long may you run

running – as a sport, a recreation, is an immensely pleasurable thing to do.  all it requires are a pair of shoes, some quiet space and a love for being mindful  to your body.  it can be as competitive or relaxing as you wish.   you can be quite the brand ambassador for an ever growing variety of running gear (bum bags,  skorts,  fitness trainers ,  calf sleeves,  hydration belts,  layers of clothing,  anti-glare glasses, for a start)  or  you can be more of a  stick- to- the- basics type - where you pretty much only invest in a pair of appropriate shoes.   the magazine and media driven promotion of running is ironic given that it is essentially an activity we indulged in as a species since our time in the serengeti.

pictures of statuesque runners with trendy gear, casually coiffed hair, and happy group smiles and fist pumps portray the modern runner(s) on magazine covers and sports wear advertisements, with a subliminal  winning-is-everything  message.   an actual runner usually looks a lot less picturesque with sweaty hair, mismatched gym clothes, a flushed face and a look of satisfaction on “carpe”ing the diem as it were. both types however seem to get pleasure from hard work, discipline and the corporeal.

i’ve always been a bit of an outdoor person – my early childhood  saw me climb trees, often sleep outdoors gazing at the night sky, play every kind of sport and game.  i did run a few short races in school but i was never drawn to sprinting or to competitive organised running.  it was only during my late teens  that i entered the truly pleasurable world of running alone. no racing, no “opponent”, no stress, no sweat (figuratively anyway).  when i lived abroad  i  began running  along scenic trails through woods and grassy meadows,  through ice and snow country,(learnt to visually distinguish between run-able slippery to safe  types of ice) along small farms and creeks, along winding rivers, crashing waves and  unending stretches of country roads – i soaked in the sensory pleasures of  all things foreign - the richness in the variety of the terrain, of the woods, the groves of sycamores, of redwoods,  the distinct seasons,  the smells of grass in summer, the sticky richness of maple syrup being tapped, and the sight of placid  cows chewing away lazily- i even enjoyed the sight of fellow runners with their often futuristic looking apparel and accessories (women in head-to-toe spandex pushing  running buggies in the dead of winter was to me one of the most “foreign” sights ever). and i always loved the quiet. i neither craved for nor sought after a running group or companion– there was so much overwhelming beauty around – it required no extra sentiment of appreciation whatsoever.

to me running is like much like reading a book – best done alone, without much need for discussion, a time to slow down one’s thoughts, to pay attention to the world one runs in. it is an early morning clearing of cobwebs in the mind and a peaceful way to plan my day ahead. (the fact that somehow my day never goes as planned deters me never). i don’t ever plug-in  to  music when i run and choose instead to listen to the sounds of the morning - bird calls, the timeless trrring of the milkman’s bicycle.  often i simply enjoy the soothing sounds of  the soft  panting of my dogs running beside me and of my feet  landing on the ground in rhythmic  pace.  Thoreau was probably not a runner but i think he must have also felt the same way walking through the woods “I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude.”

 

nowadays,  i run quite leisurely (sounds better than slow) in definitely non-scenic, urban surroundings. a few short stretches of road sans people and vehicles is as luxurious as i can wish for it to be.  yet it is as close to meditation and mindfulness as  i  get -  no distracting conversation,  bad moods to handle (or ignore),  definitely no picture taking to post on social media.  i neither measure nor care about my speed or distance or heart-rate but i do fret if i need to miss my unremarkable, non-scenic, often non-quiet  run in the morning.  running is primal and pleasurable.  as the writer murakami says  “I’ll be happy if running and i could grow old together “.

food on my mind

every family has its worthy  talents – some do math, some churn out doctors, some play music, some rule countries, some offer unsolicited advice, - a core strength is passed on in their DNA.  i come from a lineage of good eaters - we certainly know how to “put it away” as my uncle would say.  lead us to a buffet-trough and we’ll get to the stomach of the matter in no time.  not for us some glutinous  making -a –pig- of- yourself-ness.   we eat well.  that’s it.  food is fuel (and a little fat ) for the body and yes, a bit of comfort for the soul.  at home, food was always varied and plentiful- we shared it, we served it , we packed it for picnics and moonlight dinners on the terrace.  we were not allowed to ever complain about

what was on the table -  other conversation was however intrinsic to the meal experience - we talked about books and music, things we’d seen on trips,  who the most insane person in our extended family was (this could take a while- competition being tight in terms of quality and quantity- my mother insisted her family was a bit eccentric while my father’s was purely insane), how the principal (or warden) wanted to meet my parents (again) , who scraped the car door this time– you know regular family stuff.

but after i grew up, i  met plenty of non-family weirdoes and  i came to realise that there was a “World of Food”.  apparently people discussed what they ate for breakfast, what they’d like for lunch (not a simple- i would love to have beetroot vadai- but –  beetroot vadai the way latha made it in 1984 a week before it rained in coutrallam) and what they hoped was in store for their dinner.  people around me  traded recipes endlessly, bought books on food (preparation and presentation) organised get-togethers that focused on more  food  (when do we eat? being my only  bored and  telepathic contribution). soon there were food columns in the papers, blogs on the net and zombie foodies on the same planet as me. i was bombarded with “correct” information on Mexican or Italian food (mostly by people who wouldn’t be able to find Mexico or Italy on a map) the ingredients, their pronunciation, cooking techniques, culinary habits....how to pronounce croissant like a Parisian would (the same dorks however say vada instead of vadai the way a coimbatorean should)

  

food fascists took over the world unannounced – when i went out for lunch with one such, he shuddered when i added the bits of chilli-in-vinegar  to my Chinese soup and chose to “educate” me that it wouldn't be the authentic chinese way . WTF ? – my noshing legacy was from a father who never wasted time in reading (or even pretending to read) the menu at ANY restaurant – he would simply order sweet corn chicken soup and an impressive host of other goodies that were never made at home. no sensible maître d ever looked down his boring nose at him- maybe my father’s prodigious one man-all buffet talent bowled other lesser mortals over?

 

so really all this talk of food in terms like "party in your mouth" (allowed only if you intend to be disgusting) "drool-worthy" (only if you’re a german shepherd) "succulent" (only if talking about a cousin of a cactus) "muddled flavours" (only if you’re referring to the spice girls) "notes of nuttiness" (only if talking about extended family)  "sinful" (only if you have stolen the slice of pie from your neighbour). yummy (only if you’re a 4-year old)  – gets to me.  if you really know the difference between every bloody grain, wine, berry, cheese and herb – you are probably just a nerd.  but don’t tell me if Mexicans eat their tacos with lime squeezed on them  or not. they probably don’t even  care about that considering they now  live next door to a sinful, muddled, nutty  party in the head wall-building despot.  and definitely don’t get me started on the other "healthful" food trip about whole grain-very berry - simple older folks knowing best and how shining is their homespun wisdom of

ye yore - my grandfather who lived to be healthy (but eccentric) 85 ate whatever fare was offered at his table- brain curry, liver curry,

blood curry (and when he tired of limb and  organ donors) partridge, prawn and crab in toto.  Peruvian millet on his leaf-plate?  a post prandial desert of acai berries for good health?   as unthinkable  as me asking anyone for a bloody recipe.

flights of fancy

i hate flying  in airplanes.  i hate it now and i hated it as a child- i would remind my parents of it by being sick on every flight trip they took me on.  during take-off: sick.  during landing : sick. cruising sans turbulence :sick.  airborne and  turbulent : sultana of  sick. i did survive all that and  emerge a swanky adult  who can be blasé about flying  and one who no longer  gets  green around the gills.   but, in truth, even now the night before a flight i am usually restless and  apprehensive of the forthcoming excitement. the next morning  will find me  a bit nervous -  i take many  a calming breath, buckle up, clutch my seat in what i think is an unnoticeable way,  grip the seat belt for extra assurance  and before i  know it i have been dropped off at the airport.

after a firm resolution to “take it all in stride” , i enter the terminal.  an ominous name for a building involving  travel.  the baggage check in is easy peasy and i give myself points for staying on course. (plus i am aware that my ride home would have driven off hastily and in relief)  the security check awaits and i know  i’ll breeze through having left my weapons cache at home.  the body pat-down is more intimate than any relationship-touching (of late) and i pointedly avoid  eye contact with the lithe and strapping young guard who has just felt and frisked my assorted bulges.   next is the  waiting lounge where there is a small sea of humanity, doing that thing that only humans do – checking their phones of course.  many multi-lingual (and mostly incomprehensible) announcements are made  for arrivals, departures, check-ins, late passengers and i get a whiff of a call for pre-boarding.  is that some Schrödinger thing where perhaps you board but you' ve not boarded? all too soon comes the call for the actual boarding of my flight  and the lucky mob  rushes to the transit bus all eager to be in the little box  that will soon be miles above the ground.

inside the flying palace my spirits aren’t much better – the stewards in their inhumanly neat uniforms and android hair make me feel like i’ve  nurtured  my fashion sense from the spin cycle of the washing machine.  but i do match their bored pasted- on smiles with one of my own!  i quickly scan the profiles of the seated passengers  and fervently hope that i am not going to be next to a parent with a toddler or baby- while i give the parent a sympathetic look i  know this isn’t going to go well.

 the spitting and spluttering baby will cry from take off to landing. (why not just be quietly sick like i used to?)  if there’s an older toddler there’s the added danger of speech involved and an incessant  volley of questions that the exhausted parent wisely pretends not to hear.  the next to- avoid kind of  passenger i hope not to sit near  is the rather oversized person who spills into the neighbouring seat. sitting next to this person means spending  a good portion of the trip with one’s elbows and knees clapped together – reminiscent of  long-distant slave trade transport of ye yore marked particularly by its lack of spaciousness. another challenging variety  i like to avoid is the newly married couple- easily distinguished by the new bride’s armload of bangles and with more mehendi ink than  tattoos on a sailor.  in tow is her adoring  and adored beau.  if you are part of their threesome (seating wise) they’ll give you a look of resentful dismay.  there’ll be some sprightly whispering  (mercifully to each other only) , feeding of stale and decidedly unerotic  airline food (mercifully to each other only)  and other  matrimonial  rituals which may  trigger off my  sickness in airplanes.  just kidding- i’m not the picky kind.

once seated next to my ideal fellow passenger - a taciturn newspaper reading-phone checking-eyes shut type, to whom it matters not what my good name is or where the devil i’m put up, who has neither new spouse  nor old infant, i buckle up. as the plane’s doors close my life flashes before my eyes.  in an abridged,  trailer- of- the- movie manner.  the safety presentation is not a bit reassuring as i worry if the stewards will help during an emergency or if they will refrain because that may  defile  their  uniforms.  i also wonder if i can “borrow” the neon-yellow life vest  ( placed under my seat) to  take home.....against federal regulations  with possible imprisonment the overhead voice drones on as if reading my mind.  i rule out any kidnapping of the little yellow vest. for now.

its time to take off  the pilot cheerily says and i try to breathe normally (is this my last time ever?) . i notice that a pretty bag (for any heave-ho) has been placed thoughtfully within reach. what more can a gal ask for? bring it on i say - all is well in the friendly skies.