Most people do not believe me, but I am a moderate man. Moderately lazy, moderately ugly, moderately fat and moderately allergic to mirrors that reflect this truth. I am also moderately deaf to the sales pitch of sundry fitness gurus who promise six-packs before breakfast and immortality by dinner.
Yet, over the past few months, a faint, mocking giggle has been emanating from my bathroom mirror every time I attempt the heroic act of pulling in my stomach. A routine blood test revealed that I was cruising dangerously close to the red zone of a thing called ‘F&PP Sugar’ and its evil twin, ‘kolestrosomething’. I tried to ignore the reports, but my friend Gopu, that walking wickedpedia of half-baked advice, cornered me. “Lose weight, yaar,” he whispered. “Start with a fitness tracker. Order from Ammajan ki Dukan.”
Two days later, Amazon delivered a box so sleek it could be mistaken for a cigarette case. Inside was the tracker, a glossy pebble of promise, and—believe it or not—a CD. A CD! My laptop laughed so hard I had to restart it twice. After three hours of clicking, swearing, and an accidental Zoom call to my dentist, I managed to register the gizmo. The app then interrogated me with all the suspicion of a prospective mother-in-law: age, weight, stride length, pulse rate, samosas consumed per week, zodiac sign, and whether I snore more at night or during my siesta. The app assured me that this violation of privacy was essential to ensure “optimum effort for maximum performance”.
Having spent money on the tracker, I felt oddly compelled to use it. I slipped on the wristband and thought that, instantly, I would be 25 again—until I looked down and saw my belly protruding as always. Undeterred, I set out on my maiden ‘power walk’ around the colony. Dogs barked, aunties sniggered, and a cow gave me the slow, judgmental stare reserved for sinners. Forty-five minutes later, I staggered home, convinced that the calories I had burnt had earned me a pint. The tracker disagreed. Calories burnt: 87. Reward: one Marie biscuit. Plain. Not even the chocolate one.
The wrist-dictator soon took over my life. It buzzed like a wasp every time I sat for more than eight minutes. “Sedentary Alert!” it screamed via my phone. Goals climbed: 7,000 steps a day, 8,000, and then the magical 10,000! One night, past my usual bedtime, I found myself marching around the dining table, muttering “eight thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight…” while the missus made a video recording for “amusing the granddaughters”.
Emboldened by my step-count supremacy, I invaded the kingdom of superfood. Kale, they said, was the elixir of champions. I bought a bunch and loaded it into a blender that cost more than my first car. The result was a green, rubber-like goo which the Nutty Professor would immediately recognise as a cousin of Flubber. The green potion smelt of sin and wet socks. I pinched my nose, gulped the concoction, and waited for my biceps to sprout. Nothing! Except an evil-tasting burp emanating from some place where a six pack should have been.
Quinoa was next. The packet promised miracles, being ‘the ancient super-grain of the Incas’. As prescribed, I boiled, seasoned and buttered it and then took a bite. Immediately I understood why the Incas died out as a race—no one can subsist, let alone go forth and multiply, on that garbage!
Yoga class was touted to be ‘beginner friendly’. But the room was packed with human origami—20-year-olds folded into complicated shapes and designs. I, in my XXL tracksuit, attempted Downward Dog and achieved Hunchback Hippo! The instructor, a chirpy young thing named Tia, cajoled, “Feel the stretch! Feel the stretch!” All I felt was my spine go crack-crack-crack! I realised that more stretching could be fatal and made good my escape from Tia, the yogini.
The gym was the final frontier. Machines gleamed like medieval torture devices. I mounted the treadmill with the swagger of a cowboy. Speed: 4 km/h. Duration: 45 seconds. The belt flung me disdainfully into a stack of exercise balls. I bounced, rolled, and landed spread-eagled under a poster of the Great Khali, who seemed to taunt: “Shabash!”
Desperate for inner peace, I downloaded a mindfulness app. I sat in padmasana—or, more accurately, an ardha-padmasana, because my knees refused full cooperation. The voice soothed: “Inhale brightness, exhale tension.” Bliss lasted seven seconds. Then my wife walked in. “Arre, what is this now? Imagining you are Baba Ramdev?”
I shushed her. “I want to find enlightenment!”
She snorted. “Enlightenment? You can’t even find your socks unless I help you!”
That was the final straw. I ripped off the tracker, hurled the kale into the neighbour’s compost, and fed the quinoa to the pigeons. I cancelled my gym membership and wrote a nasty goodbye to Tia.
I am now back to moderate sins: evening strolls at the speed of a trotting snail, dal-chawal with a moderate amount of ghee, and a moderate single malt that whispers sweet nothings to my liver. I don’t care if F&PP Sugar and kolestrosomething throw tantrums, or the mirror giggles wickedly. I will remain a moderate man and salvation, I have discovered, lies in moderation.
K.C. Verma is former chief of R&AW. kcverma345@gmail.com