Even when it’s raining — as it has been these past weeks — there is a group of yoga enthusiasts in our neighbourhood who can be seen, squishy mat spread across a wet lawn, bending, or rolling, or sticking a foot up in the air with a diligence that is commendable. It makes people like me, who’ve made a fine art of prevaricating when it comes to any form of exercise, go sick first thing in the morning. I have nothing against healthy people, I’m just not partial to the sweaty kind who’re liable to ruin a perfectly sound evening with stomach-churning phrases like abdominal crunches, the rate of metabolism, triglycerides and, increasingly now, work-life balance.
My wife attempted work-life balance too. On Monday, she put on her smartest trainers and jogging tracks and went down without carrying her mobile with her. When she hadn’t come back a few hours later, we went into a state of panic. Perhaps she had overstrained herself, or had an attack. The minions who were dispatched to search for her failed to find her. Just as I was on the verge of reporting her missing, she walked in looking well-fed and not in the least bit exercised.
“I had,” she explained, when I said we were all sick with worry about where she had been, “barely begun my walk when my friend Sarla spotted me and asked me to come home for a cup of coffee, and with one thing or another, I ended up having breakfast too.” Over the next few days her walking expeditions ended up in Padma’s house (“to see her New York shopping”), at Chandu’s (“gossip”), Rukmini’s (“she’s having a nervous breakdown”), Rohini’s (“to wish her on her birthday”) and Jhunjhun’s (“for a snack of her previous night’s party leftovers). Instead of toning up, she added more girth.
Since my wife was no inspiration, my daughter and I made a pact to go out for a constitutional every morning. Company would be nice, we decided; besides, we’d be able to talk about things we didn’t normally get the chance to at home. The alarm was set for six in the morning, but on the first day I switched it off because I’d had a late night, and on the second day my daughter decided against it because she had extra classes. On days three, four and five, it rained. On day six, we woke up, but my daughter took so much time getting ready, it was time to leave for work instead. On day seven, we decided it wasn’t working and the alarm was switched off and kept aside.
Friends weren’t much help either. “Join a gym,” said one. I recced the neighbourhood to find most were dank, smelly places. There was one though that was new, and tony, which meant it was air-conditioned and very, very expensive. Just the thought of paying so much made me break out in sweat — though I don’t know if it burnt any calories in the process. “Get yourself a treadmill,” suggested another, but my wife refused to entertain any suggestion of converting the study into a home gym.
“I will,” I said finally, “get myself a personal trainer.” But personal trainers, it appears, are extremely fastidious and want more checks than your medical insurance company, and charge the equivalent of a corporate salary, all for telling you to “huff-two-three-four” and jab you in the gut. Besides, my wife vetoed it anyway, saying she’d prefer a Louis Vuitton bag over a slim husband any day.
Which is why I’ve decided that watching the yoga junkies in the back lawn is exercise enough, and while my wife is busy breakfasting with the neighbours, instead of working up a lather, I’ll just get myself some more shut-eye.
