LIVING WITH THE BRUTES!
Filled with testosterone, we started off as 13 strong. Getting from the campus to the station, the first leg of our journey happened as brutishly as it possibly could. Buses were for pussies. We got hold of two old school jeeps, clattering diesel engines and all. The types that make ordinary hatchbacks look like.... well pussies. Or that's how everything looked.
I didn't even know what power lifting was, six months earlier. That's the thing about life. You never know your talents. And suddenly, you run straight into it right around a bend. Here I was, walking with the beasts, huffing, puffing, and grunting away at barbells loaded up to thrice the weight of ourselves. Here's lesson number one that I learned...
We have no clue about our strengths. Specially how unlimited they can turn out to be, given a little direction.
The week ahead of me was something I'd been looking forward to for a while. A week to tune out of a lot many things. Things that I never thought would trouble me the way they did, or at least led me to trouble myself. It's usually that way with everything. The mind is a bitch. Deceiving itself into thinking and conjuring ideas and perceptions about things and people that are probably far removed from reality. Or maybe, the mind does know when some things are meant to be, and some aren't. You never know. Here's where my second realization comes into picture.
The mind has one hell of a self-preserving mechanism. It will cook up anything in its might to make one feel a bit better. The dish that comes out of the cooker could be the most fictitious concoction ever. It need not even be edible. But the mind will stuff it down our throats as long as it makes us feel that little bit better.
Removing myself from my immediate surroundings sounded like an amazing idea. Besides, with my new found talents of lifting heavy weights off the floor, I had just found the perfect alibi for the caged animal inside to be let out.
I'd never been a part of a college/school team involved with sports/athletics. Never having played well with others, I hadn't associated myself with that many groups up until now. But now, I see what I had been missing out on, all this while. I still feel far from a social animal. But the connections you forge when in a group, not necessarily with each one in the group, is sometimes hard to grasp. Why, rather how, do a few connections become so strong that they leave you all sentimental at the time of parting? Few wave before leaving. Few shake hands. Then there are the bastards who hug you. These chaps leave you on the verge of tears. Maybe because of all that the gang and you have been through together. Indelible memories, crazy fits of laughter, rage that could make the person in front shit in his pants, team spirit, the winning, the losing, the disappointments, the absolutely rotten jokes, the selfies, the journeys.. All of it converges into something more inexplicable than string theory. Okay, maybe string theory is more complicated. Or not. You never know. But it all makes you wonder about the simple intricate complexities that we find ourselves entangled in.
A thing about sports coaches. These chaps know their garb. "Many teams have backed out of the competition. I'm proud of you guys that you are brave enough to take up the challenge."
BOLLOCKS!
The guy who said this, our head coach, well, he too is a pussy. A big one at that. I shall keep myself from delving further into this topic. So, moving on!
Every group takes a little time to mesh together. It's like a gearbox with a fresh set of cogs. A little warming up, a little lubrication, a little running in, and off it takes! Each member in the group stays fundamentally the same till the very end of the groupy time. But few things start clicking, a few here, a few there.... 3...2...1... LIFT-OFF!
I feel I'm repeating myself over and over again. Chuck it!
The next part of my trip is called Mumbai meri Jaan!
Our train journey was till Mumbai, where we planned to halt for a day. We'd gotten off a day too early for the competition. Mumbai... Home, dad, mom, that little kid sister of mine. Goodness, what a tyrant she is! Crazy little nut-case!
Somehow her smiles belong to one of those things for which I could give my life away. And now, ladies and not-so-gentlemen, I am getting bloody emotional. Before some imaginary projection of one gorgeous lady hands me a tissue to wipe my imaginary tears, I shall give sentiments a kick in the nuts. Hah! Better!
Mumbai... Marine drive. That one rainy evening, and the long lost waltz. Or was it the last tango? Nevertheless, its not that I did anything out of the ordinary during the one day I stayed home. I may have averted getting shouted at by mom and dad, but that barely counts. I'd left my beastly friends back in south Bombay. Damn! I shouldn't have! I instead stayed back like a nice boy and..... STUDIED.
Oh! This sad life of mine! First time in four years, I actually picked up a book in my hands. A feat in itself! Thankfully, I was home only for a day. Oh yeah!
Next day was another train ride to Surat, with the beasts of course! Something about being with these folks lent my existence a very raw flavor. Like going back to becoming cavemen. Fighting with odds, specially when you have no idea what you're up against. And still you knew in the back of your mind that these folks had your back, the same way you had theirs. The best part was the team uniform. We felt like an army. Team jerseys! Holy cow! What an invention! Who knew that wearing the same stuff as the rest of a gang gave you a sense of belong that is incomparable to anything else in existence? Besides, wearing the same stuff as the rest of your team makes the entire team behave like a unit, despite whatever behavioral differences that may be between the members.
All nice, all well. But here's the thing. The thing that comes and bites you where it hurts most, mostly the same place for guys, is the thing that you gave least consideration to from the very beginning. But there's only so many precautions that you can take. Maybe there are more precautions that you can take. But meh! Who cares? One life to live. You don't get many chances to screw things up. More so, you rarely get chances to screw up your chances of getting a sure-shot gold medal anyway. All it takes is a little stupidity, a few curse words, one strong as hell idiot, an idiot nevertheless, an extra stringent referee, and all the wrong thoughts that shouldn't be in your mind when lifting a heavy weight off your chest, 72.5 kilograms to be exact.
What can anyone do if, instead of holding onto the gold medal that has been handed to you like it's your birthright, you go and play catch with the medal, only to find out that the first person to catch it, is in no mood to part with it?
Not much you can do about it anyway. The most you can do is come back with....
 |
| Need anyone say more? |
But I'm back, home and dry. Back from my little sojourn away from myself. Something bothers me still. It's a vague feeling that emanates every time I look at what I'm not supposed to, or so I delude myself. Some form of desperation, some form of restlessness, an unconquerable sense of helplessness, and a mildly nauseating madness, that happens to be chewing on some phantom limb of mine, that too without having had any amputation. Pinpointing the source of my vague agony seems like a futile exercise. I left here for a week with the hopes that this agony would have left me by the time I came back. Alas, to no avail. It keeps pricking me, every passing moment, in every day-dream, to the point that I know it hurts, but don't know why. It just stays there. It just is.... Like it's claiming it's existence. Deliver me!
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