It’s only her third day with her personal yoga instructor, but my wife has already learned a lot. She’s learned that Padma hasn’t really lost seven kilos — “that liar!” — but has taken to wearing a corset at all times so the excess fat isn’t toned, merely tucked out of sight. Kanta, the instructor told her, has bad body hygiene, so he sits far from her when doing their pranayams — middle-age flatulence and early morning lessons have left an indelible scar on the young man. Fatima isn’t sticking to her diet; Shanti secretly eats chicken even though her vegetarian husband has forbidden it; and the only reason Uma is punishing her body is because she’s set her sights on the boss even though both she and he are married.
On the first day, my wife had made her mind clear to the instructor. “Sarla,” she said of her best friend, “got herself a yoga instructor a few days ago.” My wife’s yoga instructor nodded — he was aware that competition among friends is keen, and personal trainers occupy as much interest among them as a Gucci bauble or Manolo Blahnik shoe, something to be showed off before being consigned to oblivion. But to get back to Sarla, “Her trainer made her run around the apartment,” my wife was indignant, “in front of the servants.” “To warm up,” nodded her instructor sagely. “Just so you know,” my wife retorted, “I won’t have any of that nonsense.”
She also told him all the other things she was not inclined to do. She would not do deep breathing exercises because “it’s so pornographic” — at which her instructor looked more alarmed than amused — nor would she do anything that required “actually working out,” she nixed all things that would mess up her hair, and anything else that was likely to get her sweaty because she found that “faintly disgusting”. “Everything else is fine,” she said.
When he left that first day, I asked my wife what they’d achieved. “We had tea,” said my wife. “Tea?” I couldn’t resist the provocation — the man was charging us to have tea at our home! “Well, he asked for a cup of tea over which to plan out a fitness programme for me, and I asked him what kind, and when he said any kind, I pointed out that too much tea can cause acidity, and then explained all the kinds of tea he could have — herbal, green, Chinese, Syrian, blends, in a bag or leaves, flavoured, light, strong, Darjeeling first flush or Nilgiri bud — and by the time I’d offered him a few samples, it was time for him to go.”
“But that means you didn’t get anything done,” I protested. “Oh, but I did,” she replied. “I categorically told him he was not to tell Padma, Lakshmi, Vijaya or any of the other ladies I know, my weight, or the size of my pants, or whether I use hair-dye, nor is he,” she winked conspiratorially, “to tell anyone my exercise plan.” “But you don’t have any,” I pointed out. “I will,” she said, “the next time he’s here.”
The following morning, she slept late and missed half her class, and spent the rest of it drinking tea and telling the instructor what she thought was wrong about the way he taught his classes. This morning, when they’d had their tea — they’re still sampling their way through the repertoire, by the way — and he’d told her how Fatima was a shammer and never followed instructions, and Sarla, far from losing it, was gaining weight, she laid down the law. She didn’t mind paying, my wife said, she would even wake up early to accommodate his schedule, but if he wanted to keep his job, he could exercise — while she watched.