The Long Mile

I wish I had a penny every time I wanted to sign up for a gym. And since we are on the topic, maybe a fistful of dollars for each time I actually ended up doing so. Not that it would amount to much as compensation, for studies have proven flab loss having a disproportionate and upfront impact on net worth. So when my office offered a gym, gratis, I knew the neighborhood health club entrepreneur could count on one less absentee benefactor.

My system, meanwhile, works like clock-work. Every few years the auto-defrost kicks in, and every gram must go. At least that is the signal that the looking glass tries to convey, gently. As in, the cup cake shape my torso would have attained, thanks to well, cup cakes. And the going would be ruled by any of the food pyramids available in every conceivable cuisine. Only this time, the portions would reduce to the level of ‘caviar on the side’. The pi•èce de ré•sis•tance, of course, would be the pumping of iron.

As slow starvation leads to melting of the love handles, by some cosmic connection, I begin to notice fine works of print and outdoor adverts. Ahoy, a shapely figure, not a bead of sweat in sight, plodding to nowhere on a treadmill. Mr. Olympia grimaces nearby, veins a-popping, a dumb-bell his only ornament. This, and one visit to the machine shop where all this is made possible; enough to debit salary account by a small fortune.

But this time, it’s Office Gym to the rescue. The only catch would be the location. Stuck as it is at one end of the cafeteria, now it was only a question of stuffing before or after calorie burn. The only visit to that end of the building got me a membership; this time there was nothing else for MasterCard®. Now the proof of my new found lifestyle is the gym ID attached to the office card. As if the extra few ounces swinging from my hip would manage to work on my abs, if not my conscience.

My desk drawers have since been cleared for the much awaited arrival of gym shoes and related paraphernalia. I have even begun turning up early to office so I may swing by the gym late evening. Two weeks now, it’s still swing and miss. I do manage two daily visits to the cafeteria, yet not the last mile to my first gym session.

Next Monday. For sure this time. I guess.

Elba

The act of turning up, showing you care, call it what you like. I always left it to others to pander to Karma; my contribution limited to the monetary. I will oil the wheels and even wipe it down for you. But don’t expect me to walk along side as you provide for. I left an ‘air-lock’, a kind of safe distance from the ill fortune I might have been spared. Rather execute an online fund transfer than face the humanity eking off it. From experience, I’ve realized that it saves me from sleepless nights and unhappy thoughts; a knot in my gut which never goes easily.

 Or a nameless face I am condemned to remember.

 Regulation close cropped hair, ill fitting hand-me-downs and an air of resignation. Not very different from the rest of his brethren, some laid out on iron beds, corporate benevolence branded on each bedstead. The air was musty with the heavy odor of cheap floor wipe, only the light rustle of sheets as slight frames shuffled on and off. None betrayed much emotion; ennui perhaps. Also, they were used to do-gooders gawking at their state.

 I’m sure he’d seen better days. Pater Familias, a career, grand kids even. What might have passed, I shudder to think. For time evidently flew with fortune, leaving in its wake waning years at a desolate senior home. A face wracked by time, an eye unseeing. Gaze fixed into the distance; at what was or would be I knew not.

 His grip was firm, head tilted to compensate. It would be awkward being seated next to him. But all others were taken. If it were any consolation, I was not the only one seeking indifference. I passed on a pack of cookies making its rounds, and swallowed hard as he folded hands in gratitude. Almost immediately he livened up, as if in me he found a familiarity needing no introduction. He spoke. In Tamil, a language I barely followed. Of people and places, I suspect visited only in his dreams. In a tone, steady and polished, save for the one time it faltered, as he mentioned a town by name. He did not resume until his lips had stopped trembling.

 I wonder if he noticed me nodding all along, all at sea translating, and wishing being elsewhere. No more than an interloper from the other side of the tracks, seeking to offer solace by mere presence. Unable to linger with a handshake, for fear of remembering how it felt. Speechless, dense, a voyeur devouring a sight he might never find himself in. Self-assured that the constants in his long, pointless life were indeed safe from Fate.

 Then maybe, he never did mind. For while leaving, grip firm as ever, I managed to pick his parting words.

“Son, it’s not every day someone visits”.

Most Rats Die Outdoors

Splayed over the living room rug, like a toad awaiting vivisection, I peer into the long lost corners of my living room floor. A world of perpetual dusk, doomed since the straddle of furniture over it. Evidently, few have ventured here, even less set sight upon. An ecosystem unspoilt by broom or mop, the natural mustiness makes this home to creatures that send my spouse on hysterical shrieking spells.

I might have liked to mention that, precisely in those moments, she resembled a teenage groupie tickled by the sight of a favourite movie star. Replace spider/rat/lizard with Pitt/Cruise/Hanks. You get the picture. But then, discretion being the better part of humour, I desist. Being of the tactical bend of mind, the better half opts to booby-trap every nook with rat-kill. That sure went well. That is, save for a tell-tale whiff of eau de rat, source unknown.

 Thus, the man of the house finds himself on the front, more like a Private doing Dubya’s bidding in Iraq. Ducking dust bunnies and stray cobwebs, a flashlight in one hand, broom in the other. Vainly hoping to sweep darkness and dust away in equal measure. The beam rolls on, leaving the dust bunnies at the mercy of a sideways punt/drag onto a scoop. The scent gets stronger. Now the space ensconced at the junction of long sofa & ornate bureau sees light. 

A rather tidy dust bunny catches my eye. Almost immediately, a near blinding burst of stench catches my senses. Eyes water. It burns like a punch to my nose. An expert turn of my battle axe follows. Stubborn. One more, as I try and inch closer. Just then, the supposed bunny spins around to face me. Resting on my chin means the jaw may drop no more. I manage a gasp. For at that point it was as if I was the one stunned by the light; a reddish reflection from the twin headlights of the rodent. 
Now, I am all for chores, and small rodents, especially the stuffed variety. But I never bargained on an animal safari of this sort while serving mandatory weekend husbandry. 

Another prod, but not before I’d worked on my posture. No longer prone, I was up on one knee, upper body contorted to level with the rat. In this advantageous position, flight was not an option, it was reassuringly guaranteed. But it still seemed all of this counted for no more than a rub down for the little punk.

As I lower myself to take another look, a dull grey fur ball whizzes past, bisecting the living room and headed for the farthest corner. Didn’t miss by much, the broom doubling as projectile. Expertly launched from the commanding heights of the nearest chair, attained a fraction of second earlier. I disembark, go the other way, hoping to take the animal (on a hunt, remember) by surprise. Or at least, leave enough space to bolt, just in case.

I need not have bothered. At the doorway to the next room, a little away from the curtains, Mon. Rat lay in repose, a slow tremor of the feet as the poison finally caught up. Its last gasp spent in the rush from darkness to light. Way to go, Sundance Kid.

Long after the body is interred to trash, I carefully put away the tools of the trade. As I dispatch the rat-kill to the top shelf, I spy a helpful hint on the carton: "Most rats die outdoors"

It’s 5 'O clock somewhere

Six pairs of hands stare down from the wall, all tied up in various states of separation. Their faces united in their banality; a city name and flag pin is all that distinguish breakfast at London from sundown in Sydney. Pity, but the prime movers of a business model would have but little personality to share. Oblivious to the many minions, collared to monogrammed blue lace dangling a non-descript access card, racing them at every turn. Doors open. They sweep through. Unbeknownst, so does time.


A siren might have been the prop for Means of Production. But, here we make do with lot less dramatics. Of course, we are not hoisted onto a caged car down a barely lit shaft. Seeking veins for precious, while letting ours waste for nothing. Washing with our sweat what is no more than rock, for the sparkles belongs to somebody else. Neither do we emerge, awash in soot, grime, and early twilight, to the accompaniment of a wailing siren. Nor is the emolument a fistful of dollars, black lung and a lifetime of under achievement. Yet, the more things change..?


There are bills to pay. And few amongst us are destined to sing, soldier or create acts of beauty (and survive on the pension). So we head for the mines of this millennium.


Here, the ceiling is high, the Lumens set to light meters and the air monitored for bacterium. Murals, birthday lists, and at places, faux graffiti. The mice on the wheel are sated, flush and needless to say, dispensable. The job is monotonous, mind numbing & venal. Hazards of the Industrial Revolution reinvent themselves.


It is our souls that are mined of their creativity, often leaving behind a hollow, long drained of its precious lightness. For many, it’s a waste land that no rain may revive.


The wheels need to keep turning, at any cost. By the way, I’m off at 5.

Water Under the Bridge

It must be said that the most pivotal moments of our lives often occur in the most mundane of settings. No drum-rolls, no cheering crowds. An envelope slipped under the door, a terse phone call, first born cuddled against the chest. For a moment that denotes liftoff, the culmination of a seemingly endless countdown, there is no voice-over, much less a sonic boom. No joining of hands, as you the truly takes a giant leap on Fate’s hoist. Alas, O Fortuna might have been just right as accompaniment.

Some might have come sooner. Or so you wish. All your dreams were spun for a spring time. A lot flattered to deceive, yet eventually spring does arrive. For real this time, and you are all about to live the time of your life. “About time”. Yet, a passing thought, a whiff of a what-if. Surely you realize that the winds of fortune don’t do your bidding. Though rankle it does, over time that passed. Forks on the road, left behind, for want of.

It is a slow realization. That a lot would, or already have, changed forever. And at times, for only you know the truth, a sigh escapes your grateful yet weary soul.

Did someone say ‘half-empty’?