No Pain, No Gain, No Thank You

It was a beautiful Sunday evening — the kind of evening that tricks you into believing life is under control. I had eaten a lunch heavy enough to qualify as a construction material, followed it up with a nap that was supposed to refresh me, and instead, I woke up feeling like my soul had gone through a delicate wash cycle, shrunk two sizes, and lost all sense of fitting in.

In search of recovery, I wandered down the street for a cup of hot coffee.

That first sip did what motivational speakers, wellness advice, and afternoon naps had all failed to do. It revived me. The coffee was strong, hot, and mercifully low on sugar — exactly how coffee should be when life has already disappointed you in other departments.

So there I was, standing with my cup, watching kids play cricket in the nearby ground .

And then, out of nowhere, a hand clamped down on my shoulder.

I nearly donated my coffee to the pavement.

I turned around and found my friend standing there with his trademark grin — the grin of a man who was either very happy to see me or had just purchased something unnecessary and wanted witnesses.

He was holding a packet.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hey,” I replied, eyeing the packet. “Back from shopping, I see.”

“Yeah.”

“Tea or coffee?”

“Coffee.”

Naturally, I ordered another coffee for him, because friendship in our part of the world is mostly built on unsolicited beverages and mutual mockery.

I pointed at the packet in his hand. “What’s in there?”

“Running shoes.”

“Running shoes?” I frowned at him. “Oh no. You’re getting married?”

He blinked. “What?”

“So soon too,” I continued. “Impressive. Usually people start with engagement photos and emotional blackmail. You’ve gone straight to sports footwear.”

He looked offended. “No, man. Exercise. I need to cut some fat.”

He patted his stomach.

I looked at it with academic seriousness. “Really? I thought that was muscle. Very emotional muscle.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“To be fair,” I added, “you have put on some weight. Most of it seems to have gathered in the middle like it’s attending a union meeting.”

That earned me the expression of a man reconsidering the value of friendship.

Then he asked the dangerous question.

“You want to join me tomorrow morning?”

Tomorrow morning.?!!!?????!!!!!!!

That phrase should be banned after sunset. It has ruined more evenings than bad news and phone calls from unknown numbers.

I glanced at the packet in his hand and immediately found salvation.

“Ah… no, I don’t have those,” I said, pointing at the shoes.

And there it was. An excuse. Beautiful. Timely. Elegant. My brain, usually unreliable in emergencies, had produced a survival mechanism worthy of national recognition. I mentally saluted my remaining brain cells. They had done the lord’s work.

But fate, as always, is a vindictive little clerk.

Because later that night, at dinner, the matter resurfaced.

We were all seated at a restaurant; ordered what I considered a well-balanced meal: dosa, vegetable curry, and chicken masala. Nutrition, discipline, culture, and mild recklessness all on one plate.

We had barely settled into the meal when my friend, who had clearly mistaken himself for a public health campaign for exercise, broke the silence.

“So,” he said, “who’s all coming with me tomorrow?”

I looked up. “For what?”

“The run,” he said. “The early morning jog.”

Nope. Cant happen.. I said immediately, “Tomorrow is Monday. Let’s start Tuesday.”

A wise man. A saint, really. Only evil things begin early on Monday mornings. Monday itself is already an insult. Waking up early on it is just adding cruelty to administration.

At that moment, I could almost sense a tiny devil perched on my shoulder whispering these beautiful words into his ear. The devil, incidentally, looked a lot like me.

But my friend was unmoved.

“No. Tomorrow means tomorrow.”

It sounded deeply uncomfortable. “I don’t know, man. Monday… and early morning…”

I laughed. “Exactly. First you have to wake up early. For that you have to sleep early. Which means giving up late-night movies. Is this the kind of sacrifice we’re prepared to make as a civilization?”

I was not merely participating in the conversation. I was offering guidance. Wisdom. Policy-level resistance.

Then, because I am occasionally my own worst enemy, I added, “No pain, no gain.”

That line landed exactly how bad decisions usually do — with consequences.

My friend lit up instantly. “Exactly! No pain, no gain. See—”

And then came the lecture.

You know the kind. The enthusiastic, newly converted lecture. The sort given by a man who has purchased one pair of running shoes and already sees himself halfway to the Olympics.

“We don’t get enough exercise,” he declared. “We lead too comfortable a life.”

I nodded externally. Internally, I was filing objections.

Too comfortable? This from a man who worked in the same city, took the same transport, and suffered the same daily indignities as the rest of us?

To acknowledge his passion, I poured hot water into his glass like a respectful disciple encouraging a spiritual master to continue his sermon.

This dinner, I realized, was going to take longer than usual.

My hotel manager who was my friend and who was overhearing the conversation caught my eye, understood immediately, and winked. I winked back. This was no longer dinner. This was a hostage situation with side dishes.

My friend continued. “The cab picks us up and drops us back. We don’t even walk to office.”

That was the moment my mind left the restaurant entirely and entered the grand theatre of public transport.

Walk to work? Exercise? My dear friend, take a BMTC bus just once in peak hour and tell me human beings are not already overachieving physically.

Boarding a Bangalore bus is not transport. It is an event. A full-body training module disguised as public service.

First comes the sprint. You spot the bus. The bus spots you and chooses not to care. It slows just enough to create false hope, then drifts forward like a hard to get crush. You run after it carrying your bag, your lunch, your dignity, and perhaps your laptop — all bouncing behind you like unpaid interns.

That’s cardio right there.

Then comes the boarding. You do not simply “get into” a BMTC bus. You calculate velocity, angle, available airspace, and whether your ancestors have accumulated sufficient merits. You leap toward the entrance while avoiding metal bars, elbows, and one uncle whose stance suggests he was born inside public transport and intends to die there.

That’s agility training.

Then you hoist yourself inward before the door closes or the crowd absorbs you permanently. Excellent upper-body workout.

Once inside, you perform advanced compression techniques, folding yourself into dimensions not recognized by medical science. Your abdomen tightens, your spine negotiates, and your ribs begin an internal prayer meeting.

That’s flexibility and core strength.

If the bus is crowded — and it will be, because optimism is punished — you hang from the overhead bars like a fruit bat. Congratulations. You are now doing forearm, shoulder, and grip training without paying a gym membership.

Blue Bus gives me wings.

No, not Red Bull. Blue Bus. Same hallucination. Less branding.

And then the environment itself contributes. If the gentleman next to you has marinated himself in alcohol, deodorant, body odor, and perhaps industrial solvent, your lungs enter a survival program so intense it should be recognized by medical journals. You hold your breath. You ration oxygen. You experience respiratory discipline known previously only to pearl divers and people trapped in elevators.

Free lung training.

Passengers climbing in and out step on your feet from every possible philosophical angle. Reflexology experts would charge thousands for that. BMTC gives it to you for the price of a ticket.

Then the conductor appears.

Ah yes, the conductor — part ticketing authority, part military instructor, part performance artist. He can force you into positions yoga has not yet named. You bend, twist, lean, balance, and crane your neck while searching for your pass, wallet, or enough emotional stamina to continue.

This is not commuting. This is an elite coordination drill.

And the balancing act? That deserves international attention. You suspend yourself between two sweating strangers and a metal pole while the driver accelerates, brakes, swerves, and appears to settle a personal argument with the laws of motion.

Even NASA should study this.

Tiny muscles you never knew existed suddenly report for duty. Ankles. Jawline. Eyelids. Soul.

And if you do not have exact change? Then begins ear training. The conductor’s poetry fills the air. Ancient sages spoke of mantras that awaken higher consciousness. This is not that. This awakens fear, repentance, and the sudden wish that human ears had protective shutters.

The driver, meanwhile, offers a roller-coaster package at no extra charge. Sudden braking. Violent turns. Spiritual acceleration. You are thrown forward, sideways, and into the lap of existential truth.

Then finally — finally — your stop arrives.

You fight your way to the door through layers of vertical humanity. Your legs are numb. Your shirt has accepted defeat. You are sweating like a gym convert in May. You can no longer feel your lower body and briefly look down just to confirm your legs are still attached.

The bus slows.

The door opens.

You descend.

Not with grace, but with the weird, careful bounce of an astronaut who has just returned from the moon and is trying not to fall in front of journalists.

The blood returns to your legs in dramatic installments. Horns blare. Exhaust fumes rise like incense to the gods of infrastructure. Dogs bark. Auto drivers hover. Somewhere a pan shop glows with quiet menace.

And you stand there, alive.

Alive.

A survivor.

A commuter.

A citizen.

You suppress the urge to laugh hysterically at the miracle of having made it out in one piece.

Bus-goers are better than gym-goers. That is not opinion. That is science.

At some point during my very noble inner analysis, my friend touched my arm.

“Are you listening?”

“Yeah, yeah,”..The lecture continues…

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