Chapter 19 - Day 4

Part 1

The first light of dawn broke over the Malwa plains, casting a pale blue hue across the high marble ceilings of the master suite. Cool morning air drifted through the open balcony doors, carrying the distant calls of peacocks from the estate orchards.

He stretched his limbs across the white sheets. The lingering fatigue in his shoulders and traps had completely faded overnight, leaving his muscles primed for the day.

Stepping off the mattress, bare feet met the cold floor tiles. He pulled a black athletic compression vest over his head, the tight fabric snapping flush against his torso. Dark grey sports shorts followed, tied securely at the waist.

A weathered leather kit bag sat near the vanity mirror. He packed a freshly pressed white kurta, matching pyjama, a folded navy dastaar, and a clean cotton towel into the main compartment.

The grand marble staircase lay quiet and completely empty as his trainers descended to the ground floor.

Fluorescent lights hummed steadily inside the pristine Haveli kitchen. Rukhsar stood near the stainless steel sink, scrubbing a brass milk pot. Her bright orange salwar kameez shifted over her hips as she turned her head, catching his frame entering the room.

A bold smile spread across her face, her eyes raking over his tight compression gear.

“Sat Sri Akaal, Sardaar Ji. Ajj vi mitti vich litarna ae ke loha chakkna ae?” (Greetings, Sardaar Ji. Are you rolling in the dirt today or lifting iron?)

A relaxed smile touched his features as he walked straight past her to the refrigerator.

“Loha chakkna ae ajj, Rukhsar. Mitti da zor shaami Akhare vich hovega.” (I have to lift iron today, Rukhsar. The wrestling in the mud will be at the Akhara this evening.)

Pulling a glass jug of chilled buffalo milk from the shelf, he poured nearly a litre into a steel shaker, dumping three scoops of protein powder and a spoonful of clarified butter into the mix.

Rukhsar leaned back against the counter, her arms crossing under her chest, her gaze lingering on the tendons flexing in his forearms as he shook the metal cylinder.

“Tuhadi diet vekh ke hi darr lagda ae! Kise din gym da saara loha hi na tod diyo.” (Just looking at your diet scares me! One of these days you’re going to break all the iron in the gym.)

“Oye, gym da loha sasta nahi aanda. Aaram nal hi chakkda aa.” (Hey, gym equipment isn’t cheap. Don’t worry, I take it easy on the weights.)

He drained the steel shaker in three long, continuous gulps, setting the metal base down onto the marble island.

Grabbing his kit bag and the Royal Enfield keys from the counter, he stepped out into the cool, misty courtyard.

The Bullet 500 roared to life under his boot, the deep exhaust pulse shattering the morning silence. Engaging first gear, the black motorcycle thundered out of the iron gates, kicking up a trail of dust along the estate tracks toward the village center.

The local gym operated out of a converted concrete warehouse near the grain market. Inside, the air smelled fiercely of rust, chalk powder, and sweat. Old ceiling fans chopped at the humid air above the rubber-matted floor.

He dropped his leather bag onto a wooden bench, stripping off his trainers to stand barefoot on the lifting platform.

Lower body power day demanded total mental focus.

Approaching the steel squat rack, he gripped the cold knurling of the Olympic barbell. He loaded the sleeves with iron plates, the metallic clanking echoing through the concrete walls as a few local boys stopped their own routines to watch the Varsity captain work.

Ducking his frame under the steel, the bar settled deep across his upper traps.

He stepped back. The bar compressed his spine, pushing his bare soles flat into the solid rubber mats. He drew in a deep breath, locking his core into a rigid cylinder.

Slowly, deliberately, his hips unlocked. He descended into the squat, his corded thighs absorbing the pressure. He sank below parallel, his hamstrings stretching tight before he exploded upward.

Force drove through his heels, his leg muscles firing with raw power as the bar snapped back to the top position.

“Shabaash, Sardaar Ji! Khich ke rakh!” (Attaboy, Sardaar Ji! Keep pushing!)

A local spotter shouted from the adjoining bench, slapping the vinyl upholstery in rhythm with the lifts.

He executed five grueling working sets, his skin slick with sweat under the black compression vest. The physical exertion left his lungs burning and his legs trembling slightly with deep exhaustion. Transitioning to heavy Romanian deadlifts, his grip clamped over the iron bar, his hamstrings and glutes stretching to their limits to anchor his frame.