An Hour A Day

After I quit my job, I had 24 hours a day and nothing to do in them. A blank page to be filled. One of the things that was decided by powers that be was a daily visit to the gym. The person who as a child who used to run barefoot on rooftops after kites and not feel her day to be complete until she had done her daily dose of skipping, couldn't see her child sitting in front of the computer or the television, or lying and reading books all day. Mom (why do I mention her in almost every post? I don't know. Don't you also do it sis?) decided that I accompany dad to the gym daily. It's been almost four months now and I am keeping up the routine.

The gym I visit is different from the usual idea that prevails in the minds of most people. It is not an airconditioned place with loads of mirrors and swanky equipment with young people working out in trendy gym wear. My gym is part of the physiotherapy department of a hospital. A corner of the huge hall has been segregated using curtains and that serves as the fitness centre. This makes visiting the gym a very unique experience.

Around me every alternate person is on a wheelchair. There are some patients lying on their stomachs on the stretcher. As I pass the cafeteria, there are worried relatives huddled around tables discussing, pondering over X-rays and reports. There are the men sweeping the floors all day. Dad, who has been visiting the gym for a year, always makes it a point to apologize to them if we ever happen to walk across a freshly mopped floor. They always acknowledge my dad when he passes by. In the evenings, some of the patients are out in the garden or driveway with their family members. The eyes that must have stared at the hospital ceiling all day fill themselves with the sight of the blue open sky.


The timings of the gym are such that they do not coincide with the time when most patients are present for physiotherapy. However,the past couple of times my father and I happened to visit the gym a little earlier than usual. I saw things that prompted me to write this post.

A five year old child pushing his father's wheelchair around the ward for fun while his father smiled and laughed. This is not the kind of game the father must have thought of playing with his son. Shouldn't it have been the father pushing the son's swing?

A man on the treadmill being helped by three others to take each painful step. The treadmill I so easily walk or jog on. His leg had to be lifted every single time. The pain writ large on his face.

While using the stepper, I saw another face filled with pain on the other side of the curtain. A patch on one of the eyes. A collar around the neck. The person had been strapped on a bed and the bed had been lifted to bring him to the vertical position. We looked at each other. As they lowered the bed, he cried out with pain. I could no longer look into his eyes and lowered my gaze.

I walk through this scene everyday. Unmoved and untouched. It doesn't make me fall on my knees and thank the lord for saving me from such pain. I don't do anything that could make the suffering of these people more bearable. I live in my own world.