The Mumbai Marathon: A Journey of Mind, Body, and Spirit

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. ​The 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. ​By 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.