>> Confession: Around a year ago, I thought the solution to every personal crisis in my life was marathon running. Just like that. I woke up one morning and it came to me like a guided missile: I would run. Each morning and evening. O’er hill and dale. Through city smog and doggy poo. One half Forrest Gump, the other Franka Portente of Run Lola Run, I would be unstoppable. I should have lain down and allowed the feeling to pass but no, I searched for a trainer. Someone who would take this sodden clay and fashion it into a Diana, The Nymph. And so I found Running Rustom. I couldn’t have written him better. Peter Panuesque and profound as only a South Mumbai blue-blood Parsi mulga could be. Residing on a tree-lined cul-de-sac, in a deliciously sumptuous ‘30s apartment with porcelain tiles. A room in the apartment had been converted in to a zeitgeist gym. A faithful assistant stood at alert. A few state of the art machines gleamed alluringly at me as a steady stream of posh south Mumbai memsaabs wandered through the space.