Page 220 of The Circle of Exile
Atharva gathered her close again, this time tender. “You have made me accept it. And frankly, I had forgotten that where you are is where I belong.”
“Oh noooo! Stop,” Daniyal’s groan made them turn.
“Top!” Yathaarth aped him with a wide grin, sitting on his shoulders, holding onto his hair.
“Both of you, wash your hands — lunch time,” Iram ordered. And just like that, the Captain of his house had decreed. Like obedient soldiers, they followed.
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Atharva stepped inside the gym. It was surprisingly full for an early morning, pumping hard. He was under the impression that Shimla woke up early but began its day late. His choice of gym had been deliberate, based on a threefold criterion.
One — it had to be in an influential neighbourhood where bureaucrats, businessmen and landowners resided.
Two — it had to be the most expensive one in the area.
And three — it had to be at capacity, or close.
This morning, it was so full to capacity that the machines were overworking. He strode to the platform set up for weights and sat down on the step, switching his outdoor shoes for gym shoes. He had come here in his gym wear, with a change of clothes in his bag to switch when he returned. By then, he would have mingled with some of this clout. It would be good to see them again in the locker room.
His gaze was focused on tying his shoelaces, senses alert to all the grunts and gasps and counts of personal trainers erupting around him. And then his eyes caught a familiar figure. Vikram from Sirmaur. Gone were the kurta and shawl. He was in a pair of joggers that stuck to his skinny legs and a black T-shirt to match. The man was looking around, clueless.
Atharva stuffed his dirty shoes in their compartment in his bag and rose to his feet. He slung the bag over his shoulder and weaved his way to Vikram. His head was downcast, finger scratching the back of his head as he eyed the bench press machine.
“Need help?”
He turned. Stared. A moment, and then his eyes widened.
“Atharva Kaul?” He got his bearings.
“Vikram.”
His hunched, clueless shoulders straightened. There was something in those clueless eyes that went sharp.
“The personal trainers here are too busy to help…” he trailed, eyeing the equipment around him.
“Since when are you coming here?”
“Two weeks.”
Atharva set his bag down and caught a treadmill that was just abandoned. He set the time for 10 minutes and cocked his head. Vikram covered the distance between them, and without being asked to in words, hopped on. Atharva pressed start and stepped back.
“You can’t start intensity training without a warm-up,” he reached out and nudged the speed up. The jovial stroll became a brisk walk. Vikram kept up, silent, listening. Atharva observed the man. He looked younger now, in his gym wear. Younger, and smarter.
“The right place, and the right time,” Atharva changed the incline on the machine. “needs the right move as well.”
Vikram’s face was absorbent, his legs moving to whatever speed or incline Atharva switched.
“Your way is doable,” Atharva leaned closer, adjusting the heart rate monitor. “But it loses impact after the first few times. You can be ignorant only for so long.”
“How do you know…”
“How many gyms have you already tried to infiltrate?”
He paused.
Atharva whirled his eyes up from the treadmill screen to him.
“Four.”
