March.05 : Last summer, in what must have been a fit of madness, I joined my neighbourhood gym.
I have never had weight problem till I quit smoking cigarettes a few years ago. Since then I have added extra kilos, and all that fat has settled around a certain part of my anatomy.

So I wear bush-shirts not because they are cool in the Indian summer; I wear them because I can no longer tuck in a T-shirt without looking fat. I look forward to winter not only because I like the cold but also because I can hide the bulge beneath a sweater or a jacket. For months this excess fat has been bothering me.
The answer is a regular workout and a healthy diet. But I hate the thought of exercise — indoor or outdoor — as much as I love my two-egg omelettes and bacon and fries. Every time I go to the park, I wonder how anyone can go round the same set of trees, meeting the same set of people, day after day. It’s just so repetitive and boring. I find it depressing.
Someone suggested yoga. I have never given it a try because I doubt if I will be able to sit still for 15 minutes. I am far too restless.
WebMd (one of the self-diagnosis websites I visit whenever I need answers for medical problems) says there are two types of fat: visceral and subcutaneous. Visceral fat is located in the abdomen, tucked deep inside your waistline; subcutaneous fat is just underneath the skin. I need to shed some 10 pounds of visceral fat.
So I did a ballpark calculation and joined a gym: There are 3,500 calories in a pound of body fat. Rule of thumb: to lose one lb of fat in a week, you need to burn off 3,500 extra calories than you eat that week. That’s 500 calories a day. Now, running burns about 100 calories a mile. Answer: run five miles or nine kilometres to burn 500 calories. Seems simple, but it wasn’t.
Hesitatingly, I stepped on the treadmill, timed it for 30 minutes, and then asked the young men in charge of the gym for exercises targeted at my paunch. They put me on a twirling machine (I don’t know its name but as I twist, my belly goes glug-glug-glug), and made me lie flat on my back and raise each leg some 30 times. I was conscious of the bulge, and too embarrassed to look left or right. The others around must be a third my age and get up with a nice bounce.
Gyms have their own little subculture. There are the “He-Men”. They have big muscles, and walk slowly with an attitude. You can hear them go “aaarghhh” as they lift monstrous weights. For reasons I do not understand, they never use the treadmill. They are mostly in the weights section. Perhaps they want to look like the muscular man in the posters whose headline says “Animalpak 55.30.29”. It took me a while to figure out what the numbers meant.
The young in the gym are skinny enough and don’t need to work out. They are trendy and dressed for the gym. They have the advantage of youth. Most of them follow similar routines. The young men stare at themselves in the mirror and check their biceps as they aim for six-pack abs; the young women, I guess, must be admiring their toned bodies.
Some women come in salwaar-kameez; perhaps they are not comfortable getting into a tracksuit. They like the cycle and the elliptical trainer. Like the young, this lot too stick together, seeking comfort in their kind. Gyms can be intimidating; it must have taken them courage to enrol.
Then there are the beautiful people in their Spandex tights. They have nice bodies, the perfect gym attire, and are constantly on the cellphone as they run on the treadmill. I wonder if they come to the gym to make a statement. I like the sound of their running feet.
In this motley crowd, I must be the hopeless case, the fat old man on the treadmill with headphones.
I abhor the balle-balle music they play in my gym, and keep my headphones on all the time. I skip tracks on my iPod till I find an appropriate piece. They say there is a science in choosing workout music — you can build up stamina by coordinating your pace with the tempo of the music. I just need to make those 45 minutes less insufferable.
I did a Web search for best workout tracks, and the only one I could relate to (and already had on my iPod) was Eye of the Tiger. The rest were hip-hop, or songs with names like Boom Boom Pow by the Black Eyed Peas.
Huffing and panting, I forced myself to walk two kilometres on the treadmill. That seems to be my comfort level. With right music I could do another half kilometre. Just as I was getting into the rhythm it was Christmas — an excuse for a break.
As I mentally prepare to go back to the gym, I am back to where I began last summer: same weight, same waist. Winning the battle of the bulge is harder than I thought.

Shekhar Bhatia can be contacted at shekhar.bhatia@gmail.com

Shekhar Bhatia