Abhishek Shukla

Fit

Word Count: 1,857

For reader's discretion

This story contains themes that in author's understanding can be deeply distressing. Please read at your own discretion. If you or someone you know is struggling with the issues that these themes relate to, please seek help from professionals. Please prioritize your well-being over everything else.

‘What would your life be like if you made use of all the potential that you were offered?’, Jordan Peterson said. ‘Dedicate one year to something you want to be good at. Offer yourself to it for a year and see what you are capable of’, he added as the video ended. He watched the last bit again, and again, and again, and pondered over it for a few minutes. As he shifted in his place, his back resisted the move and sent a shock above his spine. The next moment, he was on his feet, attempting to comfort himself, and trying to locate the origin of pain.

He went to the room, undressed, and stood in front of the mirror. His weak arms, mature belly, stooped shoulders, and thin legs gave him the appearance of an ill-crafted suraahii pot. He saw at least two years of lethargy hanging individually on each side of his chest. Disdained, he cursed himself for being a sloth and went for a shower. In the shower, he tried doing an inclined pushup—knowing fully well that a normal one is way out of his reach—and failed miserably at touching the double-digit mark.

‘All the gyms are closed!’, ‘If only Covid wasn’t there…’, ‘Where is the time?’, ‘Diet needs to be managed too’; all sorts of excuses rained on him as he stood under the shower. ‘What would your life be like if you made use of all the potential that you were offered?’, these words reverberated through his mind as he left the bathroom. He dressed back haphazardly and moved swiftly to get the laptop.

Next on the playlist was another clip of Jordan Peterson. ‘Take personal responsibility’, he said. ‘Take it before it’s too late and you are left resenting the existence you created for yourself’, he stressed. In the next moment of inspiration, he made a decision: I will transform myself, no matter what it takes.

He opened another tab and ordered home training equipment for himself. Next, he booked a yoga class, and a personal trainer, and a dietician to prepare monthly food charts based on his needs. He opened Netflix, Prime video, Alt Balaji, Pornhub, and various other platforms that compensated for his lack of social—or any—life and became the first person ever—maybe!—to cancel their paid subscriptions by himself.

The next day, the dumbbells found their way on the bedside, yoga mat near the refrigerator, and resistance bands on the window grill. He firmly nailed the resistance band anchor on the wall next to the window. That evening, the training started, and with that the test of his will. Before starting the training, he watched a video by Jordan Peterson. His speech pumped him with motivation, and he pushed himself enough to deserve a satisfying sleep.

The first few days turned out to be trial by fire. A few minutes into the session and made him gasp for breath. His hands and legs revolted his dominance and his back started a rule of its own. Whenever he felt like giving up, he looked up at the wall where he had glued a huge poster with the quote: ‘If you fulfil your obligations every day you don’t need to worry about the future’. He read it and pushed once more, and more, and more, until he reached the point of failure—muscle failure.

If this wasn’t enough, the diet plan threw him out of the frying pan, and into the fire. Contrary to his assumption, cutting out junk was perhaps the easiest of the demanding discipline. He was supposed to eat different types of meals, 5 times a day. He searched for ways to make oats tasty, but all the attempts at preparation ultimately left him with a bad taste in his mouth. He hated preparing the meals, but still did it as it was perhaps the lesser of two evils with the only alternative being ordering food from outside—his fingers waiting to dance on Swiggy and counter the diet with a cheese burst pizza.

His body wasn’t any less stubborn; it rejected these changes within the first few weeks. He had an upset stomach for days, his legs didn’t support him after a round of sit-ups, and during the workout, his hands behaved like typical desi parents—never supporting any of his ambitions. The mind played its tricks too. He somehow tamed the cravings, but secretly hoped for someone to send him junk food, so he could eat it for the sake of ‘saving’ that food. He wished someone to call him for dinner, so that he could eat in the name of courtesy. He prayed for a cousin’s wedding, so he could fully participate in the family tradition of having full-sized unhealthy meals.

Despite all the efforts, it was the third week when the devil found his way out. He attended the Yoga session in morning, but knowingly said yes to a meeting at the same time as his planned evening workout. He had no reason to do that, but at that moment, the rat ran to the piece of bread despite seeing the trap enclosing it. After the call, out of crushing guilt, he decided to finish the daily chores, and started doing the dishes; a total of 1 plate, 1 bowl, 1 spoon, and 1 serving spoon. (The maid had finished the rest of them about an hour ago.)

After finishing all the utensils, his guilt-ridden conscience was still stained, so he picked anything that required cleaning—unused trays, broken mugs, water dispenser, scissors, toothpicks—and cleaned them. He placed everything neatly at their exact spots and kept the dispenser back at its place. With a few creases on his forehead, he moved to pick the filled water can.

As he bowed and lifted it, he had an experience that was missing from his life for the past many years: Ease of movement. His hands didn’t hurt, his back resisted a bit but assisted the heavy lift anyway, and his legs didn’t wobble as he moved towards the dispenser. His breath was normal, and his heart didn’t burst with the rush of flowing blood. He was overjoyed with the newfound potential; excited—overexcited—to continue his fitness journey with double the engines.

The next few months can be summarized into a training montage from any sports movie. He lifted, pulled, jumped, ran, and resisted his way through tough training routines. He allowed his trainers to treat him like an animal being prepared for a bloody battle. The increase in dumbbell weight became directly proportional to the decrease in body-fat percentage. He consumed Jordan Peterson at a rate that it became tough for him to find new content. He worked such excessively with resistance bands that two sets of those had to retire and the nails to which the anchors were tied had to be beaten back into the wall multiple times.

As he progressed, he stood every day in front of the mirror to witness his transformation. The excessive fat washed away with the sweat; newly formed muscle danced at the rhythm of designed repetitions; staircases didn’t remain enemies anymore; green vegetables became the green signals for eating; cycle stands found their markings on the map; pumped up energetic tracks replaced the self-deprecating one-sided-lover melodies; and updated pictures found their way to all the social media and dating platforms.

On video calls, he appeared mostly in sleeveless T-shirts and took any opportunity possible to flex his biceps. Anyone who knew him from the past demanded to know his transformational journey. Some suggested opening a YouTube channel. He himself fantasized about being part of photoshoots where his chiseled body could be captured at its best.

The only challenge that stood between these ambitions and him were the abs. They were mostly in shape but needed to be better defined. If one placed a light source in parallel to the abs projecting directly at them, they should be defined enough to cast a shadow on themselves, he believed. So, he found the toughest abs exercise routine and started the last leg of his journey.

The exercises included bodyweight, dumbbells, and resistance bands. He spent at least an hour every day with the resistance band as those sets provided him with the best pump. One day, the nail to which the anchor was tied came out because of the sustained resistance he created. He thought of replacing the nail or of hammering it at a different point, but then postponed it for the time when he would’ve achieved the perfect abs, a time that didn’t seem to be far away to him.

He worked on his abs like an expert carpenter carefully chipping off pieces from a wooden art piece. His workout routine covered every inch of his abdomen and sweat dripped from each crest of the abs. In a matter of another few weeks, he saw his dream come true. After the workout, in moments of exhilaration, he often slid his hand across the abs performing a sideward glissando; the music filling him with joy sweeter than any dessert he ate in his previous life.

And finally, after reaching a point of satisfaction, he decided to click a picture of the beauty he has created and share it for the world to admire. He woke up the next morning and focused his camera to a point where the sunlight appeared at its best. He decided to pump up and get the sweat running before clicking the picture. He held the resistance band and stood still, reminding himself of all the pain he has gone through, all of which felt sweet now.

He pulled the band to its highest resistance; his muscles flexed, veins popped out, hands tightened at the band, and he smiled. He decided at that moment that he’ll hold it until the muscle failure. Something within made him push his limits further, so he pulled it a little more towards himself, further increasing the resistance. The joy of still being able to hold it made him feel like a conqueror of his destiny. ‘Offer yourself to it for a year and see what you are capable of’, these words echoed through his mind, and his body, and he decided to take another step back.

And as he took the step, the nail to which the band’s anchor was tied got pulled out from its place and advanced at him with the suddenness and speed of an unplanned gunshot. The sharp end of the nail poked his eye and pierced through the flesh directly into the skull. He screamed with pain as blood spilled out from his eye. He lost balance and fell; the back of his head directly hitting the ground. Within a few moments, he went unconscious, as the blood soaked the space around his head.

The next morning, he was discovered dead—in his best shape.

Notes by Author:

#Fitness #Jordan Peterson #WTP