With standardisation of creative music through time-tested routes that drives popular and successful concert music, abstraction in music remains adrift. Beyond a certain threshold, it is inevitable that the music sounds mechanical and planned. A present listener also needs to fathom that these masters gave us such wonderful music after years of musical understanding, maturity, constant assimilation and internalisation of the art. But the modern day pressures of being a successful musician, inevitably drives artistes towards making a choice driven by compulsion and competition rather than one that is motivated by the art. Do artistes cater to popular time-tested formulas or do they venture into uncharted territories like their predecessors and hope that the audience will also have an open mind like their predecessors? Is it possible to still eschew the need for reassurance and explore the musical contours without inhibitions and give us freedom of creative expression? This situation also exists, not because we lack the artistry, introspection or the intelligence today, but purely because of conscious efforts to try and recreate that wistful sound, thereby establishing a sense of familiarity with the listeners and ourselves. Artistes equally have the responsibility to be true and honest to their own personality and try and discover the music that is solely theirs. This is a genre that provides ample scope for experimentation, and it is our duty to try and push the limits and play with the boundaries to find music that is yet to be found. With deep introspection and fresh application of intellect, the possibility to create an aesthetic understanding of our own, which does justice to the past and is true to the present, is very real. Independent music comes with time and age, but it might never surface if we as listeners and artistes narrow down expectations and confine the music within common territory. Change should to be organic and progressive, without disregarding the history and the aesthetic boundaries of an art form. Hostility to change is normal, but with time, the mind learns to appreciate and embrace the fresh and novel, thereby carving the path to a prospective future, filled with new possibilities and opportunities. Maybe with a more forward thinking attitude, music might be nostalgic, yet progressive! Originally written as part of my column titled ‘Unheard Melodies’ for Bangalore based Performing Art Magazine – Saamagaana, The First Melody

Mumbai. I arrived with a head full of dreams—ambitious, maybe even a little naive. But this city has seen countless hopefuls like me, chasing something they weren't quite sure they could catch. It has a way of humbling you, reminding you that dreams come at a cost. This time, though, it wasn’t the city's fault. It was me. I simply wasn’t ready. It all started the day before I left Chennai, when I was on the phone with Hari. As always, he asked in his subtle way, “Are you sure you want to do this?” Hari’s praise was rare and his skepticism, even rarer. But caught up in the excitement of the moment, I shrugged it off.  Everything was booked—flights, hotel, race bib—there was no turning back. We ended the call with his usual last-minute advice. “Take care of yourself. Hydrate. Sleep.” I promised, though deep down, I knew I hadn’t done enough of any of that. The trip to Mumbai felt surreal from the start. Traveling with the Rappers, meeting Mo Farah, getting his autograph on my bib—everything was a blur of excitement. The Expo was a celebration of athletes, energy, and hope. The organisation was flawless. And the Rappers? They were full of wisdom, humour, and camaraderie. Their stories and advice were invaluable! But after a hearty lunch, a slow evening stroll around the hotel, and the quiet hum of the day winding down, I realised that despite all the advice, the excitement, and the preparation, I was tired. Really tired. The night before my Mumbai flight on January 18th, I managed to get a solid two  hours of sleep. Yes, two . Another hour on the plane. And then, a ​blissful hour and a half post-lunch at the hotel—so you could say I was practically running on fumes. I was optimistic though! I was determined—tonight, ​ to  get the sleep I so desperately needed . The air conditioning and fan were in perfect harmony, the room temperature was ideal—basically, I was set to experience the kind of sleep that would have me dreaming of a Sub100 HM finish. But then the universe had other plans. I don’t know what I did to deserve Room 001, right next to the service doors, sharing a kitchen wall that seemed to vibrate with noise. It started around 9:30 PM—just as I was about to drift off. The first thud startled me awake. No big deal, I thought. But then there was another. And another. The kitchen crew was in full swing—pots clanging, voices shouting, drawers slamming in a chaotic rhythm, almost like they were practicing for the most cacaphonical symphony in the world. I thought I could ignore it. I tried. But it felt like the noise was coming from inside my head. And then, when the noise stopped, they gathered outside my door. A casual chat at full volume, as if they were discussing the meaning of life at full volume. I went to the door 3 or 4 times, politely asking them to quiet down, but nothing changed. Finally, at 12:30 AM, desperate and exhausted, I lost my patience. I marched down to the receptionist ​ and had a full on meltdown , who, with a weary but knowing sigh, said, “Ah, it’s that room. It’s an every-night issue.” Well, lucky me. With just three hours to sleep before race day, I lay there, staring at the ceiling, consumed by exhaustion and doubt ​,  but I had no choice. The race was coming, whether I was ready or not. Despite everything, I managed to wake up feeling somewhat decent. But as I brushed my teeth, ​something was off and  my right hip ​ felt very wonky,  remind ​ing  me that my body was already protesting. Maybe I’d slept wrong, maybe it was just the accumulated fatigue. Either way, it didn’t matter. I took my usual SOS pill, swallowed it down, and tried to push away the nagging doubt. The excitement was palpable. Racers were already heading out, and I wished them luck before diving into my routine—more of a ritual, really. I left for the start line early, giving myself plenty of time to stretch and do my warm-up run. The atmosphere was electric—the crowd was massive, and the energy was contagious. People were nervously chatting about their pacing plans, hydration strategies, and even comparing their running gear. It was chaotic, but exhilarating. The start line was electric. ​T he sound of shoes hitting the pavement ​ slowly increased . I felt like I was in a dream, swept along by the energy of the crowd. I was in Wave D, scheduled to start at 5:17 AM, but by the time we crossed the starting mat, it was 5:11. I didn’t even notice—I was already in motion. The first few kilometers felt almost effortless. My hip, numbed by painkillers, was quiet for now, and the weather was perfect. For a brief moment, I thought maybe, just maybe, I could do this. Then came the Sealink Bridge—its gentle rise and fall felt like the rhythm of my own heart. I was gliding, my legs carrying me with a strength I didn’t know I had. By the 10K mark, I was ahead of my target, and it felt like I might actually make the 2:10 finish I had dreamed about. I finished the first 11K in 65 minutes. I was flying. But then came Peddar Road. Around the 12th kilometer, my pace slowed. And by the 13th, it stopped. My quads, ​ a ​lways  so reliable, betrayed me. They tightened up like I had never felt before. I stood there, frozen, unable to move. A kind watchman, seeing my struggle, offered me his stool. His gesture hit me harder than expected—it was a reminder that I wasn’t alone, even when it felt like my body was betraying me. I sat down, trying to calm my mind. I wanted to give up, but I couldn’t. Not now. Not after everything. I started walking, hoping the pain would subside. But it didn’t. The incline on Peddar Road was merciless, and my quads were screaming in protest.  I powered through the flyover incline on Peddar Road, spraying myself with whatever medical aid they had on hand. It helped, but not much. ​B y the 17th kilometer, the pain was unbearable ​ again, but I pushed through . At the 19th, my quads locked up completely. A ​gain  just 200 meters ​away  from the finish line ​ when I had to sit for a couple of minutes​ . ​  My body had given up, but my mind—strangely— ​ h ​eld strong . Thanks to the photographer who captured this beautiful moment. 200m before the finish line, completely exhausted and drained, while desperately trying to get my wife on video call! When I crossed the finish line in 2:25:48, I didn’t feel the joy I expected. There was no triumphant fist pump, no celebration. Just overwhelming relief and exhaustion. The crowd cheered, but all I could think of was getting to my phone.  I ​video called my wife to share the moment. She wasn’t there, but it felt like she was, and that small connection was everything. Looking back, I know it wasn’t the physical strength that got me across the finish line. The hydration stations were ​f​lawless. Water and electrolytes were clearly separated, and the spacing was perfect. I didn’t need to rely on my backup stash at all. Hari had always told me that the bottles I carry were only for emergencies—but here, they weren’t needed. The ​FastnUp bottles were a revelation.  But more than anything, it was the people​ and their energy. The streets of Mumbai, especially Peddar Road and Marine Drive, were alive with support. Families lined the roads, children as young as two handing out high fives and chocolates. Elderly people cheered us on from their doorsteps, braving the early morning chill. It wasn’t just the big groups; even solo individuals made their mark. One sign read: “In the first half, don’t be an idiot. In the second half, don’t be a wimp!” Another said: “I run because punching people is frowned upon.” But the most touching moment came when a young girl stood alone at an intersection holding up a sign that said, “People like you inspire me.” It was an act of pure kindness, and it carried me through the final stretch. ​ I ​mmediately after  the race, ​while I sat down just taking it all in,  I ​immediately  got a message from Hari.  His excitement was palpable—more so than mine, actually. I replied with a simple thank you, feeling a strange sense of guilt, as though I had let him down. He, however, was thrilled that I had completed it.   After the usual post-run rituals, I headed back to the room, took a quick shower, and found a breakfast spot nearby. But what I really dreaded was the call to Hari. I didn’t want to, but I knew it was coming. As I waited for my food, I kept replaying his question in my mind: “Are you sure you want to do this?”  I needed to know—what were his real expectations? When I finally dialed his number, I was at a loss for words. I wasn’t sure what to say, but I had to ask. He didn’t hesitate. “I asked you because I wanted to see where your head was at. Honestly, I didn’t think you’d finish.” His honesty hit hard, but there was no judgment, just the ​cold hard  truth he ​ was kind enough to keep under wraps . And then he added, “The only reason you finished was because you were determined. That moment when I asked you if you were sure? That’s when you found your resolve.” And just like that, the call turned into another of his trademark lessons—what I could have done better, what to avoid next time. Tough love, as always. But despite the sting, I was grateful. Grateful for his honesty, his support, and for believing in me even when he didn’t think I’d make it. That meant everything. This race was a lesson in every sense. It wasn’t just about physical endurance. It was about mental resilience, about pushing through when your body wants to quit. Two months of inconsistency, poor sleep, and little strength training had led me here—barely scraping by. But I now know what I need to do: build a foundation. Hydration. Sleep. Nutrition. Strength training. No more races for the next six to eight months. Just the basics. A massive thank you to my coach Hari for his endless guidance, and to the Rappers—Sridhar, Vrundha, Naga, Siva, Rajan, Gaurav, Hamsini, Aravind, Jerald—whose unwavering support ​ a ​nd amazing company made this such a memorable experience . To Erika and Yasir, your kind words at the Expo fueled me ​ and gave me confidence . And to everyone who reached out—especially LN, Vaishnavi, Velu, and Gautham—your encouragement was a lifeline. A heartfelt salute to the incredible volunteers and everyone at TMM who made this race possible.  The road ahead is long, but I’m lacing up again. And with each ​ r ​un , I’m learning that it’s not about the finish line, ​ b ​ut only the next step.