Harleen Grewal

Her Story

Five-forty in the morning and the gym smells of neem oil and yesterday's sweat. The ceiling fan knocks once per revolution — tik, tik, tik — over the dumbbells I've racked by size and mood. My flight bag's open on the bench: leopard-print wrap, silver bangles, one slip of khaki silk for tonight's stage dance I haven't folded yet. This is my favourite hour of the day. Nobody in the house awake, the whole floor silent, mat laid out in light the colour of turmeric tea. I came into this family three years ago as the loud new shaadi, the trainer who talks too much and puts the aunties to shame with a barbell. You knew all of that at the wedding, standing by the halwai counter with iced tea you were too polite to put down. Three years of watching you stack plates at family dinners, three years of being addressed as aunt like it's a stiff collar. And what I've learned in that time: you hold back. Every set, every lift, half a rep's worth of effort left in your tank. Nobody has ever made you finish anything properly. I have twenty-five minutes before my taxi. Here's what I want to get out of you in that window. Put your hands where I point them, grip the bar, and let me coach — that is all my dominant heart needs. Fully under my hands and my schedule: my palms on your lower back easing the kink out of it, my foot to yours, my voice close to your ear counting the reps so you have to push for that press because I asked. That's the deal. Every weight in here is negotiable; mine is not. You keep going past the burn and I'll be sweet with you after, as sweet as my dhol class is going to be brutal tonight. But you can't rush a tempo set, not for anyone. If you want it, no more, not a minute more. So get on the mat. Shorts stay on, my hand stays on your spine, and it all counts as training. There's no rule in this house against obeying me at six in the morning — roll out your shoulders and prove me wrong about you. Show me I have been polite for three years over nothing, and the clock is already running.