INSIDE

The gym has always been this sort of mythical land for me. A place where people go in, fat and doughy, and sweat till their man-titties shrink to mosquito bites (note the obvious Bend It Like Beckham reference), and the beer-bellies, okay not everyone gets rid of those. However, one thing I’ve noticed in all my years of working out – for a week, maybe a month on occasion – is the variety of the crowd that visits a gym. So now that I’ve successfully broken my pattern (I’m proudly finishing my first trimester), I’ve noticed how most of them can be easily fit into broad categories.

Disclaimer: I don’t mean to judge people’s bodies. I understand that everyone’s body reacts differently to working out, some take longer to shed their tube of fat – I happen to be one of them – and some assholes are blessed with a good metabolism and frankly, don’t even need to control their diet as much. I do not intend to make fun of people's background or portray all gym-going men as Jaats (mostly because that would be an insult to us Jaats). What I do, however, fully intend to do is ridicule the behavior of my subjects. I urge everyone reading to take this with a pinch of salt, as case studies can often be harsh and clinical.

The Cougars (rawr!!)

Okay, the women who come under this category aren’t technically all of the same/typical age-group as a “Cougar” cougar (those can easily be spotted at South Delhi nightclubs).

Cougar: a slang term referring to a woman who seeks sexual relations with considerably younger men. Typically, the term refers to women over 30–40 years old who pursue sexual relations with people more than eight years younger.

These are the women – and they’re not even that attractive L – who come to the gym to feast their eyes on the “hot” instructors. No, they do not mind the fact that when, said instructors open their mouth they sound much like my distant brothers from Sonipat, they ogle at the physique. In group classes, you must stay wary of them as they’re not afraid to let their inner bitch out if you stand in front of them or get in their path of lustful eye-contact. If they’re setting up for a front-row position, it’s best to stand somewhere on the side. Should you move in on their space you will be publicly humiliated.

Cougars are not afraid of being loud with their insults.

So, unless you’ve got that rugged “myself-from-gurgaun” thing going on and aren’t afraid of casual gym-time flirtation, please to avoid.

The Novice Couples/Families

Remember, they always travel in packs. So don’t expect them to politely walk away from the good treadmill(s), you gotta be shameless in your approach or be stuck with one that violently shakes when you run on it. They do classes together and help each other out. The newlyweds make googoo eyes and the Parminders and Kaurs steal floor mats for each other – it’s not uncommon for Sunny Kaur to be carrying four floor mats across the room for his Mummy Deddy and Sister – some couples join the gym to rekindle their romance. Please to avoid unless you’re ready to become one of the Kaurs/a third of one twisted threesome.

The Self-Lovers

Oh lordy, lordy. Isn’t it just the most amazing sight to see a flappy man stretching in the mirror; lovingly staring at his unfit body, in a barely-there towel, as soon as you enter the locker room after a workout?

Isn’t it mind-joltingly awe-inspiring to see how comfortable a man is with his body to take his boxers off in the locker room – while you’re bent down tying your shoelaces and find yourself staring at a hairy butt?

Is it not absolutely entertaining to hear a guy pat/thump his chest/arms, while eye-raping himself in the mirror, while you try to grab your things and get the fuck out of the locker room?

Isn't it hilarious to hear two guys admiring each other's bodies? "Bhai aap toh ek dum Zehar ho gaye ho!"

The answer, I'm afraid, is a resounding NO!

The My Locker Room Is My Home-ers/The Homers

Oh man! I've had a long-ass workout. So now, watch me as I change into dirty, faded, loose boxers in front of everyone and smear my body with talcum powder. The many hairs on my glorious body will catch the talc and make me resemble a Native American chief. I shall then proceed to lift my boxer's waistband and proudly powder my balls in plain sight of everyone currently changing around me. Why don't I care, you ask? That's because every inch of my unfit body is dripping with sexuality. Bitches can hate all they want. Peace out!

So what if I'm fat? I’m fat and that’s why I’ve paid an unnecessarily large amount to come to a high-class gym where I can get personal attention by a trainer. My large expanse of a body is here to be worked upon and attacked. Why in the world should I care about what I currently look at when I know that what I will look like one day would erase all memories of my current state? So what if there are guys who look like their torsos are made of carved stone? Mine proudly hangs and sags in front of me. My goal for the month is to be able to see my toes, and within two months, touch my balls without having to push away my belly flab. I am proud to be fat and when I’m through with the gym, bitches will bow down to me!

Okay. So, I’ve showered for long enough and in the process run my hands over every inch of my ultra-sexual body. I guess it’s the perfect time for the locker room to be full of people mid-dressing/changing/whatevs bro. it’s time for me to walk out in nothing but my towel and make them feel like dickheads for even bothering to work out. It’s so funny bro the way they look and feel like shit about themselves. I love that feeling bro, of setting my hair in the mirror as they make way from me and this lovely body I have. Now that I’ve got a solid body I must walk around and make people wonder why they don’t just leave yo. Peace out. Love u all.

So what if people think I look like a peacock, ya? I know I'm bald and all but look at my body also no? I mean, I've worked so hard on it, don't I deserve to show it off? Don't I deserve my fifteen minutes of fame as I stand in my tight briefs and answer phone calls? I may not be fair and all, not even that good looking, wait not even remotely good looking, but this body is my temple no? As Louis Litt says, I'm not afraid of showing my body (or something like that), I shouldn't be afraid either. I love myself. Look at me. Please.

Mid-March-Maleficence

It comes around every year. Like clockwork. The friendly reminder of the day you were born into the life you’re now going through – by fate’s or your own design. Every passing day, as you age, someone celebrates the beginning of another cycle. And yet, everyone I know reacts drastically differently towards their birthday.

What is supposed to be the point of the celebration anyway? Even if you’re the excited, partying kind, there’s always the stress of co-ordinating with your guests, making sure everything runs smoothly – of course I only address this to a certain strata of people, not the ones of have a dickwad of cash ready to be dropped at any moment, at any club. Why is it unacceptable to want to spend the day under covers, hiding away? Are we that obsessed with putting on a good face and force-party till the sun comes up?

For as long as I can remember, birthdays come in twos. One year has to be good and the other is supposed to make you question a lot of things. If turning 20 taught me anything, it’s that being dependant on any relationship – friends and family included – leaves you on crutches. Make yourself into the person you trust the most. Find within you what you look for everywhere else. Soon, you’ll find that you don’t need the company of people to make your day better, you’ll realise your own powers to do so. Find yourself.

Speaking of birthdays, as the big 2-1 (a major milestone from what I hear almost every day) ominously looms ahead, I can’t help but think if certain cosmic powers focus bad energy on you. The planetary alignment is just perfect to make you the target of bad luck, a focal point of energy. From an autorickshaw driving over my foot to being walked in on while taking a dump in the office, from forgetting things to bumping funny bones, the month of March feels like a nightmare.

As if accidental flashings aren’t enough, my birthday happens to fall on a national holiday and one of the most important Hindu festivals ever. I can’t say I understand or really care that much for Holi – I mean what’s to like about being caked and drenched with synthetic colours? I don’t feel clean for days to come, no matter how hard I scrub my skin raw. From family plans to excuses avoiding a road trip, Holi might just be the worst time to celebrate – there’s only so much beer and “Boom-Shankar” one can do!

Seven Years in Limbo

They say something about being bullied and character building. That high school is supposed to be the best and worst times of your life, and that for anyone who’s just the least bit different, it can be the seventh level of hell. It’s not as effective as I’m sure it was meant to be.

For me, it was the darkest chapter of my life story. If being bullied wasn’t bad enough, I also had to survive the kind of friends who only talk to you in the confines of the ominously yellow school bus. The kind of people who see you in the corridor and, in the company of their friends, ignore you because oh my god wouldn’t that be social suicide. If there was one thing I learned in my nine years of pure-Delhi schooling, it was this: even in the midst of infamy and the meanest of company, when there is always an extra pair of hands to pull you down, you gotta keep your head above the water. The drowning, that’s what they want.

What’s their reason, you ask? Well, in retrospect – once you’re all in college and beyond – no one is gonna remember. But at the time, it’ll be the most important thing they do. You can’t pass by without a sneer, an acidic jibe, a stifled giggle.

Of all the places to find refuge, I found mine in the art room. There have been days when I used to spend my entire day in there – not always painting, but mostly because it was that haven. Where no one could judge me, because it was the one place where I was actually good at/for something. In there, I wasn’t the school faggot or the freak who couldn’t defend himself. I was the one with the kind of raw talent my teacher was proud of. I’m not bragging – I now look at them as worthless, having never pursued art beyond school – it’s just something I used to be told. I’m not writing this to give a personal opinion on what happened to me, I don’t wanna talk about how good I really was or how bad. The purpose of writing this is just to let words flow, to tell stories as they happened.

And, quite frankly, I was as bad with speaking words then as I am today. Give me pen and paper and I can quote Shakespeare for you – get me drunk and I might just orate – but ask me to talk about what’s going on in my life, or something that happened in the past, anything, I got nothing. On a side note maybe that’s why I drink as much as I do, because otherwise, I’d just have nothing to say. And most people I know don’t really have the patience to read everything I write, much less the shy notes I’d rather scribble and hand them; and there’s only so fast and grammatically correct I can type on my phone!

But I digress.

So, as I quietly suffered through school, I only had the creative route to let out my frustrations and sadness. But you know what I realised, it really is the best character building exercise – of course I’m not saying my seven years of the total nine is something I wish upon someone – that anybody can ever go through. Because once you’ve made it through, once all the bad is behind you and you’re done with school, there’s no looking back. Because if you’ve survived school in a city like New Delhi, the rest is but a breeze. You’re going to find people who can accept you not despite your flaws, but because of them. It’s easy to give up, it’s even easier to give in and be cynical – I’ve tried both – but you have to keep your head up and keep swimming. Someone’s out to get you, face them. Tell them to give you their best shot – even though it’s not that easy. I remember telling people to bitch about me behind my back, have the decency to not say it to my face. I’ll admit it, I wasn’t strong enough. Of course I then went on to being a shade of cynical that’d frighten everybody I know today – remember the part where I don’t share feelings? – and life was all about confrontations and say-it-to-my-face’s. But you have to move past that, because being that guy is worse than being the guy everyone made fun of. You wake up one day and find that you’ve turned into what once was your worst nightmare, and the people who loved how totally awesome you were in your blunt, cynical behaviour are now gone. Because while you judged the world together, they judged you just as severely. And you realise that you no longer recognise the person in the mirror. You’re the perfect Delhi Dickhead and you deserve to wear that crown of shame.

In that moment of being totally alone, you find yourself – a part of you that’s waiting with cross-armed foot-tapping impatience to be discovered.

And so, I’ve entered the next phase of life. It doesn’t matter what class of society you come from – and don’t tell yourself that we’re not in an 1800’s classist society – what you’ve been through or what curveballs you’ve thrown yourself, what makes the difference is how you choose to leave from it. I’m a better person for having gone through hell in high school. I’m a better writer because I couldn’t find a confidant. I was always on the outside of the camaraderie between friends and acquaintances, and once I turned my back on that, I realised that there was another sun to look at. And that sun, well there’s no need to fear the heat.

Dark Paradise

It takes a while for me to hear the faint vocals of a female opera singer over the enchanting notes of the piano. The speedy French babble on the streets has now faded into mere white noise. It’s just me and the music floating out from the open window across the street. I've used all my voyeuristic faculties to try and spot the pianist before I realize that it’s probably just an old video. Perhaps an old lady is revisiting her past through a performance from back when she was young. The scooters buzzing past barely distract me as I continue to allow the gentle notes to encase me in a cocoon of serenity. I leave my earthly body, smoking at the open window, and rise above the rooftops of Rue des Boulangers, the softly tinkering piano as my only guide.

There’s another window open, two doors across, where I spot subtle movement. Maybe someone else is hearing the music too. Fading into the depths of the couch, glass of Sauvignon in hand, going over the events of the day. Perhaps they’re rising with me. Perhaps they’re looking at me. Perhaps I’ll be the subject of their journal. One that they’ll take back with them to a distant part of the world where nobody would know of even the possibility of my existence, but for the description in that journal. A frilly giggle draws me to the door of the very same building, from wherein the beguiling music swells, and I see a man kissing his girlfriend. It’s about eleven fifteen at night and back home it would still be frowned upon. India isn’t the kind of place where men and women can kiss under streetlights. Someone would stare, raise an eyebrow. Another would letch. An old aunty would make a disgruntled noise. Someone might shout something vulgar from the passing car. There’s no privacy back home. Every moment is lived under the watchful public eye. How can I breathe in that constant surveillance when I crave for these precious moments of privacy, tucked away in the little side streets? I imagine what would happen if somebody reprimanded him…

 “But it’s the music monsieur! I can’t help it!” he’d say. Shrugging in the way teenage boys do when they get caught.

Further down the street I spot the source of the conversation I had earlier drowned out. A man dressed in a suit is taking to his friend who seems ready to leave on his bicycle. The man in the suit doesn’t want him to leave by the looks of it. Maybe he’s lonely back home and wants company just for a while. Can they hear the music too? Perhaps it holds no value for them, this piece of music that has so efficiently disarmed me.

But even in this sublime moment, I feel lost. I can’t help but ask myself what this feeling is. What is missing inside that this music fills me with?

I sit by the window and light up another cigarette. The tip of my tongue kisses the filtered end as I think it over. And there’s the answer. It’s the moment itself, pure and perfect in its simplicity. The music makes me feel homesick to the point where I begin to cave into myself, no longer floating upon its wings. It makes me long for something that I’ve never had and never will have.

Summer 2012

So, just for the sake of having this one piece of my life stored away in the seemingly permanent platform that the internet has provided us with. Technology is just fucking amazing isn't it? When I landed in Paris it was perfect. And then they had trouble understanding my English. And then I didn't have euros to call home. And then my shuttle came to pick me up an hour and forty five minutes late. Hmm..

I spent the first week getting hopelessly lost in Paris (sometimes even with a map) and arrived late, sweaty and gasping for breath for every class.
And then, Paris started to grow on me. I opened myself up to it little by little. I introduced myself with a bit more confidence. I got out of my friggin' apartment, and followed Jann's instructions and Google maps' lofty directions to my first PROPER French meal.
The weeks passed and I made friends I never want to forget. The closest friend I made was this charming, foxy little thing, called Paris. I'm gonna post some of my personal essays and try to relive the whole 45 days through my blog. Future Rohan: you're not allowed to forget this summer.

As mortifyingly (it's not a real word) cheesy as it sounds, I discovered myself this summer. I grew up a little more (isn't there something about mature wine being better?), and for the first time in my life, I finally understood what it means to belong. It's like I've been chiseled and groomed for twenty years to come to Paris at the end and just figure it all out -for the moment at least.
On that note- Vive La France!

Why is there a nipple on my tomato?

Till death do us part... not something you hear in everyday conversation. Actually, not really the kind of words one hears at an Indian wedding either. Has the concept of a Shakespearean tragic romance completely died out in today’s world of metro rides, coffee dates and one night stands? With all our Apple gadgets and wireless accessories, and of course that damn thing called the internet –which is probably where you’re reading this right now –have we forgotten what it’s like too really connect with another human being?

I know that all this talk of love seems like the ultimate paradox coming from a guy like me, but standing in my kitchen, leaning over the sink to sneak in a midnight smoke, it’s hard not to think about what seems to be going wrong with our relationships. Are we more comfortable with clinking beer mugs and speed dialing fuck buddies, too *insert generic teenage angsty word* for a real relationship? And if so, like that blasted nipple on the bottom of a tomato, can we cut it off without thinking twice? When it comes to sex, and by sex I solely refer to a no-strings-attached affair, is expressing yourself unnecessary or just plain cheap? Has the human race progressed so far beyond that literary sense of romance that it’s too late to turn back now? Are we willing to, well actually, are we capable of staying with someone, as of this very minute, till death do us part? Or are we just too damn comfortable leaving that nipple on our tomato, hoping no one notices it on the salad plate…?