Weighty Matters

On the 21st of this month, I am invited home for a do by somebody I meet 4 times a week but is a stranger of sorts. We speak each time we meet but know little about each other but for our names. As I pondered over this invite by a gym-mate, my thoughts went down memory lane on the myriad experiences in health clubs over the years.

I first stepped into a gym (actually an improvised "akhada") when I was 17- just into college, embarrassingly thin and painfully conscious of it. Situated in moffusil surroundings the club was frequented by neighbourhood toughies and serious bodybuilders. Given that I was from "out-of town" and bereft of local godfathers, this place was a messiah of sorts. Located right next to my college, my "buddies" (thanks to an inexplicable sense of fraternity most small-town gyms have) ensured I stayed out of trouble whenever anyone acted smart with me (or vice-versa). I may not have made any real friends here but I still have a deep sense of association with everyone I worked out with here thanks to a prevalent mindset of treating gym-mates as team members. As an aside, my physique remained unchanged after 3 years of serious pumping.

At B-school, the world was divided into two- those who lifted weights and nerds. That I belonged to the former category did not show! Bonding took a whole new meaning here and the "gang" would work out together and then hang out in the evenings as the studious biblophiles furthered their pursuit of academic glory. Contrary to popular perception though, few muscled men scored with the opposite sex. This however was cynically blamed on a B-school lady's obssessive (and new-found) desire to be seen as a thinking man's sex symbol (or in some cases an opportunistic alliance to secure grades!). Ironically, while most iron pumping blokes sought favour with the intellegentsia for notes, projects etc all year, there was an amusing role reversal in the months before job placements. Fitness experts used to be in sudden demand as there was an emergent belief that 2 years of rote would count for nothing in the face of a bulging waistline and smartly turned out duffers might steal the thunder. Attempts typically lasted for 7 1/2 days till futility dawned on both sides. End result- my physique still remained unchanged but I must say more folks from this gang are likely to attend my funeral than any other sub-group I have been part of. I made friends for life.

Work took me to another small town in Gujarat, a state not particularly known for its passion for fitness (even among the millions who migrate to the U.S.) I had hoped to trade fitness tips for stock market advice but I soon discovered gyms in Gujarat were frequented by only 2 kinds of people- the terribly lonely and outsiders. The former ensured I had convenient supply of beer in the dry state but I had to occasionally pretend to be interested in local gossip during sessions (which invariably revolved excessively around promiscuity). I (finally) managed to develop some muscle tone though I fervently hoped I would get to visit a new gym soon.

For the next several years, I stayed off a fitness regimen. It can be greatly blamed on my years in South India where I felt like Schwarzenegger in most night clubs anyway and hence remained deprived of any motivation to lift weights. My strength levels dipped considerably though I started getting bigger. A much awaited shift to Delhi ensured one was back where one loved to be only to realize one had been caught in a time warp as far as gym-buddies went.

Gone are the days of doing the bench-press together in alternate sets as is the post workout drink. (even though the bar is a flight of stairs away). Locker rooms provide for enormous amounts of conversation but they revolve around politics, cinema, food and sometimes vacations. Anything that is generic and impersonal goes. A few well-known personalities who hit the treadmill suffer a bit more. They are relegated to worse levels of loneliness as nobody wishes to be seen as a wannabe "sucking up" to them. Sometimes I see a set of people disappear to the bar together but it is invariably a bureaucrat-businessman combination . More on that another day.

While I can't say I have been complaining about the state of affairs in my current gym, the "boy" in me is looking forward excitedly to this forthcoming do. Looking forward to drinking with people one works out with as one has done for over a decade now and hoping to add to the list of people one can eventually count as "friends". Guess this is a queer and slightly unique sense of bonding and only those who have experienced it can empathize with it. I am tempted to suggest this is a "male-only" phenomenon but then do I run the risk of raising feminist hackles ? Or maybe I am downright off the mark on that count.