Rest Wanted
The thing about India is that you never know when things will turn for the worse.
Today -- or, rather, yesterday (I have no idea what day it is anymore) -- started off splendidly.
After an uneventful night at work, I tagged along with my friend, Nidhi, to go to the gym near her
house in North Delhi.
India surprises you. Constantly.
Before we arrived at the gym, I didn't know what to expect. I was pretty sure
it would be no Bally's, EAC, or even SPAC, but I was curious to see how yuppie Delhiites worked out
(or "gymming it" as they call it).
>From the outside, the place looked more like modest apartment building than a gym But upon
entering, I was instantly greeted by a humidity reminiscent of stepping off an airplane in Miami:
one big rush of steam. Ventilation was abysmal. There were no locker rooms -- just one unisex
toilet and a water cooler with plastic cups. The choice of music was memorable. I truly wonder if
Madonna, Michael Jackson or even Ace of Base ever envisioned their melodies would infiltrate Indian
workout culture. As I changed
into my sweatpants, Jackson's "Heal the World" rang in my eardrums.
(Side note: Remember when he sang that song surrounded by kids at the Superbowl? Wow. How times
have changed. But I digress.)
The place was appropriately called "The Rock". A massive poster featuring the studly muscleman
adorned the gym's west wall. The interior was cramped -- not unusual for Delhi.
I started my workout uncomfortably. I had lost Nidhi while I was changing, and now I was warming up
in a white t-shirt and grey sweatpants in front of half a dozen Indians who were probably dying to
know how I ended up here .
I tried to nonchalantly rip off a few sets of dips. They watched. This was wierd.
Then one of them approached me. Shit. I realized I hadn't paid to get in, nor had I made any effort
to sign in otherwise. Nidhi was nowhere to be found.
"Oh, um, I'm so sorry. I'm with my friend. How much do I have to pay?" I offered.
"No, sah," the security guard said. He pointed upstairs. (Well, it wasn't really an "upstairs".
More like a raised alcove.) Nidhi was waving at me.
"Gabriel! Come!" she yelled. Great. She had been watching the entire spectacle from a balcony seat.
It dawned on me: the security guard was really a servant. He had been summoned to fetch me.
I walked up the narrow staircase and smacked my head on the ridiculously low ceiling. Nidhi was
having breakfast with what was apparently the gym supervisor. I was offered some biscuits and --
take a guess -- tea.
I couldn't believe it! Was there any time these people didn't chug tea? I tried to decline,
saying that I didn't like to eat before a workout. Of course, they just thought I was being polite,
and the servant brought the tea anyway.
After about 20 minutes of chit-chat, we started our workout. The equipment was surprisingly decent, but after 45 minutes of pumping iron (and being swarmed by overly-attentive servants who wanted nothing me than to spot me), I was exhausted. Realizing my month in Delhi had sapped any strength I could muster, I resigned myself to another 20 minutes on a stationary bike.
I would realize much later that night that I had been utterly dehydrated. Also, never underestimate the withdrawal one's body undergoes when they give up beef.
God, I miss my protein.
Our workout ended, and Nidhi took me along to Barista (their version of Starbucks) where I was offered tea and coffee again. I settled for a milkshake and a sandwich. We hung out with two of her friends, and the experience reminded me how some aspects of youth interaction remain constant through out world.
They teased each other every two seconds. They threw food at each other. It was nice to be among friends.
Then came the big event: I was to meet Nidhi's family. Her mother had been wanting to cook me some food -- and she reportedly made some insane paratas. So, although I had already eaten, I was in store for some more spicy goodness.
What I received was one of the biggest displays of hospitality I have ever experienced. Nidhi's mother stuffed me with food, conversed with me for hours (while her daughters translated), and even gave me a brand new sweater as a gift.
I hadn't felt so welcomed in a while.
The blue-gray wool sweater is hideous, but I will keep it for a long time. It will remind me of the unlimited kindness that Indians surprise you with. On my long autorickshaw drive home, I thought about how this country can be so warm -- and yet inspire such misery at times.
I would experience that latter half of that conundrum later than night. I was able to sleep for about four hours before I needed to head to work again. When I awoke, I felt like a speedbump.
Was it a parata hangover? Nah, couldn't be.
As I rode to work in nauseating agony, I realized that I hadn't had some water in a long time. I was dangerously dehydrated and exhausted. When I stepped into the office, my friend Soumya saw me.
"Oh, my! What happened? You look terrible!" she gasped.
Gee, thanks.
"Come, let's go up to the cafeteria and I'll buy you something," she said. I had my usual stomach-settler: butterscotch-flavored milk and a glass of water. I told her about my day, and she just laughed.
"Oh, Gabriel! You need to get some rest!"
So I think I will. Good night. (Or morning.)
Today -- or, rather, yesterday (I have no idea what day it is anymore) -- started off splendidly.
After an uneventful night at work, I tagged along with my friend, Nidhi, to go to the gym near her
house in North Delhi.
India surprises you. Constantly.
Before we arrived at the gym, I didn't know what to expect. I was pretty sure
it would be no Bally's, EAC, or even SPAC, but I was curious to see how yuppie Delhiites worked out
(or "gymming it" as they call it).
>From the outside, the place looked more like modest apartment building than a gym But upon
entering, I was instantly greeted by a humidity reminiscent of stepping off an airplane in Miami:
one big rush of steam. Ventilation was abysmal. There were no locker rooms -- just one unisex
toilet and a water cooler with plastic cups. The choice of music was memorable. I truly wonder if
Madonna, Michael Jackson or even Ace of Base ever envisioned their melodies would infiltrate Indian
workout culture. As I changed
into my sweatpants, Jackson's "Heal the World" rang in my eardrums.
(Side note: Remember when he sang that song surrounded by kids at the Superbowl? Wow. How times
have changed. But I digress.)
The place was appropriately called "The Rock". A massive poster featuring the studly muscleman
adorned the gym's west wall. The interior was cramped -- not unusual for Delhi.
I started my workout uncomfortably. I had lost Nidhi while I was changing, and now I was warming up
in a white t-shirt and grey sweatpants in front of half a dozen Indians who were probably dying to
know how I ended up here .
I tried to nonchalantly rip off a few sets of dips. They watched. This was wierd.
Then one of them approached me. Shit. I realized I hadn't paid to get in, nor had I made any effort
to sign in otherwise. Nidhi was nowhere to be found.
"Oh, um, I'm so sorry. I'm with my friend. How much do I have to pay?" I offered.
"No, sah," the security guard said. He pointed upstairs. (Well, it wasn't really an "upstairs".
More like a raised alcove.) Nidhi was waving at me.
"Gabriel! Come!" she yelled. Great. She had been watching the entire spectacle from a balcony seat.
It dawned on me: the security guard was really a servant. He had been summoned to fetch me.
I walked up the narrow staircase and smacked my head on the ridiculously low ceiling. Nidhi was
having breakfast with what was apparently the gym supervisor. I was offered some biscuits and --
take a guess -- tea.
I couldn't believe it! Was there any time these people didn't chug tea? I tried to decline,
saying that I didn't like to eat before a workout. Of course, they just thought I was being polite,
and the servant brought the tea anyway.
After about 20 minutes of chit-chat, we started our workout. The equipment was surprisingly decent, but after 45 minutes of pumping iron (and being swarmed by overly-attentive servants who wanted nothing me than to spot me), I was exhausted. Realizing my month in Delhi had sapped any strength I could muster, I resigned myself to another 20 minutes on a stationary bike.
I would realize much later that night that I had been utterly dehydrated. Also, never underestimate the withdrawal one's body undergoes when they give up beef.
God, I miss my protein.
Our workout ended, and Nidhi took me along to Barista (their version of Starbucks) where I was offered tea and coffee again. I settled for a milkshake and a sandwich. We hung out with two of her friends, and the experience reminded me how some aspects of youth interaction remain constant through out world.
They teased each other every two seconds. They threw food at each other. It was nice to be among friends.
Then came the big event: I was to meet Nidhi's family. Her mother had been wanting to cook me some food -- and she reportedly made some insane paratas. So, although I had already eaten, I was in store for some more spicy goodness.
What I received was one of the biggest displays of hospitality I have ever experienced. Nidhi's mother stuffed me with food, conversed with me for hours (while her daughters translated), and even gave me a brand new sweater as a gift.
I hadn't felt so welcomed in a while.
The blue-gray wool sweater is hideous, but I will keep it for a long time. It will remind me of the unlimited kindness that Indians surprise you with. On my long autorickshaw drive home, I thought about how this country can be so warm -- and yet inspire such misery at times.
I would experience that latter half of that conundrum later than night. I was able to sleep for about four hours before I needed to head to work again. When I awoke, I felt like a speedbump.
Was it a parata hangover? Nah, couldn't be.
As I rode to work in nauseating agony, I realized that I hadn't had some water in a long time. I was dangerously dehydrated and exhausted. When I stepped into the office, my friend Soumya saw me.
"Oh, my! What happened? You look terrible!" she gasped.
Gee, thanks.
"Come, let's go up to the cafeteria and I'll buy you something," she said. I had my usual stomach-settler: butterscotch-flavored milk and a glass of water. I told her about my day, and she just laughed.
"Oh, Gabriel! You need to get some rest!"
So I think I will. Good night. (Or morning.)