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.