THE STRANGER IN MY HOME
  • Home
  • Vignettes
    • Encounters
    • Events
    • Experiences
    • Epiphanies
  • Stories
  • Fables
  • Translations
  • Miscellany
  • Now/Then

now  /  then

blogs and blends

Weightlifting in Winter

12/31/2018

0 Comments

 
Now is the winter of my discontent. I don’t feel quite as despondent as Shakespeare’s Richard III. Nor do I have his murderous plans. But winter, as I am experiencing it now in Washington leaves me far from content.
 
Most days now the temperature rises to a maximum of 4 ̊C and sinks to -4 ̊C by midnight.
​
A cardigan will not of course do. Nor would even a well-padded parka or wind-cheater. You must have a combination of both to keep winter’s devilry at bay. If you are going to some occasion, your jacket has to have the added layer of a heavy overcoat. I dislike carrying all this load, but I have no option.
 
This is not all when the mercury sinks further. I have to wear thermal vests and underwear and remember to put on extra-thick socks. I have to wear gloves, not the slick ones that look as elegant as the waiters’ at Ritz, but heavy gloves of the kind that loggers or drillers use. Worst of all, since I shave my head and am vulnerable to snow and sun alike, I have to put on a cap.
 
Since my earliest days I have associated headgear with decrepit old men. Or at best with with policemen and soldiers, for whom I hold no great admiration, thanks to my exposure to those arrogant classes in colonial India and racist USA. Yet, now when I brave an early-morning jog or a late-night carousal, the keen cold air induces me to take on a Sherlock Holmes look and cover my head. A generous friend has gifted me a dark French beret that I find much better than a hat or a cap. Particularly as I can fold it and put it in my pocket and not lose it in trains, libraries or restaurants.
 
Once dressed in all this regalia, I step out. I walk along the familiar trail to the lake nearby, large trees all around me. They are all denuded, shorn of their leaves, still royally holding their ground and waiting for spring to bring them a green splendor. There are no ripples in the lake; the surface is iced. There is a sign warning enthusiastic skaters to stay away, for the ice layer is thin and fragile. The sun is beginning to glint on the ice.
 
As I walk back, I don’t see any of the regular walkers on the road. The freezing air has kept the others indoors. For easy-going like me, the elaborate robing and disrobing may also be a damper. I miss the lighthearted Hello and Good Morning that passersby throw at each other. Never mind. Bravely, I trudge along, though my heart craves for my warm living room and a warm cup of coffee.
 
Just as I had given up the idea of meeting anybody else on the trail, suddenly there appears a young boy, coming this way, almost rushing. As he comes close, and I am about chime a word of greeting, the person speaks, and I realize it is a young woman. She is covered in a heavy overcoat and her hair is neatly tucked in a rainbow woolen cap, but her voice is that of a woman. It is plaintive.
 
“Excuse me, could you help me, please?”
Picture
​Apparently, she came out of her house nearby for a walk with her grandfather, and, after just a few steps, he had slipped on an ice sliver on the road and fallen flat on his back. It had rained the night before, and during the nightly drop in temperature some remaining water on the road had frozen into ice patches. Her grandfather could not get up by himself, and she could not pull him up. She needed help and needed it quickly, before the cold got the better of the old man.
 
We rushed to the spot. Fortunately, grandpa hadn’t hurt his head or broken a bone. Unfortunately, he wasn’t easy to lift, for he was a corpulent man. I am no Samson and weight lifting is not my strong point. Anna, the granddaughter, and I maneuvered to get him to sit him upright on the road, and now lay the tougher job of getting him to stand. Anna was too small to help much. After a number of false starts, I was finally able to heave grandpa to his feet.
 
But he seemed too uncertain on his feet without any support. There was no option but to put his heavy right arm on my shoulder, grab his waist and slowly inch our way to their home. It wasn’t far, but making it was still a near thing. When I dropped him on a soft in their drawing room, I sighed with relief and prepared to leave.
 
But grandpa would have none of it. He thanked me extravagantly and went to the hyperbolical length of declaring that I had saved his life. I suggested that he should have himself checked by a doctor if he felt any serious pain after a few hours. In return he suggested that I should stay back and have a cup of tea with me.
 
Anna had taken off her heavy coat and cap and quickly produced a very welcome cup of tea.
 
As I was sipping my tea, I noticed in the corner of the room a wooden box with sets of small iron bars of varying weight.
 
I asked Anna if she did exercises with the iron weights.
 
“Not me,” said Anna, “Grandpa uses them sometimes. You see, he used to be a champion weightlifter.”
 
I resisted the temptation to claim that I was the greater champion, for having lifted his weighty frame without any training at all.

0 Comments



Leave a Reply.

    Manish Nandy

    Writer, Speaker, Consultant
    Earlier: Diplomat, Executive


    Archives

    January 2022
    December 2021
    October 2021
    September 2021
    August 2021
    July 2021
    January 2021
    December 2020
    November 2020
    October 2020
    September 2020
    August 2020
    July 2020
    June 2020
    May 2020
    April 2020
    March 2020
    February 2020
    January 2020
    December 2019
    November 2019
    October 2019
    September 2019
    August 2019
    July 2019
    June 2019
    May 2019
    April 2019
    March 2019
    February 2019
    January 2019
    December 2018
    November 2018
    October 2018
    September 2018
    August 2018
    July 2018
    June 2018
    May 2018
    April 2018
    March 2018
    February 2018
    January 2018
    December 2017
    November 2017
    October 2017
    September 2017
    August 2017
    July 2017
    June 2017
    May 2017
    April 2017
    March 2017
    February 2017
    January 2017
    December 2016
    November 2016
    October 2016
    September 2016
    August 2016
    July 2016
    June 2016
    May 2016
    April 2016
    March 2016
    February 2016
    January 2016
    December 2015
    November 2015
    October 2015
    September 2015
    August 2015
    July 2015
    June 2015

    RSS Feed


    Categories

    All

Proudly powered by Weebly
© Manish Nandy 2015  The Stranger in My Home