The gym that I am a member of has some serious members who do not miss a single day’s workout. They know exactly what they have to do each day of the week and they go about it sincerely. Every minute they spend in the gym is purposeful and businesslike.
Then there is a Mr. Show Off who has the latest and costliest gym clothing and accoutrements. He is more interested in flaunting his workout gear than actually working out. He spends his time mostly on the mobile, clicks selfies with the various machines and instantly posts the results on social media.
We have a young man who lazily loafs around the gym with his eyes always darting out, watching a traffic signal nearby. The moment he spots a pink scooter cross the signal, he jumps on the nearest treadmill and starts running at a high speed. By the time the scooter reaches the gym and ‘she’ makes her grand entry, our man has worked up a sweat. Thereafter, for the next 45 minutes that she is there, he works out as close to her as he can manage. But she is so focussed on her routines, does she even know that he exists?
Momma’s boy is dropped to the gym every day by his concerned mother. She pleads with him to work out seriously so as to lose those extra 25 kilos. She discusses with the trainer why there has been no improvement. The moment she is out of sight, he decides to start off with shavasana and in quick time is snoring loudly much to everyone’s amusement.
But it is Aunt Philomena, who is the star of our gym. She is 74. Not a single day is she absent. But rarely does she work out during the two hours she spends there. She knows everyone.
Holding a pair of light dumbbells, she spends a few minutes with each of us. With Shekhar, she discusses the weather. Dr. Sebastian updates her on the local politics. Petite youngster Priya is her adviser on the latest fashion trends.
Sunny, our gym owner, quarrels with Aunt Philomena every month, refusing to take fees from her. “Sunny”, she protests loudly, “you don’t want me here? Staying alone is so boring, I come here to keep myself fit and get to meet energetic youngsters and well-wishers. You want to deny me this little pleasure?”
“Aunty,” he retorts, “tell me one day you have actually worked out here, how can I charge you for just being here? Moreover, can anyone be charged for spreading happiness?”
Almost every other day, she brings a huge home-baked cake and implores each of us to have a piece. Almost every time there are protests, “Aunty, how can you do this, all the workout is wasted after eating such a rich cake.” But to no avail, “What nonsense? Since when did love hurt any workout? My cakes have nothing fattening, only love.” Always, the cakes are polished off quickly. Always, Momma’s boy grabs the biggest piece, reverentially touches Aunt Philomena’s feet to seek her blessings, and dutifully goes back to his shavasana and his snoring.
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