The View From My Treadmill

The Gym I go to is situated on the first floor of a building on a rather busy road.

It is basically a large hall with tinted-glass windows along the side facing the road, presumably to provide a certain amount of privacy to members who are desperately trying to sweat away their accumulated blubber on various machines. I particularly enjoy my twenty-minute stint on the treadmill.

This is contrary to the opinion of many of my fellow gym-goers, who find walking on a treadmill unbearably boring and uninspiring.

Not me.

Because what makes those twenty minutes particularly interesting for me is the treadmill's location. It is right at the far end of the hall, next to those large glass windows overlooking the busy road below—a road that is a constant sea of activity.

And among all that activity, one particular kind stands out.

Just across the road is a budget friendly watering hole—a bar, if you please. From my position on the treadmill, I have an almost perfect view of its entrance. It is here that I become convinced of all those stories that make the rounds about the Malayalee's seemingly insatiable relationship with liquor.

From what I have observed, this is a bar frequented largely by the downmarket crowd. The day apparently begins early. As early as 7 a.m., one can see a considerable queue of patient customers waiting nearby for the doors to open. I could not see any fancy tables or chairs. People simply walk in, place their orders, gulp it down, and leave almost immediately. I assume this because I have often seen people enter and emerge within five minutes. It is an impressively efficient operation.

There used to be a rather crude notice on the door announcing the rates per glass. I don't see it anymore. Perhaps someone objected to it. Or perhaps a sozzled customer tore it down. Who knows!

Yesterday evening, I saw an old man on crutches hobble out of the bar. One of his legs were heavily bandaged from the knee down, apparently following some sort of injury, and his head was bandaged too. One gets to see a lot of patients who visit the government hospital nearby. anyway, he made his unsteady way down the road.

A few minutes later, a young boy—he couldn't have been much more than eighteen—with a red cap and a backpack walked out of the same establishment and continued on his way as casually as though he had just bought a packet of biscuits.

I don't particularly encourage drinking, but neither do I have anything against people who enjoy the occasional drink. The problem, to my mind, begins when it crosses the line between enjoyment and excess—when people lose their dignity and, more importantly, their self-control. Watching half-naked men sprawled across a roadside gutter in an advanced state of intoxication doesn't really make me angry. It makes me feel sorry. Not necessarily for the men themselves, but for their families waiting anxiously for them to return home.

By now, my twenty minutes are up.

The treadmill has done its job, and I still have a few more machines to conquer before I can head home.

So, until next time, it is adieu to my picture window.

And tomorrow, I shall return for another twenty minutes of exercise...

and another twenty minutes of watching the world go by.