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”.
Illustration: Job P.K.
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