G for GymRat
What I learnt from a college crush
I thought about this when I hit the gym today for my first personal training session. Romance and magic are the fuel of life. I hope you enjoy this story as much as I enjoy reliving it in words. And Iβm late on April A to Z Challenge but Iβll make it up.
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I first remember gymming becoming a thing in the 90s. Maybe thatβs when fitness fever hit India (letβs take a minute to thank Akshay Kumar, hairy glory and all). Or maybe itβs because I was newly adolescent and my generation was discovering vanity for the first time.
The year I turned 19 was also the year I dropped out of college. We have the lack of widespread internet at the time to thank for that, else Iβd just have been pouring my angst and frustration into a blog. I was still on the rolls of the college but as an A.T.K.T. student (thatβs actually βAllowed to keep termβ but we knew it better as βAaj thoda, kal thodaβ).
You know how everyone has a friend who is a bad influence, who is destined to go downhill? It just occurred to me that I didnβt have one; I was that friend. All the friends I can remember from that time were toppers, popular models, upcoming dancers and the like. One of them was competing in a year-long competition for the title of βMiss Universityβ. Yes, that was a thing and it involved excellence in academics, sports and cultural activities. She understood priorities and balancing different people even then. I was only informed of this event sometime in February. It was time for the fashion show round, she explained. Iβm not sure what association she made between me and style (I was in my grunge/goth phase then) but I was enlisted to help.
Maybe it was because of our colleges. She went to Bhavanβs, which was considered a respectable but tame college. I was a Mithibai girl, which meant I had glamour cred in the suburbs (Madhuri Dixit, Raveena Tandon, Urmila Matondker, Ekta Kapoor, Vivek Oberoi and Shahid Kapoor are some of the alumni). I didnβt care. I was the original hipster and I had decided that Mithibai filmipan was beneath me (never mind that I was going to be part of the entourage for a fashion show).
We turned up at the Bhavanβs campus early in the morning and it was awhile before the others showed up. They werenβt her friends but her choreographer and the supporting male models. One of them had longish hair and I took an instant condescencion to him. Bhavanβs himbo I decided, was no better than the Mithibai ones. The introductions were done and to my surprise, everyone was really friendly. I was used to my own college peers being a bit, shall we say bitchy, to outsiders and each other. It wasnβt cool to be openly nice.
We trooped up to the terrace for a final rehearsal. Someone switched on a battered music system and the strains of Suneeta Raoβs Paree hoon main rose in the air. The four boys positioned themselves at corners, their arms rising in unison. My friend began practising her walk in a heavy ghagara. But my attention was literally snatched by the boy in the front right cornerβββthe long-haired himbo. Each male model had turned towards the center and had begun a strut towards my friend. When they reached her, they fell to their knees, their palms facing her in a gesture of admiration/worship. It was a classical sequence. But all I could think of was that walk, that walk, that walk. I had never consciously experienced male beauty before. And after that, I could barely keep my eyes off him.
They completed the rehearsal and began talking about costumes and makeup. I lurked in the corner, drinking in every detail of his tight black tee-shirt, fitted black jeans and ankle-high brown leather boots. When he turned, the chin-length wavy hair that had made me so derisive, moved like a lionβs mane. It was stunning. He was stunning.
At some point we got to the Mumbai University club house and made our way to the green room. We passed the Mithibai contingent and one of the girls stage-whispered, βIsnβt she from Mithibai? Whatβs wrong with her?β followed by high-pitched laughter. My cheeks hot, I whirled around and threw out some acidic barb that I donβt even remember. Thatβs pretty much all I ever had, back in collegeβββthe wits to silence the prettier people around me. Cross and bothered, I made my way to the dressing room. The Bhavanβs team had seen some of it but they didnβt comment as I settled into a corner.
Until he spoke up.
βYouβre from Mithibai?β
Inside my head, I was quavering down my toes but I fixed him with a cool smile and said,
βYes. Problem?β
Before he could say anything, one of the other boys blurted out,
βBut, but..youβre so nice! I thought Mithibai people were likeβ¦β
βLike them?β
I gestured to the other contingent outside the door. He nodded and we all burst out laughing. The tension was broken but I made sure I didnβt look in his direction. Cool was such a fragile thing. I couldnβt afford to lose it.
Later, I went out to fetch something for my friend. When I returned, I literally keeled over. I had almost run intoβ¦a mountain of man beauty. There he was, bare-chested (with the aesthetic sense to be clean-shaven even in those hairy-man days), glistening with the barest sheen of body oil, wearing a white dhoti that would be his costume. I spent a full ten seconds drinking in the view hungrily. I only came out of the trance when my friend snapped a finger under my nose. SHITSHITSHIT I thought and pulled back my uber-cool reserve. I didnβt look at him or even talk to him again. But ten minutes later, she pulled me aside and said,
βHeβs got a crush on you. He canβt stop talking about you when youβre not in the room!β
I glared at her and told her to go back to practising. She stuck her tongue out at me and said,
βListen, heβs a nice guy. Donβt be mean to him, okay?β
Still, I couldnβt stop my Cool Self. I told her I didnβt even know his name. It was true. She had introduced us but I had written him off at the time and hadnβt even bothered to remember his name. She rolled her eyes and told me again, a lovely musical, romantic name that started with G. Then we went back into the room.
I settled somewhere in his vicinity and dared to look at him. He was straining with a dumbbell in his hand. Dumbbells always made me think βstupid peopleβ and I dwelt on that idea for a few seconds to reign in my raging hormones. Then I asked him,
βGymming now?β
He nearly slid off his seat when he realised I was talking to him. Then he spoke and to my surprise he didnβt stammer or look perturbed.
βIt makes the bicep muscles stand out. Thatβll look good on stage.β
Ah, I nodded and with that sage conversation we went back to an awkward-pretending-to-be-companionable silence where he did bicep curls and I chewed gum and looked around the room. We both realised at the same time that everyone in the room was looking at us and grinning. He shot them a sharp look and everybody went back to their business.
We didnβt speak again till it was time for the team to go up on stage. As he passed me in the wings, I whispered,
βAll the best!β
He turned and gave me a dazzling smile and I could swear he was thinking,
βThis one is for you.β
They wowed the crowd with their performance and he shone. The dhotis were slightly sheer cotton and one of the other boys was wearing Jockey undies in blue-and-red, which made us all call him Superboy. But G, G was spectacular, dignity and beauty in the flesh.
When the show was over, we wandered around the building. He drifted up next to me as I was staring at a rangoli of flowers laid out at the entrance.
βBeautiful, isnβt it? I would have done it with roses instead of marigolds, though,β
He said.
βYou make rangolis?β
I asked incredulously. Rangoli-making was not at the popular end of the artistic scale. Besides, it was such a Hindu girl thing, I couldnβt imagine a Muslim boy, one as magnificent as him, making a rangoli. For a few seconds I dwelt on the mental image of his large square-set hands spilling out petals into a perfect design.
We had wandered to a staircase and there we sat and spoke. We talked about art and fashion and friends and life and God. I told him I had dropped out of college but I loved books and why that didnβt seem like a contradiction to me. He nodded in acceptance and told me about gymming and how it was both health and looks.
Evening rolled around. Whenever someone passed us, heβd ward them off with,
βIβm just leaving. Iβve to go to the gym.β
Finally, we said bye and my friend and I made our way back to the suburbs. The college professor who had mentored their team was having a little get-together for them and I was invited along. G had bowed out saying he had to get to the gym. I was disappointed but there was nothing to be done about it.
My friend and I spent the train ride back talking about him and about the show. Since I was never going to see him again, I found it easier to tell her what I had felt and thought. It was a new experience for me, being interested in a guy who was so different from me, one who didnβt read, one who was a Body rather than a Mind. A guy who went to the gym!
We rung the doorbell at the professorβs house an hour and half later. And guess who answered the door? My friend turned to me, wide grin in place and said,
βOoh, Ramya, I didnβt realise you were the GYM!β
He rolled his eyes but I grinned and walked in. We didnβt talk a lot to each other through the evening but it was comfortable sitting next to each other, laughing with the others, eating chips and cake. Nobody made any further jokes about us after that.
At around 11pm, we started looking at our watches. He stood up and stretched.
βTime to go to bed,β
one of the other boys said.
G pulled out of that wonderful stretch (I was dreaming of rolling mountains that his back reminded me of) and said,
βNahin, Iβm going to the gym.β
Our laughter carried into the night and he grinned at me. But he stood up and left and I was crestfallen. Then, my friend who had been standing near the door saying bye to everyone put her head back in and asked me,
βHey, phone number? Okay?β
I nodded and smiled, my Cool Self be damned. I was so happy.
I never saw him again. He didnβt call. But Iβve never forgotten him. He changed how I thought about physicality, about male beauty, about attraction and about gender roles. And he was so beautiful. G. G for Gymrat.
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I cannot believe you remember all of this.
Just one fact is wrong, the location was next to Sydneham. It was called the university of Mumbai – Cultural centre.
@Deena: π Fact corrected, thank you! And yes, I remember it all. It was a magical day. I even remember your ghagara, the clever 30-second dress swap sequence and the boys’ red-and-yellow dhotis that were rejected initially.
That was a fun read, Ramya. Particularly your insight about Mithibai folks. I went to Sathaye college (a.k.a. Parle college) for junior college and always wondered why the lack of snarkiness on the East side of Parle was more than made up on the West π
@Parth: π I really enjoyed writing it too! Thank you for commenting. Do come back; there’s a month full of these!