<h1 class="left">Thick layers of burnished gold shone under the crackling yellow stage lights which threw its shine on two rows of bronzed men. This was the front row of a bodybuilding championship on a late Sunday evening in Lower Parel. Irrespective, everyone’s eyes were laser focused on the men onstage as even amateurs scrutinized years of protein intake and discipline as taut skin stretched and veins popped even as the men who’d become the next Lalbaug Vikas Shree, curled their hands into iron fists bending towards their first posture. An audience who would rather throw themselves onstage, waited with bated breath.</h1>
<h1 class="centre">After copious amounts of anxious sweating and gold paint, the competition had begun.</h1>
<h1 class="centre">Chancing upon a mid-twentieth century bodybuilding manual among the books my dad had collected over the years would first introduce me to the culture of physique, at least locally in Bengal. For the photographer Yash Sheth, that moment would be coming upon a bodybuilder while strolling the streets of Mumbai on his daily meanderings around the city, and being completely taken by his physique. Enough to pick up a conversation with him if he competed anywhere. While Yash knew about such competitions elsewhere, it was the first time he heard about them in the underbellies of Mumbai, which landed him in a sweaty, gleaming makeshift stage surrounded by roars and loud hollers, of a generation fuelled by the chiseled Bollywood model turned actor towards the turn of the century.</h1>
<h1 class="left">However disciplined bodybuilding is made of sterner stuff than wanting to become like your cinematic idol, noted twenty-five-year-old Imran Anwar Shaikh who became Mumbai Shree four years ago, who Yash had followed into the arena. This was clearly something beyond a fickle persuasion as cheers rang out through the hall over loudspeakers blaring out pose numbers in Marathi and a row of white shirts sat before the stage, as if in a courtroom – silently judging. A flicker of a smile couldn’t help but slip out even when rivulets of sweat poured down dehydrated slick skin as the champions puffed out their chests, pushing up their biceps until every single rib could be counted – they knew their audience and giving a performance seemed necessary – of utmost importance even, win or no win.</h1>
<h1 class="left">Amidst all that an anomaly was suddenly spotted onstage during the under 55kg Junior category – a small spectacled boy had somehow climbed onstage – tinged brown amidst the other burly men twice as old as he was – being seven. Although it was open to anyone below the age of twenty-one, such a young participant hadn't shown their face on stage with the stalwarts yet. However, all the hollers indicated that Rachit Panchal wasn’t a fresh face in the arena, having tagged along with his father Umesh Panchal to the gym and championships in the evening – and back to kindergarten in the morning. Two years ago, his father had gotten into a bike accident right before Mumbai Shree, he told dirty, which forced him to take a break – which is when Rachit took a step forward and started participating.</h1>
<h1 class="centre">Indeed, a giant step it was, having just participated in Junior Chembur Shree last month – and he was back to reclaim his father’s dreams at Mumbai Shree. Not looking left or right at the smiling older competitors watching this tiny boy perform every posture, Rachit’s eyes remained fixed on the judges the entire time – pearly whites getting wider after every gasp of astonishment. He is similarly jovial in the backstage where his father helps him get painted up, and in an otherwise intense space bubbling with the tenseness of competition threatening to spill, Umesh smiles too.</h1>
<h1 class="centre">This feeling doubles in a room full of men, shifting from one foot to another, terse in their anticipation of being weighed – officially – hoping they don’t weigh more than their usual category. The anxiety in their quietness dissipates slightly once their weight is scribbled onto their hands and the registration fee paid, even as a few try to pick up arguments with the men in white shirts who sit before the scale – to no effect, as a proud father with his arms on his son’s shoulder, smiles from ear to ear.</h1>
<h1 class="centre">The backstage is also a place where friendships are built, noted Arpana Zagade who was competing in the Lalbaug Vikas Shree Women’s bodybuilding competition – where unlike in the men’s segments, there were surprisingly no weight or age divisions. Arpana didn’t think she found anything particularly unfair. “You meet other women, often senior to you, and you take their advice,” she said, “Many women here compete even after marrying – like me – and you don’t allow yourself to fall under the trap of not even taking an hour out for yourself after marrying and having kids to look after – I have three kids!”</h1>
<h1 class="left">This is echoed by Aarti competing for the fourth time in the bikini category where the body is structured differently. “I didn’t wanna be a skinny girl from when I was a child,” she shrugged, “I feel it’s important for women to build our muscles, just for the body to remain as functional as we age.” Thirty-eight-year-old Durgakumari is married and beamed while showing off an impressive sick-pack. “I am a fitness trainer,” she smiled, “The first girl in my family to venture out and be employed – goes without saying no one attempted bodybuilding either.” It was her brother who urged her towards professional competing, she admitted after hearing her desire to enter an adjacent field. “In the last competition I came second,” smiled the Thane resident, “I can’t wait to see what podium number I finish at this time!”</h1>
<h1 class="left">Her energy is infectious and so is Arpana’s who smiles brightly onstage as she flexes her hands behind her back – biceps bulging up – and one can feel the joy the veteran nurse feels while competing which propels her to run to the gym wolfing down a breakfast of eggs immediately after finishing her twelve hour night shift and getting time to rest only in the afternoon. “If I don’t finish working out, I skip that rest,” she asserted, “Like a husband, gym also becomes a habit.”</h1>
<h1 class="left">Many of the competitors come from the districts and outskirts of the main city, making time for bodybuilding after a day of selling fish at Bhandup and being a gym trainer like thirty-five-year-old Anand Wagh or twenty-eight-year-old Ajay Kumbhare working a rickshaw during the day. It becomes easy to compete with friends and mentors like Ajay competing alongside his coach Nitin Prakash Mhatre with both frequently ending up with podium finishes towards the end of the evening – medals shining on their chests or holding trophies. Or seventy-eight-year-old Prakash Gajanan Mirlekar who swiftly became Mr Hercules after winning his first competition in 1971, and is always joined by his wife in every competition. Even twenty-five-year-old Ajay Bhoir whose friend Sachin helped him towards financing his first competition. Now he works in a bank but after the competition is done and the lights are turned off, this circle of friends and mentors in gyms and akharas is what remains.</h1>
<h1 class="centre">Ringing through the roar of the arena is the rigour of a discipline which burns right through the midnight candle, juggling between full-time jobs and a passion that refuses to lie still. “I would often wonder how such young and old people are still at it, playing purely for their heart's desire,” Yash mused, “That's how I want to see my practice one day.”</h1>
<h1 class="full">Thick layers of burnished gold shone under the crackling yellow stage lights which threw its shine on two rows of bronzed men. This was the front row of a bodybuilding championship on a late Sunday evening in Lower Parel. Irrespective, everyone’s eyes were laser focused on the men onstage as even amateurs scrutinized years of protein intake and discipline as taut skin stretched and veins popped even as the men who’d become the next Lalbaug Vikas Shree, curled their hands into iron fists bending towards their first posture. An audience who would rather throw themselves onstage, waited with bated breath.</h1>
<h1 class="full">After copious amounts of anxious sweating and gold paint, the competition had begun.</h1>
<h1 class="full">Chancing upon a mid-twentieth century bodybuilding manual among the books my dad had collected over the years would first introduce me to the culture of physique, at least locally in Bengal. For the photographer Yash Sheth, that moment would be coming upon a bodybuilder while strolling the streets of Mumbai on his daily meanderings around the city, and being completely taken by his physique. Enough to pick up a conversation with him if he competed anywhere. While Yash knew about such competitions elsewhere, it was the first time he heard about them in the underbellies of Mumbai, which landed him in a sweaty, gleaming makeshift stage surrounded by roars and loud hollers, of a generation fuelled by the chiseled Bollywood model turned actor towards the turn of the century.</h1>
<h1 class="full">However disciplined bodybuilding is made of sterner stuff than wanting to become like your cinematic idol, noted twenty-five-year-old Imran Anwar Shaikh who became Mumbai Shree four years ago, who Yash had followed into the arena. This was clearly something beyond a fickle persuasion as cheers rang out through the hall over loudspeakers blaring out pose numbers in Marathi and a row of white shirts sat before the stage, as if in a courtroom – silently judging. A flicker of a smile couldn’t help but slip out even when rivulets of sweat poured down dehydrated slick skin as the champions puffed out their chests, pushing up their biceps until every single rib could be counted – they knew their audience and giving a performance seemed necessary – of utmost importance even, win or no win.</h1>
<h1 class="full">Amidst all that an anomaly was suddenly spotted onstage during the under 55kg Junior category – a small spectacled boy had somehow climbed onstage – tinged brown amidst the other burly men twice as old as he was – being seven. Although it was open to anyone below the age of twenty-one, such a young participant hadn't shown their face on stage with the stalwarts yet. However, all the hollers indicated that Rachit Panchal wasn’t a fresh face in the arena, having tagged along with his father Umesh Panchal to the gym and championships in the evening – and back to kindergarten in the morning. Two years ago, his father had gotten into a bike accident right before Mumbai Shree, he told dirty, which forced him to take a break – which is when Rachit took a step forward and started participating.</h1>
<h1 class="full">Indeed, a giant step it was, having just participated in Junior Chembur Shree last month – and he was back to reclaim his father’s dreams at Mumbai Shree. Not looking left or right at the smiling older competitors watching this tiny boy perform every posture, Rachit’s eyes remained fixed on the judges the entire time – pearly whites getting wider after every gasp of astonishment. He is similarly jovial in the backstage where his father helps him get painted up, and in an otherwise intense space bubbling with the tenseness of competition threatening to spill, Umesh smiles too.</h1>
<h1 class="full">This feeling doubles in a room full of men, shifting from one foot to another, terse in their anticipation of being weighed – officially – hoping they don’t weigh more than their usual category. The anxiety in their quietness dissipates slightly once their weight is scribbled onto their hands and the registration fee paid, even as a few try to pick up arguments with the men in white shirts who sit before the scale – to no effect, as a proud father with his arms on his son’s shoulder, smiles from ear to ear.</h1>
<h1 class="full">The backstage is also a place where friendships are built, noted Arpana Zagade who was competing in the Lalbaug Vikas Shree Women’s bodybuilding competition – where unlike in the men’s segments, there were surprisingly no weight or age divisions. Arpana didn’t think she found anything particularly unfair. “You meet other women, often senior to you, and you take their advice,” she said, “Many women here compete even after marrying – like me – and you don’t allow yourself to fall under the trap of not even taking an hour out for yourself after marrying and having kids to look after – I have three kids!”</h1>
<h1 class="full">This is echoed by Aarti competing for the fourth time in the bikini category where the body is structured differently. “I didn’t wanna be a skinny girl from when I was a child,” she shrugged, “I feel it’s important for women to build our muscles, just for the body to remain as functional as we age.” Thirty-eight-year-old Durgakumari is married and beamed while showing off an impressive sick-pack. “I am a fitness trainer,” she smiled, “The first girl in my family to venture out and be employed – goes without saying no one attempted bodybuilding either.” It was her brother who urged her towards professional competing, she admitted after hearing her desire to enter an adjacent field. “In the last competition I came second,” smiled the Thane resident, “I can’t wait to see what podium number I finish at this time!”</h1>
<h1 class="full">Her energy is infectious and so is Arpana’s who smiles brightly onstage as she flexes her hands behind her back – biceps bulging up – and one can feel the joy the veteran nurse feels while competing which propels her to run to the gym wolfing down a breakfast of eggs immediately after finishing her twelve hour night shift and getting time to rest only in the afternoon. “If I don’t finish working out, I skip that rest,” she asserted, “Like a husband, gym also becomes a habit.”</h1>
<h1 class="full">Many of the competitors come from the districts and outskirts of the main city, making time for bodybuilding after a day of selling fish at Bhandup and being a gym trainer like thirty-five-year-old Anand Wagh or twenty-eight-year-old Ajay Kumbhare working a rickshaw during the day. It becomes easy to compete with friends and mentors like Ajay competing alongside his coach Nitin Prakash Mhatre with both frequently ending up with podium finishes towards the end of the evening – medals shining on their chests or holding trophies. Or seventy-eight-year-old Prakash Gajanan Mirlekar who swiftly became Mr Hercules after winning his first competition in 1971, and is always joined by his wife in every competition. Even twenty-five-year-old Ajay Bhoir whose friend Sachin helped him towards financing his first competition. Now he works in a bank but after the competition is done and the lights are turned off, this circle of friends and mentors in gyms and akharas is what remains.</h1>
<h1 class="full">Ringing through the roar of the arena is the rigour of a discipline which burns right through the midnight candle, juggling between full-time jobs and a passion that refuses to lie still. “I would often wonder how such young and old people are still at it, playing purely for their heart's desire,” Yash mused, “That's how I want to see my practice one day.”</h1>