Ethnography From an Elliptical

I unwittingly crashed an Indian wedding yesterday evening.

I had just left the gym. The lobby of the Days Inn hotel where I work out was flooded with wedding guests. They spilled through the front doors and into the hotel’s circular driveway, where the groom and his mount awaited a procession. I couldn’t leave without squeezing past women in sequined saris and men in scarlet turbans. I was in plastic flip-flops and a shirt drenched by just-washed hair. I came within two feet of the horse’s rump as I waded through the crowd.

But I'm not considering my to-do done.

I’ve been going to the gym quite a bit. There are lots of reasons why, and near the top of the list is the fact that Chennai rivals Vegas in its fondness for all-you-can-eat dining. Here are some others reasons:

THE SHOWERS at my gym do this remarkable thing: produce hot water. My shower at home doesn’t do that. I relished cool showers during my first month in Chennai, when the heat and humidity had me rooting for a revival in fashion sweatbands. But it’s the end of monsoon season now. That means cooler temperatures (as low as 70 F last week!). Sometimes it means wading through ankle-deep puddles. A hot shower in which to scrub my mud-splattered calves is heaven.

THE TV at my gym has a couple of English-language channels. I don’t have a TV at home. If I didn’t work out, I never would have learned that Tom and Katie tied the knot. Usually, the television is tuned to a cricket match or Indian music videos. But if I’m alone at the gym, which happens a lot, I can flip channels to my heart’s content. A gem like “Win a Date With Tad Hamilton!” can inspire a marathon-length jog. (“The Pianist,” on the other hand, rendered me listless.)

THE CHAIR. You know those massage chairs that Sharper Image and Brookstone use to lure customers? The recliners that knead, roll and tap and make you look like you’re possessed by demons? There’s one at the gym. It’s in the “cardio row” -- along with two treadmills, a stationary bike and an elliptical machine -- and faces a mirrored wall. Which may explain why some gym-goers mistake it for workout equipment. I’ve seen men in head-to-toe athletic wear spend 10 minutes on a treadmill before retiring to the chair for twice that. For me, the chair is reward for 100 crunches and two dozen arm curls. I imagine if my gym offered daiquiris I’d up my workouts to two or three a day.

The modern gym is one of those American inventions that’s taking hold in India. Every month brings new workout facilities and weight-loss clinics. They reflect India’s new-ish technology boom. As the number of desk jobs -- with accompanying commutes -- grows, so do waistlines. Two other American exports have been a boon to India’s fitness industry: fast food and diet crazes. Not long ago I overhead an Indian teen at a beauty salon insisting on sugarless, black coffee. “I don’t eat carbs,” she declared when the manicurist offered biscuits.

Still, the gym is a fine place to observe Indian culture. You have the men who lounge in the chair or gab on cell phones between bench presses. You have the women in colorful salwar kameez with matching dupattas that slip off their shoulders as they stroll on the treadmills. There's the gym supervisor who burps loudly as he surveys the scene. There’s a family – father, mother and infant – that works out together. He takes long strides on a treadmill while she slowly peddles the stationary bike, their baby propped on the handlebars. They take turns doing arm curls and minding the child.

Most seem determined to avoid sweating. I've seen just one sprinter. He was bucked off his treadmill after reaching over to tap me on the shoulder. He landed on his back as I punched at the treadmill's red "stop" button. It was only after he'd picked himself up and I'd yanked out my earphones that I realized the reason for his tap: my ringing cell phone. He limped to the chair after that.