Sunday, July 31, 2016

weight lifting

The young man had fixed an appointment to see me. He stood just inside the door wringing his hands.
“Do you remember me? I came to you ten years ago.”
I did not remember him but was eventually able to track down his records.
“I want to become a body-builder and go for the Mr. Tamil Nadu competition.”
A worthy ambition. Unfortunately he was twenty four years old (Arnold Schwarzenegger started at the age of fifteen years) and had a stoop and skinny arms and legs. I could not even imagine a six pack on his abdomen.
‘’You need to train four to six hours a day,” I said.
“I can’t “ he said I work for my father. He makes me work for twelve hours.”
“Perhaps you could join a gym?”
Vellore is dotted with gyms. There are exclusive “male only” gyms with paintings of Sylvester Stallone and Arnold Schwarzenegger. Their faces are lopsided, their muscles bizarre unanatomical  and disproportionate.  They have untrained “trainers” and no aerobic equipment at all. This is in stark contrast to the elite gyms that cater to the affluent in Vellore. Those have qualified trainers, separate timings for ladies—there are even ladies’ gyms.
He joined an “Arnold Schwarzenegger” gym. His trainer was very enthusiastic. “I can get you to the  competition in  two months”, he said, “just follow my plans.”
I kept a close watch on all that was going on.
“Eat six egg whites, and 200 gms of beef a day” said the trainer.
The man protested, “we are Hindus, my parents are vegetarian, my mother fasts three days a week.”
It seemed to be a no win situation.
“Perhaps ,” I suggested, “you could buy an induction stove and a microwave and cook in your room?”
He has shifted to the terrace so as to have room for his exercise. Apparently there was a half room there where he lived.
One day his mother screamed, “the house is on fire I can smell the burning.” Father and mother followed the smell to the terrace. They boy was cooking beef with ready made masalas.
That was the end of his protein supplements.
The trainer suggested packaged tablets and supplements. “This is only whey protein and creatine.”
I refused to allow him to take  it. The internet was full of articles about adulteration of supplements and although creatine is a natural substance, its effect  hasn't been well-studied over the long-term. Researchers still aren't sure what effects it might have on the body, particularly in young people, or how effective it might be.
So we were back to eating Rajma and Kabuli channa.
“When is the competition?”
“Its two months from now” he said.
“Why don’t you try next year?” I asked looking at his ribs and skinny arms.
He was determined and went for the trials.
“No 7 & 9” said the judge.
Very pleased because they had not even climbed on to the stage, he stepped forward.
“You can go home.”
They were eliminated before they even started.
The trainer smirked ,”everyone listened to me except you. They all took supplements.”
He looked around, they were oiled, rippled and ribbed.
Dejected he left.
They next day he came to see me again.
“Don’t worry, “ I said, “you can put all this health and stamina to good use. Start  marathon running. You will be healthy long after the supplement users kidneys have packed up or they are caught like the Russians in the Olympics this year.”





Saturday, July 16, 2016

travel

Travel
My husband and I live in two different cities and this means that one or the other has to travel every weekend. Last week it was my turn. The onward journey is not bad as I am in total control of the time I leave and the flight timings. The return is tension filled. We have to POSITIVELY  leave the Hyderabad house at 4am to make it to the airport an hour before the 6am flight.
My husband was at his sleepy uncooperative best. He wanted coffee, his hair needed to be combed, he wanted a snack.
“Hurry up ,” I said,” the airline has just sent me an SMS asking me to report two hours before the flight.”
“The don’t mean it,” said my husband, “they keep sending out those messages.”
“It says there is congestion at the airport.” I protested.
“How will there be no congestion?” said my husband ‘There must be twenty flights taking off at 6am.” He continued to search for his watch.
We finally left at 4:15.
When we reached the departure ramp, there were three rows of cars all the way to the highway. It started to drizzle. At 4:50 I announced “ do you mind if I get out and walk? It might be faster.”
I got out of the car with my laptop bag, handbag and strolley. I could not balance everything,  with my heels so I took off my footwear. It was already 5 am. I started to run up the ramp barefoot  in the rain. A number of people peered out of car windows.
I just made it. There were a lot of empty seats on the plane--- perhaps the missing passengers were still in the traffic jam!
This week it was my husband’s turn. The flight landed at 3:30 pm and he was home by 7 pm. His suitcase was bulging at the seams.
“What is in there?” I asked.
“I brought all my laundry, even the bed sheets.”
I opened the black bag. (It had been given to us free many years ago in Dubai airport for buying four bottles of Glenfiddish whiskey). (We were planning to buy only two,  but to get the bag you had to buy four). There was a purple striped towel on the top. I had never seen it before.
“Where did you get this towel?”
“I don’t know,” said my husband, it does not seem to be of very good quality.” There were clean shirts and pants below the towel.
“When did you buy these shirts?”
“They are  not mine,” said my husband.
I pulled out a 100 packets of Manichand Pan Masala in a plastic bag.
“Why are you carrying around pan masala?”
Husband condescended to look into the bag.
“None of this stuff is mine.”
I looked at the baggage tag. The bag belonged to a Mr. Rupesh. (Name changed.)
I have purple bows on my bags but husband has never condescended to adorn his bags.
“Lets  go to sleep “ said husband. “On Monday when I reach the airport I will hand over the baggage to Spice jet. Anyway I am flying the same airline.”
I felt sorry for Rupesh, deprived of his clean clothes and his nightly fix of pan masala, saddled with a bag full of smelly laundry. I called customer care and tracked him down. He was irate.
“What am I to do? Where is Vellore? Is it near Chennai? Why did you take my bag to Vellore?”
Husband pacified him. “I will bring the bag to Hyderabad on Monday”. Rupesh was furious. He was apparently flying to Mumbai from Chennai with no clean clothes or toiletries. Also perhaps he needed the pan masala fix to negotiate business deals?
Husband pacified him, “don’t worry , no tension, we are brothers under the skin, remember this all happened because we have the same taste in whiskey—“