“No blog on International Yoga Day, sir?” quipped Mr Ramprasad of the 15th floor as he joined me in the lift. “No, I was out of town,” I replied impromptu, my presence of mind disowning me once again. One doesn’t need to be present in SFV to write on Yoga Day, unless the piece is meant to cover an SFV-specific event for the occasion.
Yes, my first ever association in life with any fitness venture started (read, was forced upon me) with yoga at a young age. Vijnana Ramaneeyam (abode of knowledge?), a new building with a big hall and two or three decent rooms, was inaugurated by the then Governor of Madras Presidency in the remote village of Koppam - a little over a mile from my village. If only you google: Entrance view of Vijnana Ramaneeyam, it will convince you that Small is Beautiful, after all.
The Governor impressed the audience on the need to ensure that the institution bubbled with spiritual, cultural and social activities. No sooner than he completed his speech a Yoga teacher trained at Sivananda Ashram in Rishikesh, offered to take yoga classes for free. My grandfather, vaguely connected with the founding of the institution, raised his hand and made a wholesale announcement, “Myself, my son, and three grandsons will attend the class”. We were mortally afraid of raising our voice against his decisions, but were wary that the morning yoga sessions would put us in a spot vis-a-vis our school/college timings. “No problem, we will request him to start the class a little early,” he said, making the remedy worse than the disease - we would need to get up earlier. A tall and imposing figure that he was, we had to succumb. We always avoided eye contact with him, out of sheer respect. A few months later my uncle landed from Delhi on vacation and, on return, took me along to Delhi to eke out a living. Thus ended my sojourn with yoga half way.
Yes, half-way has been the hallmark of my life - either on my own volition, or circumstances conspire to bring about it. In fact, if you ask me, “Uncle, what has been your singular achievement in life,” my unabashed response would be, “half way all the way”. As an adolescent I was very keen to learn the percussion instrument mridangam. The legend Palghat Mani Iyer’s son Raghu was not just in my classmate, we were seated next to each other in the seventh class. His oft-repeated murmur, Ta ta tarigan tim ta and advanced versions, inspired me to learn the instrument. Soon I was initiated. My father took me to his contemporary and relative - an accomplished mridangam teacher. Restless by nature and an unpaid for mridangam at hand, I skipped lessons - say from 3 to 10 suddenly - whenever my Guru, a widower, went to the kitchen to prepare coffee for himself, or visited the restroom. He would rush back to insist on me to follow the rule book. An ambitious and aspiring lad, wanting to compete with Palghat Mani Iyer overnight, I had no patience. And we called it quits.
Years later I took a fancy for Guitar. After returning from office I would sport the high-end special kurta-pyjama bought for the occasion, and walk past my street in Karol Bagh, with guitar hung on my shoulder, misleading onlookers to think I was heading to give a performance in Sapru House. Normally a strict No-refund music school, one day the music teacher called me to a corner and whispered into my ears, “As a special case I can speak to the Management to refund you all the three months’ fee, if only you give up the Elvis Presley dream and pursue some other vocation - away from our institution.” Another aspiration coming to an abrupt end.
Back to fitness, a job in hand, new-found money in pocket, it was foot-high Punjabi glass of lassi, Keventer’s ice cream and sweetened milk all the way. It was time I engaged myself in a battle of the bulge. First I bought a Bullworker, the then reigning champion in the fitness arena. The ad promised to make a Mohammad Ali out of me. Fifteen days at it, the instrument found it way to the attic. I switched over to a light gadget, the tummy trimmer. After a while the gadget began to sport a tummy - rust due to constant non-use.
Then it was the turn of weight-lifting. The trainer, a Bengali, who was Mr Delhi, condescended to teach me the nuances of weight lifting. Starting with dumb bells, it was now time to lift weight. He demonstrated to me how I should slowly lift it, hold it for a while, and release it. It was a tough call as the weight he suggested was a little on the higher side for an idly-sambar vegetarian. Undaunted, nonetheless, I picked it, g r a d u a l l y lifted it, and held on to it. For five full minutes. The trainer patted on my back, and said. “Good. This time you have lifted it up to the knee level, next time try to raise it to calf level.”
V V Sundaram
Maple 3195
30 June 2017
