Bibhuti’s wife came in then, quiet and expressionless, trailed by a jealous fog of cooking smells. Sweat from the kitchen trickled from the folds of her neck. She said a shy hello to me and put three glasses of orange squash down on the coffee table. I could see her handprints in the steam on the sides of the glasses. I could smell the work she put in to making her world seem fresh and new at the start of every day. She wouldn’t look at me and I couldn’t blame her. As far as she knew I was the angel of death come to herd her husband to the next world before she could redeem the promises he’d made her in their private moments.
We ate in the bedroom, a brightly coloured shawl draped over the bed they all shared to make a tablecloth. My quick acceptance into their intimate arrangements made me feel uncomfortable. When Bibhuti asked me if I had a wife I told him she was dead. It came out before I could stop it. Shame whispered over me and stood my hairs on end. I hated myself for always being too weak to tell the truth.
They were very sorry for my loss. They knew how difficult it must be for me without her.
‘I would not wish to be the one left behind,’ his wife said, and shot Bibhuti a quick ferocious look. He didn’t catch it.
‘This will not happen,’ he said to me, charging his bread with something I’d soon come to know as aloo gobi.
I copied his technique, my fingers recoiling at the first touch of the food and then relaxing into their new expectations.
‘I am under the protection of the almighty and no harm can occur. I could go into the road now and a car could strike me and I would walk away without one scratch. This is the strength that God has given me.’
‘You said you will not try this again,’ his wife said.
Bibhuti waved away her complaint. ‘I began an attempt to stop one car travelling at forty kilometres per hour,’ he explained. ‘In practice it was not successful so I aborted the plan. This was long time ago. I escaped with small injury, a fracture to my pelvis only. I think perhaps I should lower the speed to thirty kilometres. Perhaps I will try again one day. God tells me when the record is not meant to be. I am only going where he puts me.’
His wife bit off more than she could chew, and there was a tense wait while she safely swallowed what she needed to. Everyone ate their food with renewed determination. Our eating noises made it feel like we were all the same. I was glad Ellen wasn’t there to see the mess I was making.
Before I could hold a bat I had to prepare my body and my mind. No more meat. Bibhuti had followed a strict vegetarian diet for many years and it was to this that he attributed his mental fortitude and immunity to all illnesses. His wife would cook all my meals. I was not to accept anything from outside.
No alcohol, no tobacco, no caffeine. Sugar only in moderation. I was permitted sexual release but not to excess. I could keep hold of my money and distribute it when the need arose.
Bibhuti was an early riser and he expected me to conform to his schedule. Every day would start at 5 a.m. with fitness training. I’d need loose clothing and a good pair of sneakers with adequate cushioning around the ankles. The ankles were prone to sprains if not properly supported.
I’d be required to do what he said without hesitation or challenge. He was the expert after many years of training and competition. He knew what was best. It would be hard. It would demand every drop of blood and sweat I had to give. It would be the making of me. When we reached the end I’d be changed for ever. I’d know what it felt like to defy death and all the fears that make the lives of others so small. I’d know the face of God.
I told him I was in.
First of all I had to learn how to breathe. I told Bibhuti I already knew how, but he was having none of it.
‘Your breathing is all wrong, I noticed this when first we met.’
‘What’s wrong with it? It’s breathing.’
‘It is all wrong. Very bad. You are lucky to be alive for so long if this is the way you have always been.’
He took me to the courtyard underneath his apartment and made me sit on the concrete with my legs crossed. Everything was done outside, in full view of the world. Shame wasn’t in the national character and if I wanted to fit in here I’d have to get comfortable with eyes and hands on me.
Bibhuti knelt on the concrete behind me so that his thighs rubbed against my back. He took hold of my shoulders and set my back straight. At my resistance he placed a hand on my chest and pulled me up to my full stretch, then plied me into a shape that pleased him.
Jolly Boy lounged on the floor in front of me, propped up on a puppy-fat arm, staring at me in a kind of prurient trance. He wore a shirt embroidered with a silver dragon for warding off death, and a plastic stopwatch slung round his neck, ready on his father’s cue to assist us in counting down the seconds to our date with destiny.
Bibhuti’s neighbour rested his elbows on the dividing wall and followed my manipulations. Behind him his wife hung banana skins from the washing line. They were black and dripping. Some murky invocation to charm the gods into blessing me and the attempt.
Breathe in through the nose to the count of seven.
Hold to the count of five.
Breathe out through the mouth to the count of seven.
Rest to five and repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
This is the way to breathe. This is how dragons are slain.
‘It feels hard,’ I said. My chest felt like it had been stuffed with thorns. Every inhale and exhale, when asked to comply with this ideal new formula, came tight and panicked. My body wasn’t used to paying such close attention to itself. I was built for living with my eyes closed.
‘It is very natural,’ Bibhuti insisted. ‘You will pick it up easily. A little time only and then it will become automatic. You will feel the benefit immediately. It will save you much trouble and add many years to your span.’
I tried. I tired. With Jolly Boy timing the movements I chased the rebirth Bibhuti promised when the breaths clicked like locks into their prefabricated places. Nothing happened. The sun beat down and I crabbed to the shade of the car port to deny the neighbour the spectacle of my failure. I realised I’d always been doing everything wrong.
I drank the rest of the bottle down when I got back to the hotel. The humiliation of improper breathing had cast a weight over me that only drunkenness could lift. Once I’d loosened up I took an account of my second day as a castaway and a mythmaker and I called it a qualified success. Nobody had died and the various bugs I’d been worried about hadn’t shown themselves yet.
8. World Record Number 2: 1,448 stomach sit-ups in one hour (1999)
In the days after my maiden World Record of groin-kicking feat I made a solemn promise to my wife that my thirst for extreme activity was satisfied and I would return to everyday life with no regret. She was worried for my health and it is every husband’s primary duty to respect the concerns of his wife and conduct himself accordingly. However I found myself gripped by a powerful determination to follow up my first achievement with even greater success. Despite much introspecting I could find no competing argument strong enough to topple this wish from central role in my imagination. I was hooked.
This is inevitable consequence of becoming a World Record breaker: when you beat the odds like I did and reach the top of the mountain you do not want to climb down again. You have the taste of the rarest kind of air in your lungs and it does not seem practical to suck on the dusty air of lower regions again. Also there was some frustration biting at the back of my mind: while kind people at Limca had been gracious in certifying my groin-kicking record, I could not call myself a true topper until I had gained recognition in the Guinness Book of World Records. This book enjoys renown second to none around the globe, and it is every extreme sportsman’s goal to be included in their family. Therefore immediately after blood had passed from my urine and swelling went down around genital region I set about to find a record they would support.