Going retro may be the only way out, feels Abhijit Datta

Have you recently been feeling that you are denied your fair share of air at the local gym? Have you been waiting longer for your turn at the treadmill? Do you find it increasingly difficult to stretch your arms and do the weighted side bends without knocking out cold a few people on either side? Is the greater worry on your way to the gym whether you will find parking space rather than how many reps you will be able to pull off?
Gyms might be the refuge for masculine identity in crisis or even the healers of paradoxes that beset modern masculinity (or something like it). But I am running ahead of myself. Let me explain.
Most men who no longer play at being boys, have grown up with ideas of male attractiveness that had more to do with physical accomplishments, ability to provide (breadwinner, Chief Wage Earner), power, dominance (head of the family), the ability to protect, to inspire respect and awe. Metaphors for excellent men have always been fierce or virile beasts (bulls, bears, lions, rams, stallions). These men, or RBMs (Red Blooded Males) lived their lives by the dictum (a Spanish proverb really)-'El hombre como el aso: lo mas feo lo mas Hermosa' i.e. Men are like bears: the uglier, the more handsome.
Even the word handsome (and till recently it was ridiculous to call adult heterosexual men beautiful) has its etymological roots in the 'men are attractive by activity' philosophy. The word actually derives from the anglo-saxon "handy" that has much less to do with appeal or appearance than it has to with being 'useful'. The expression, 'Handsome is, as handsome does' is also grounded in the "men do" paradigm leaving "allure of beauty", as Darwin had found, entirely in the realm of the feminine. (Or gay. Either you had facial hair, a bad dress sense, and an aversion to grooming products or you were gay. Ergo, not male).
But then things began to change. The Metrosexual hit the headlines, the hairy chests of Sunny Deol and the glorious moustache of Anil Kapoor gave way to Salman's sarongs and Saif's sleeveless pinks. Suddenly every time you flipped a page or changed a channel or looked up at the crossing lights, men sporting designer labels and waxed chests smiled at you seductively. Once the fate of the feminine form, the masculine too was now eroticized-Have you seen the perfume ads? Half-naked, fully waxed boys, with red lips and provocative stares for the voyeuristic pleasure of women. And like for women down the ages, the pressure is on men to approximate this erotic version and not eschew it.
The message (and media is the message) is clear: Michelangelo's David had more women (fine, so there were a few men too!) at his feet than at the Cave Man's. But baggage lugged over generations and histories are only too likely to put in place hurdles of the psychological kind. Thus the common man finds himself in a tizzy. He is not sure anymore. Should he go the RBM way (there was a faint comeback with The Retrosexual) or should he pop into the nearest beauty store and jostle with the other men for his share of fairness and various depilatory creams? Should he unleash (un-repress??)
his deepest desires to run down mall
escalators and try on all the oranges and fuchsias on his way to the skin clinic where he gives himself up to be sculpted into frames of ancient, but not primitive, beauty?
And so our Man cogits and agits as wave on wave of 'manifestation crisis' sweeps over him. He agonizes over the contradictions, yearning for an oasis of reconciliation. Reconciliation of what he has been told, what he sees and what he must be. A place where oppositions like Cave-Man/David evaporate.
He looks around and finds the path leading to-where else but-the neighbourhood gymnasium. Indeed, the manner in which the Cave Man/David opposition dissolves inside the humble of walls of a gymnasium is a phenomenon to be marveled at.
Consider this. The Gym has all the markers that would delight the most finicky RBM. The construction and constituents of a modern gym is a magnificent treatise that the cave man himself would have been proud of etching on cave walls. As one enters, the powerful aroma of collective sweat clearly reminds you that you are entering a natural habitat. For all the latest brands of deodorants tucked away at the corners of branded gym bags, the gym itself is drenched in sweat stench accumulated over millions of ripples and reps of its inhabitants. The foulness of the smell is good enough to reassure any caveman worth his armpits that this indeed is a place of men.
Plod on. Let your eyes glaze over the symbols of manhood as they have existed in perpetuity. Hardly anything is more male than machines, but those loaded with thousands of kilograms of iron plates earn particular favour with the Cave Man. Look at the man at the last pulley applying brute force as he brings down the rod against the wishes of a mind boggling amount of weight. In the clenched faces, the grunts and the groans there is pain defeated, there is force and domination. There is no 'talk', no right-brain arty stuff. This is the real thing. These are the hermoso men: Stinking and active.
Where does that leave David? Look closely and he is lurking right behind.
Look into the rows and rows of unending mirrors that frame the walls. In every frame you find the Narcissus looking for the perfect ripple, the level of self involvement rivaling any feminine standard; see him run his hands along his pectorals and down to his abs, absolutely lean and waxed to perfection. He is conscientious about his diet and women will do well to take salad tips from him. Fashion statements are made discreetly: will it be Hanes or Adidas? Maybe Fruit of the Loom. Black or grey. Try red or pink. And checking out other men is de rigueur. For muscle definition, of course. In this room, oppositions be damned, the Cave Man and David are training partners.
So if you have been reading too many magazines that talk too much about things like "Moustache Styling: What real men think" or "10 ways to make your lips look the right side of red" or even "Manifestation crisis of masculinity", and you begin to wonder too seriously about the state of your masculine identity, take the hint and head out to the good ol' gym. And don't grudge the crowd at the bench press.

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