My inner critic wakes up when I’m running.

Over the years, I’ve come to accept my intellectual limitations. I have never had a particularly good memory. My arithmetic skills aren’t much better. I’m a slow learner. These realisations have helped me make peace with myself and be kinder to myself when things go sideways.

Strangely, that kindness disappears when I’m running.

There is a deep-seated desire to outperform myself. An inner voice that is never satisfied with my current running numbers. An anxious side of me wonders why other runners seem to have it so easy, despite knowing that some are far more talented than I could ever be, while others may have started running many, many years before I did.

The race would barely be over, and I would already be reaching for my phone. Before the exhaustion had settled or I had even processed the run, I would open Strava and anxiously look at my numbers. I would listen as the podium finishers and their timings were announced, then feel disappointed with my own performance. What could have been a happy and proud moment would soon turn into disappointment, accompanied by the realisation of how far I was from the top performers.

The feeling is reminiscent of a student who is constantly comparing marks with classmates. This restlessness has even led to injuries. I haven’t always given myself enough time to recover, and I’ve often signed up for more running events than I can realistically handle. The result has been the aggravation of existing injuries or the development of new ones. In many ways, this has also led to poor preparation.

When I reflected on this, I realised that being a good athlete had become part of the person I aspired to be. This created a constant need to push myself beyond my limits, sometimes to the point of physical breakdown. My eagerness to get faster has made me commit to goals that may simply have been beyond my capabilities at that particular point in time.

Perhaps this goes back to my experience of being reasonably good at sports, but never quite good enough to compete at the highest level in any one of them. I participated enthusiastically, but rarely made it onto the top team. I watched peers who were much more naturally gifted deliver far better performances with what seemed like far less effort. Perhaps I never realised my potential because I didn’t receive the specialised training I needed during my formative years. Or perhaps I simply wasn’t blessed with that level of natural talent. Whatever the reason, this inability to perform up to my own perceived standards has left me with a restless mind whenever I pursue a sport or engage in a fitness activity. There is always that nagging thought at the back of my mind: Am I winning?

Was my ambition becoming a form of self-punishment?

A recent ankle injury brought these scattered thoughts into focus. I spent some time examining myself and realised that I had been in performance mode whenever I ran, to the extent that I had forgotten the joy of simply doing it. I had begun to confuse the measurement of my running with the experience of running, often linking performance data to my worth.

Yes, having goals in running is important, much like it is in life. Perhaps the trick is to want more from yourself without losing sight of what your body can realistically handle.

It has been four weeks since I began treatment for my injury, and not once have I felt the urge to run. I am enjoying the absence of that pressure. I intentionally did not sign up for any races, as I knew that doing so would put pressure on me to get back on the roads before I was ready. I still identify myself as a runner, but this time, my mind has become quieter.

I’ve been consciously monitoring even the smallest changes in my ankle and staying away from activities that could set back my recovery. I am slowly coming to terms with the fact that I may never achieve the timings that some of my peers do. And perhaps that’s okay. In other words, I am admitting that I could be mediocre in a domain of life that I desperately want to excel in. It has also made me realise how complex our minds can be. I may tell myself that I’m kinder to myself, but there are still parts of my life where my inner voice isn’t particularly kind. Fitness, sport and parenting are a few of them.

As I work on reshaping my relationship with running, I keep returning to something my dear friend Deepak Venki once said:

The only thing I want from life is to have the energy and vigour to be ready for a 5K on a bright Sunday morning in my 60s.

Deepak Venki

Originally published at http://thisiscontentfactory.wordpress.com on November 10, 2026.

That red SG ball, the seam upright, moving at pace towards the top of off stump on a sunny Indian morning. That is the sight we will miss.

A cricket romantic’s farewell to Mohammad Shami

Seam position. Seam movement.

For the longest time, despite being an avid cricket follower, I didn’t know such a thing existed. Not really. Not until one man turned up in my cricketing imagination and made me notice the magic hidden in the smallest of details.

Mohammad Shami.

A man whose seam presentation is a thing of legend. Commentary boxes have waxed lyrical about it for years, and it has been a privilege to witness a magician at work. The seam, held upright and released with astonishing precision, seemed to promise a question the batter could never quite answer.

Learning to love the seam

It is not easy being an Indian fast bowler. You toil hard on tracks that offer little bounce through one Indian summer after another, season after season, hoping the selectors take notice. Finally, when that call-up arrives, more often than not, you get five or six overs before the shine disappears and the ball is tossed to the spinners to begin the real work.

That had been the modus operandi of home Tests in India for decades. Then came the 2014–15 season, when a crop of young fast bowlers began coming through the ranks, alongside a captain in Virat Kohli who was unapologetic about wanting genuine pace to be unleashed on the opposition.

There was an Ishant Sharma who found a second wind, a fiery and quick Umesh Yadav, a swing maestro in Bhuvneshwar Kumar and a sleeping giant in Mohammed Shami. A change was on the horizon. By the time Bumrah joined the party in 2018, Shami was already four or five years into the job. Their partnership would usher in a golden period for Indian fast bowling.

Bumrah was unusual and unrelenting, with an action that hurried batters and a variety that made him difficult to line up. Shami was the seam-bowling monster who could conjure magic at will and run through an opposition when he found his rhythm. Ice and fire. Consistency and magic.

The second-innings magician

For the longest time, Shami’s greatest strength was also seen as his weakness. He was thought of as someone who needed time to find his rhythm. The pattern became so familiar that “Second Innings Shami” became a nickname among cricket pundits.

The story of how Ravi Shastri once provoked him into producing a spell for the ages in South Africa by teasing him about his love for biryani has become part of cricket folklore. It is a wonderful story because it captures something about Shami: once the switch was flicked, there was very little the batter could do.

Over the years, he gave us a catalogue of spectacular performances. It began with a sensational debut, followed by a masterclass in using bounce in Australia, some outstanding spells in South Africa, where India have historically found things difficult-and a clever exploitation of an uneven Visakhapatnam surface.

A bowler who thought like a batter

A closer look at his dismissals tells you that Shami had one of the sharpest cricketing brains around. He would measure up a batter and work out exactly which trick might unravel him: the classic bouncer followed by the full delivery; a succession of outswingers before bringing one back in; or, out of nowhere, a slower ball aimed at the stumps.

He seemed to have an answer for every situation he was thrown into. The beauty was not merely that he could execute a delivery. It was that he understood when to use it. His art was built on repetition, but it never felt mechanical. Every delivery carried intent.

2023: the Shami phenomenon

For me, the epitome of Shami-ism was the 2023 World Cup. The impact he had on that tournament and on the collective consciousness of the cricket-watching community was reminiscent of Mitchell Starc’s 2015 World Cup. To think that Shami was sitting out of the initial matches, only to come in after Hardik Pandya’s injury and finish as the tournament’s leading wicket-taker, tells you everything about the red-hot form he was in.

There was always a sense that something was around the corner when Shami came on to bowl. You could be watching a perfectly settled partnership and suddenly find yourself paying a little more attention. He had this ability to get a wicket out of nowhere. Sometimes it was a beautiful outswinger, sometimes a bouncer that hurried the batter and sometimes a delivery that you couldn’t quite figure out how it had come back in. You never really knew what he had planned, but you knew he was always working something out.

The artist and the batter

Even his wicket celebrations told you something. Shami never seemed to see bowling as the antithesis of batting, or the batter as his enemy. There was no unnecessary theatre of hostility. Every time he ran in, it felt like an artist trying to create his masterpiece, with the batter at the other end merely a minor inconvenience.

That is perhaps what made watching him so special. He was fiercely competitive without appearing consumed by confrontation. His celebration was often a quiet acknowledgement of a job beautifully done.

The what-ifs will linger

The fact that his Test chapter is ending while age and performance still seem to offer something is what saddens the cricket romantic in me. But this is a farewell to the red ball, not to cricket altogether: Shami has said he will continue playing white-ball cricket, including the IPL and domestic competitions. Maybe the selectors saw something my untrained eyes did not. Maybe they saw a player struggling to keep up with the rigours of modern Test cricket. Maybe they saw someone breaking down too often. Maybe the thinking is simply to groom the next generation, even when Shami might still outbowl them on any given day.

As with Ashwin’s announcement, this leaves us with more what-ifs than answers that offer closure. The numbers tell one part of the story: 229 wickets in 64 Tests at a bowling average of 27.71, alongside 206 wickets in 108 ODIs at 24.05. These are remarkable returns across a career that spanned more than a decade. But Shami was never just a collection of figures. He was a match-winner, yes, but also a remarkably consistent performer over 13 years.

He feels like a throwback to an era when ODI cricket was still a more balanced contest between bat and ball. In many ways, he belongs to the last batch of cricketers who emerged in the early 2010s and went on to be part of the historic triumphs that followed in the latter half of that decade.

That red SG ball, the seam upright, moving at pace towards the top of off stump on a sunny Indian morning. That is the sight we will miss.

Shami, thank you for all the memories.

Originally published at http://homeofcricketblog.wordpress.com on November 8, 2026.

The future doesn't require people to dream smaller; it may simply require society to remember that a life needn't be extraordinary to be meaningful.

Once people aspired to raise decent families, do honest work, educate their children, and perhaps leave behind a little more than they inherited. Few felt compelled to become remarkable. The extraordinary existed, but it stood out precisely because society considered ordinary lives honourable.

Somewhere along the way, that balance changed.

Today, being exceptional no longer appears to be an aspiration. It often feels like a requirement.

Children are expected to excel not merely in academics, but also in sports, music, coding, and communication. Young professionals are encouraged to become thought leaders before they have had the chance to become thoughtful people. Entrepreneurs are urged to build unicorns rather than durable businesses. Employees are advised to cultivate personal brands. Retirees are told that ageing itself must become a project. Even hobbies seem incomplete unless they evolve into side hustles or content channels.

Without any public debate or formal announcement, society has quietly raised the minimum standard for feeling successful.

The consequences are visible everywhere. Despite unprecedented prosperity, opportunities, and technological convenience, many people carry a lingering sense that they are somehow falling behind. Achievement has become increasingly accompanied by anxiety. Satisfaction appears strangely elusive. There is always another benchmark, another comparison, and another expectation waiting around the corner.

Previous generations compared themselves with neighbours and colleagues. Their reference points were local and finite. The modern citizen inhabits an entirely different world. Through screens that never sleep, people compare themselves with billionaires, influencers, celebrities, founders, and carefully curated lives assembled for public consumption. It is difficult to feel adequate when one's competition consists not of reality but of highlight reels.

The pressure begins early. Parents worry whether their children, even infants, are doing enough. Children absorb anxieties they do not yet understand. By the time adulthood arrives, many individuals have internalised the belief that average is synonymous with failure.

Language itself offers clues about this shift.

People increasingly describe themselves with a curious apology. They speak of being "just an employee", "just middle class", "just a teacher", and "just a homemaker". The word just carries an unintended confession. It reveals a culture that has come to associate worth with visibility, scale, and distinction.

Yet, societies are sustained not by exceptional individuals alone. They are held together by millions of ordinary citizens, whose names rarely appear in headlines—teachers who shape minds; nurses who comfort strangers; shopkeepers who know their customers; public servants who perform thankless tasks; parents who sacrifice without the expectation of recognition; and people whose greatest achievements may never attract applause, but whose contributions quietly keep communities functioning.

Civilisations have always depended upon these invisible foundations.

Perhaps this explains why so many people feel exhausted. The burden is no longer merely to succeed; it is to stand out. Modern life encourages individuals to optimise every dimension of existence. Careers must provide wealth and purpose. Friendships must be meaningful. Vacations must become experiences. Meals must become photographs. Personal interests must become businesses. Happiness itself must become evidence.

The result is not necessarily greater fulfilment. Often, it is relentless self-surveillance.

What makes this cultural shift particularly significant is that institutions increasingly mirror the same expectations. Schools celebrate toppers more visibly than perseverance. Companies reward visibility as much as substance. Cities compete to become world-class. Universities chase rankings. Nations aspire to become superpowers. In almost every sphere, the language of greatness has begun to overshadow the virtues of steadiness and continuity.

Lost in this pursuit is an appreciation for the ordinary disciplines upon which enduring success has always rested. Families thrive because of routines rather than grand gestures. Businesses survive because of execution more than inspiration. Democracies depend less on moments of heroism and more on citizens performing unglamorous duties with consistency. Even trust itself is built gradually through repeated acts of reliability.

Perhaps societies, like individuals, occasionally confuse prominence with importance. History celebrates spectacular achievements, but everyday life is sustained by quieter virtues such as patience, responsibility, decency, and commitment. They rarely attract admiration, yet they remain civilisation's invisible infrastructure.

Ironically, many of history's most admired figures did not begin their journeys seeking fame or influence. They pursued excellence in their chosen paths.

Recognition arrived later, sometimes accidentally. The obsession with extraordinariness is a distinctly modern phenomenon. Earlier generations understood something contemporary culture occasionally forgets—significance and visibility are not alike.

Perhaps the real luxury in the twenty-first century is not excess, but enough.

Enough achievement without constant comparison. Enough prosperity without endless appetite. Enough ambition without permanent dissatisfaction.

Contentment has become strangely unfashionable. Ambition receives admiration, while satisfaction is mistaken for complacency. Yet, human beings were never designed to live in a perpetual state of inadequacy. A society that cannot respect ordinary lives risks creating extraordinary levels of anxiety.

There is dignity in competence.

There is grace in consistency.

There is honour in responsibilities fulfilled without fanfare.

Most human happiness has never resided in fame, followers, or fortune. It has lived on dinner tables, in neighbourhoods, friendships, shared memories, and lives that rarely make history books.

For centuries, extraordinary people stood out because ordinary lives were considered worthy of respect. If exceptionalism becomes compulsory, its meaning eventually disappears. In trying to create a world filled with stars, society risks forgetting the importance of the sky that holds them together.

Perhaps the future doesn't require people to dream smaller; it may simply require society to remember that a life need not be extraordinary to be meaningful. Sometimes, enough is not a compromise. Sometimes, enough is civilisation's greatest achievement.

Here is a glimpse of what it feels like to be driving to Jebel Jais.

The country has put significant effort and money into developing Jebel Jais into a popular camping spot during the winter. It features the UAE’s highest zipline, which is a masterclass in construction in its own right. They have also established dedicated trails for trekkers to enjoy the raw appeal of these mountains. The views here are stunning, serving as a constant reminder of the vastness of the terrain and the incredible effort required to break through these rocks to build such world-class roads.

This run was special. I could feel tears welling up — not just because it was a personal best, but because, in many ways, it represented my running journey coming full circle.

It started at the 2025 Tuffman, when I resumed running after a series of five or six back-to-back injuries. That race was difficult for so many reasons. It was only my second half marathon, and the conditions were brutal: NICE Road’s asphalt-concrete surface, 200 meters of elevation gain and heat bouncing off the pavement made it a challenge even for experienced runners. There I was, struggling with flat feet and recurring sinusitis, desperately trying to keep my body together just to finish. I crossed the line at 2 hours and 35 minutes.

At that moment, I made a promise to myself: I would give everything in my power to get better. I committed to strength training, studied the science of running and invested in better shoes, gels, salts and electrolytes. I made carb loading, slow runs, intervals, long runs and yoga parts of my life. I even endured the “dreadful” foam rolling that brings an unimaginable level of pain.

I started waking up early — which is definitely not my natural instinct — just to get the miles in. I ran while touring through Malaysia, Dubai, and Bhutan. I reached out to groups like the Adidas Runners, Bel Bullets, Cubbon Run, Phoenix Thripunithura, Soles of Kochi and Kochi Run Club, running alongside them to learn from the masters.

Sometimes, I wonder what the endgame is, or if there even is one. Perhaps the process itself is the reward?

Constant shapeshifting through new places, new people, and new techniques.

For anyone currently in doubt, I’ll quote a dialogue from a modern classic, Top Gun: Maverick: “Don’t think, just do.”

This memory came rushing back recently when I found myself at the shop of a traditional goldsmith. I wanted to have my son’s anklet removed, as his tiny legs were beginning to outgrow it. As I waited, I observed the goldsmith at work — watching how he positioned his fingers and held his tools at exactly the right angles with just the right amount of pressure, bending raw pieces of metal into beautiful works of art.

I realised then that true “attention to detail” stems from the passion one has for their work. The more passionate someone is about their craft, the higher their attention to detail becomes, because the work begins to represent who they are.

Years have passed, and now I am on the other side of the desk. I mentor new joiners and explain why it is vital to check even the most minor, yet significant, details. Some advice is merely heard, while some is put into action. Perhaps, like me, they will find their “goldsmith” one day and reach their own epiphany.

77th Republic Day

For most, it’s just another holiday. For the less fortunate, it isn’t even that (though that’s a topic for another day).

I am no different from the majority. I don’t particularly contribute to nation-building in any major way, barring the bare minimum like paying taxes. One could say I’m a “passive patriot” — not a nationalist, though. I struggle with the idea of feeling pride simply because of the patch of land where one happened to be born. However, I am a patriot because I am proud of the values India represents through its Constitution. Yet, time and again, our society has failed that very Constitution.

We were supposed to be a beacon of liberal ideas — a collection of people coming together to improve the country, creating a place where public spaces and laws are respected.

Instead, we are left with people littering roads from their BMWs, dumping waste in public areas, and violating traffic laws. We are the equivalent of a leaky bucket. No matter how much we accomplish in building institutions and physical infrastructure, our cultural foundation seems unsuitable for true nation-building.

We are essentially a nation incentivized to be selfish. Our schools teach children to be competitive even before they lose their innocence. At every turn, we are reminded that to get ahead, we must plot another’s downfall. Parents often ignore civic codes in their treatment of public spaces and people, setting the wrong example for their children. Our offices aren’t always based on meritocracy, but on visibility. Our government often succumbs to the interests of capital, forgetting their duty to balance the equation.

For these reasons, structurally, we may never become a civilized society in the truest sense — a place where one can feel both physically and psychologically safe in public and private spaces. We may create towering physical infrastructure, but the human infrastructure underneath remains built on fragile egos.

Here is how Kerala Tourism defines Panchari Melam:

Panchari Melam is basically a percussion ensemble that lasts for more than four hours. The orchestra, which comprises of instruments like chenda, ilathalam, kombu and kuzhal, is mostly performed during the temple festivals in Kerala. Panchari is a six-beat thaalam or rhythm and the performance has five stages.

The crowd here isn't just a group of passive observers; they are as vital to the performance as the artists themselves. Much like fans play air guitar to their favourite tracks, hardcore connoisseurs can be seen lost in "shadow chenda" performances.

Mind you, as much as Panchari Melam is an artistic challenge, it is also a physical feat. Playing percussion instruments collectively — without missing a single beat and maintaining heightened focus for three to four hours — requires the kind of mastery that only comes through sheer, lifelong dedication.

Living in Bangalore, I don’t often get the chance to be back in Kerala for these festivals. But when I do, something raw and visceral within me switches on. My body taps into a primal energy, subconsciously moving to the rhythms of the melam until I dissolve into the collective consciousness of the crowd. In that space, I reach a state of heightened awareness and find a rare moment of clarity.

It truly is the sound of the cosmos itself!