400

I am obviously not talking about Sachin Tendulkar's record of most ODI's or guessing the title to the sequel of the cult film '300' where in a mood of gay merriment on having won the war, the soldiers interbreed and thus increase their population by 33.33%. This is about someone bigger than Tendulkar or the six-packed cast of 300 can ever aspire to be - me. I am talking about fulfilling my recent aspiration of burning 400 calories in 30 minutes on the Cardio machines in our gym.

Ever since I was a kid, I had a platonic fascination for long legs in straight leg blue jeans, preferably ending in dirty boots. The very first influence was undoubtedly the countless Spaghetti Westerns I was exposed to very early in my life, thanks to my father, who is a huge fan of one of the most stylish men ever to occupy screen space - Clint Eastwood. So, I became a fan too as I watched him walk his famous walk and shoot dirty Mexicans (looks like Dubya is a fan too) from under his shawl while squinting and moving his cigar around in his mouth. Then there was the Marlboro man with his horse and cowboy hat, riding through the dusty heartland of America. And finally, much closer to home, was our very own Jaggu Dada with his red Ramboesque cloth and ragged beard swooning women and me in "Hero".

Papa gave me a good head start in my quest by donating me long legs through his genes. Now it was up to me to tone them perfectly for those skin-tight, circulation hindering jeans. Mind you, I have no ambition to pump iron and grow muscles like our Bollywood heroes of today. That is child's play as has been proved by every Tom, Dick and Harry Bollywood male (and some female) aspirant, but maintaining the right amount of fat in your leg is the stuff of legends. One has to restrict the body to a complex state of balance and restraint rather than go overboard and have a six pack.

That momentous evening is still as fresh as dew that causes outfielders to misfield, in my mind. It was quite late by gym going standards. I had been forced to work late, but little did I know that I would channel my anger thus in achieving such great heights in working out history. The silence in the gym was punctuated by the whirring of the rotating table fan while a group of fat (oh, I mean big, with all the political correctness in the world today) people fought it out on the TV overhead to be crowed the 'The Biggest Loser'. With determination that would have made Rocky Balboa proud, I told myself that I had to show these sore (from working out) losers tonight who was indeed the biggest loser. And then I started.

Concentration was never a quality I could boast of, but I wish all those Swamijis who prescribed a few hundred different concoctions of different indigenous spices and a million expensive stones for me in order to induce that quality and still failed, could have seen me go on that poor machine that night. Sweat was trying to impede my vision, but it was as if Superman had himself flown down and lent me his X-ray vision for that half an hour, so that the figures on the machine never left my sight.

In the last five minutes, with victory peeking out at me like a new bride at her groom on the wedding night before this corrupt culture of dating before arranged marriages was in place, I could not stop. For my father, for all those Clint Eastwood westerns, for the Marlboro man and most importantly, for all the losers on the TV climbing some 400 feet building, I had to go on. And go on I did with sounds that would have made Jenna Jameson blush. As the thirty minutes were finally gone, and I fell on the floor with exhaustion and ecstasy, I was looking around for some admiring female glances by PYT's in pretty small things, but alas, there was not a soul there except for the bushy-mustached janitor, playing the Chariots of Fire tune on his harmonica.

I would like to take this opportunity to extend a leaf of gratitude to Jenna and all her fellow sisters who share the same profession as her. It was their creative verbal utterances in countless pieces of their work, that gave me ideas as I was beginning to see the white light of fatigue, and helped me maintain my stamina. It is not like I am receiving a plaque for my momentous achievement like that little man did, nor am I receiving pats on the back(side) from sensuous slim feme-fatale fingers, but like all great men, I am satisfied in my modesty. Who would have thought that I, from my chubby beginnings, would one day see 400 in all its low-fat 2% beauty. Where do I go from here? To quote the Little Ba!@#$%, 400 is just a number (in weak unmanly voice).