When I walked into his home that morning, Swami was staring at the dining table. A slip of paper lay in front of him like a guilty verdict.
“What’s that?” I asked, biting into the breakfast Vidya had made.
“My gym membership that I took two months back,” Swami said. His tone was heavy, as if it were a court summons. “Six months, prepaid.”
Vidya, pouring herself tea, asked dryly, “And used for?”
“I was planning to go today,” Swami muttered.
“You should have paid when you were actually ready to go,” Vidya remarked.
Swami glared at her. “Yeah, after I paid, Raichand put me on to a project that gave me no time for the gym. Every day I don’t go, it’s like throwing money into the drain. But now, I am ready to go.”
“Then go,” Vidya said, calmly sipping her tea.
“I will,” Swami said, straightening his back. “Today. Right now. After breakfast.”
So, that morning Swami hit the gym, finally two months after paying the membership. The gym was buzzing in the morning light. Posters of muscular models smiled down as if mocking him. Swami adjusted his socks and tried to look purposeful.
“Good morning, sir!” Vicky, the trainer, appeared instantly. His gym vest stuck to him like ambition to Raichand. His voice was too cheerful for the hour.
“Today we start? Warm-up, cardio, weights?” he asked.
Swami nodded like a meek lamb to the slaughterhouse. “Yes… maybe I will start with the treadmill.”
Vicky gave him a thumbs up, saying, “Go easy on the first day!”
Just as he got on the treadmill, Mr. Kapoor, his neighbour, spotted him. Kapoor was in his fifties but carried himself as if his body were a fitness franchise.
“Swami ji!” Kapoor boomed. “At last, I see you at the gym. Welcome to health!” He pointed at his smartwatch. “Already 7,000 steps before breakfast. Target 15,000 today.”
Swami gave a polite smile, already regretting his decision of getting on the treadmill.
On the treadmill, he started slowly. “Just fifteen minutes,” he told himself. But Vicky appeared, correcting his posture. “Chest out, sir, breathe in rhythm. Speed up a little every few minutes, if you can. Though speed isn’t important.”
Kapoor jogged beside him effortlessly. “Push yourself, Swami ji! Every session is worth a hundred rupees. Every step must count.”
That phrase hit home. Swami didn’t know how Kapoor calculated it, but that was enough. Swami increased the speed.
After five minutes, his breathing grew loud, but Kapoor’s encouragement drowned it out.
“Good, Swami ji! You’ll reach my level in no time,” Kapoor said, wiping his forehead with the confidence of a marathoner.
By the time Vicky returned and steered him towards weights, Swami’s shirt was clinging to him like guilt. “Sir, just small dumbbells,” Vicky assured, handing him a pair. Swami lifted cautiously.
“Easy,” Kapoor said. “But the first rule of weight training is progressive overload. If you stay on light weights, nothing happens.”
Vicky nodded eagerly. “Yes sir, that’s true. You can try a bigger weight, if you can, Sir.”
Swami wanted to protest, but the memory of the membership fee silenced him. He reached for the heavier dumbbells. After three repetitions, his arms screamed. He put them down, gasping.
“Excellent, sir,” Vicky said. “Now squats.”
“Squats?” Swami echoed faintly.
“Yes sir. Lower body strength is very important, especially in middle age.”
That was just the trigger Swami didn’t need to hear. He attempted one, then another. By the fifth one, his knees were creaking like old furniture. By the second set, he was unsure whether he was exercising or auditioning for punishment.
Kapoor clapped from a distance. “Look at that form! Almost perfect.”
Swami managed to complete the second set before collapsing on the bench. He looked at the poster of the smiling model. “He probably didn’t prepay.”
After a few more half-hearted stretches, Swami declared, “Enough for today.”
Vicky didn’t argue. Nor did Swami’s body.
Two days later, still limping, Swami looked like a man recovering from battle as he narrated his ordeal at our café table. He lowered himself carefully into the chair, wincing.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Thigh strain,” Swami said grimly. “And general muscle soreness. From the gym.”
“You finally went?” I exclaimed.
“Yes,” Swami said. “And now I can’t climb stairs without planning ten minutes in advance.”
I tried not to laugh. “So, no more gym?”
“That’s the problem,” Swami said. “I’ve paid six months in advance. Every day I miss it feels like theft. But every day I go feels like torture. What kind of choice is that?”
Jigneshbhai stirred his coffee slowly. He had listened quietly, as always. “You are trapped between guilt and pain,” he said finally.
“Exactly!” Swami exclaimed. “And both are expensive.”
“And the first leads to the other,” Jigneshbhai smiled faintly. Swami looked at him eagerly.
“The money is already gone,” Jigneshbhai said.
“You can’t recover it by punishing yourself.”
Swami frowned. “So, you’re saying I should just waste it?”
“No,” Jigneshbhai said. “It’s already gone, whether you like it or not.”
Swami realised that Jigneshbhai was right. I nodded in agreement too. “So basically, I should just stop feeling guilty,” Swami said quickly, missing the point as usual.
“Well, don’t let guilt punish you. Start small. Repeat it. Consistency is cheaper.”
Swami stared at him. “Hmm.. that’s one weight off my mind,” he said.
Jigneshbhai sipped his coffee. I nodded.
Just then, the wealthy old man from the bungalow passed by, cane tapping, and murmured with a faint smile: “Some weights train the body. Others only weigh down the mind.”
Swami sighed, shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and, with a smile, said, “Next time, I will go to the gym at a time when Kapoor is at home!”
***
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