India’s bodybuilding boom reflects a nation flexing its muscles

A group of twen­ty-some­thing guys are crammed into a small room, flex­ing their mus­cles and apply­ing thick lay­ers of fake tan on dark brown skin. It’s approach­ing 40°C out­side but, inside this win­dow­less pen, it’s hard to breathe. Sweat is run­ning freely and the air is thick with a tang of mus­cle spray as guys attempt to accen­tu­ate their bulges before step­ping out on stage.

Body­build­ing is boom­ing across India. Mr Uni­verse-inspired com­pe­ti­tions and gyms are pop­ping up every­where, from small towns in the mid­dle of nowhere to megac­i­ties like Del­hi and Mumbai.

In just over a decade, eco­nom­ic pros­per­i­ty has trans­formed a strug­gling nation into a coun­try devel­op­ing at rapid speed, with smart­phones becom­ing ubiq­ui­tous and tech hubs com­pet­ing with the growth of Sil­i­con Valley.

The coun­try has long viewed itself as a con­ser­v­a­tive soci­ety, shaped by Gandhi’s vision of a post-inde­pen­dence nation built from rur­al vil­lages, but mod­ern India looks increas­ing­ly urban and international.

Among its emerg­ing mid­dle-class is a wave of young men who see body­build­ing not only as a means to suc­ceed finan­cial­ly, but as a source of iden­ti­ty. For many, the sport has become an all-encom­pass­ing way of life – one requir­ing a strict diet, rig­or­ous train­ing and sig­nif­i­cant finan­cial backing.

Nager­coil is a sleepy town in the south­ern­most state of Tamil Nadu with a pop­u­la­tion of 250,000; it’s dot­ted with Chris­t­ian church­es and over­looked by the spec­tac­u­lar West­ern Ghat moun­tain range, ris­ing up from green fields ringed by coconut trees.

It’s also home to Mr Tamil Nadu, a region­al body­build­ing com­pe­ti­tion where, on a humid night in Jan­u­ary, the event’s MC has whipped the crowd into a flur­ry of excitement.

A group of body­builders emerge with num­bers pinned to their tight trunks, then spread out awk­ward­ly in front of a bright­ly coloured ban­ner cov­ered in curly Tamil script. One-by-one, they’re called for­ward for a series of pos­es: show­ing off mus­cle growth and def­i­n­i­tion from their calves and shoul­ders to their arms and necks. They flex into each con­tor­tion as hard as they can, dis­guis­ing the strain by gaz­ing out at the audi­ence with exag­ger­at­ed smiles.

One of the younger body­builders stands out imme­di­ate­ly: 22-year-old Aji­ith Kumar, oth­er­wise known as Aji. He moves with a grace and con­fi­dence that none of the oth­ers pos­sess – unsur­pris­ing, per­haps, giv­en that he’s almost dou­ble the width of his small­est competitors.

Sure enough, Aji quick­ly trounces the com­pe­ti­tion to be crowned region­al cham­pi­on in his weight class, walk­ing away with a tro­phy of a lit­tle gold man with rip­pling mus­cles. ​“I strug­gled to raise mon­ey for the diet, so I didn’t get enough pro­tein,” he says after­wards, shak­ing his head earnest­ly. ​“But I didn’t skip a sin­gle work­out or miss the gym. Next time, I will be bet­ter prepared.”

Aji’s promise was spot­ted ear­ly on by GM Chan­dru, the man who put Nager­coil on the body­build­ing map. He’s a cud­dly 31-year-old who breaks into a chuck­le at the mem­o­ry of being a 10-year-old body­build­ing freak.

His obses­sion was first sparked by the excite­ment of see­ing local com­pe­ti­tions up close, and cement­ed by ear­ly access to cable TV and the inter­net – a ben­e­fit of his father’s job as an engi­neer for the Indi­an Space Research Organisation.

GM began train­ing as soon as he was old enough but, after some ear­ly suc­cess, a tox­ic cock­tail of infe­ri­or sup­ple­ments and steroid use began to give him seri­ous health problems.

“Every young guy wants to devel­op their body but I didn’t find a prop­er train­er,” he says. ​“The chem­i­cals they were giv­ing me had some real­ly bad effects. I got injured, my hor­mones went crazy and I got real­ly fat, so I had to stop bodybuilding.

“It’s no secret that most of the guys here depend on some chem­i­cals. But now I do my research and make sure that I give my guys the right sup­ple­ments and advice, so they can build but don’t put them­selves at risk.”

GM’s com­mit­ment to train­ing guys on mea­gre bud­gets has helped his gym become the most suc­cess­ful one in the area. It now occu­pies the entire third-floor of a build­ing above a sta­tion­ary shop, where, today, a gen­tle breeze pro­vides some wel­come respite from the stick­i­ness outside.

Some of the guys are work­ing through rou­tines ahead of upcom­ing con­tests, but for most of them, it’s a place to hang out with friends. The walls are cov­ered with moti­va­tion­al slo­gans – ​‘Shut up and squat’ and ​‘Milk is for babies, real men drink pro­tein’ – while speak­ers blast a rota­tion of Tamil pop inter­spersed with the odd ​’80s pow­er bal­lad – the clang and clat­ter of weights and train­ing machines occa­sion­al­ly ris­ing above the noise.

GM sees a bright future for Aji, believ­ing his pro­tégé has the poten­tial to progress at an inter­na­tion­al lev­el. Win­ning the Mr Tamil Nadu con­test is a piv­otal step in that jour­ney, as it earns Aji the chance to com­pete at Mr India. This is his last year as a junior, mak­ing the upcom­ing event his best chance to progress to Mr Asia and maybe even Mr Universe.

“Body­build­ing is a roy­al sport – and mon­ey is the back­bone of every­thing,” GM explains. ​“Aji has great genet­ics but he’s from a poor fam­i­ly, so he can’t raise that much mon­ey until he pro­gress­es further.”

But a month before the com­pe­ti­tion, dis­as­ter strikes in the form of Cyclone Ock­hi. It bat­ters the region so intense­ly that trees lie uproot­ed in the streets, fish­er­man are report­ed miss­ing and peo­ple protest the government’s insuf­fi­cient response. The gym, mean­while, is left com­plete­ly flood­ed; its sign blown clear from the roof.

Two weeks lat­er, Aji sits at home in a peace­ful vil­lage half an hour out­side Nager­coil. The pow­er still hasn’t been recon­nect­ed and he’s on edge, attempt­ing to hide his nerves. Despite the intim­i­dat­ing physique, off-stage he acts more reserved, even bash­ful at times.

“I couldn’t leave the house [dur­ing the cyclone], so my mus­cles have relaxed,” Aji says qui­et­ly. ​“But I am always con­fi­dent. I will win this com­pe­ti­tion, there’s no doubt about that.”

But for all of Aji’s faith in his own abil­i­ties, he can’t car­ry on much longer with­out spon­sor­ship. It’s a must if he’s to con­tin­ue train­ing and lift the finan­cial pres­sure from his fam­i­ly. It doesn’t help that few peo­ple under­stand his dedication.

“Every­one asks me the same ques­tions: ​‘Why do you strug­gle so much? How can you train for hours every day and only eat meat, eggs, fruit and veg­eta­bles?” he says.

“Because I have loved body­build­ing since I was a child. Even when my par­ents for­bade it, I went to the gym in secret. They are always push­ing me to get a prop­er job, but still they sup­port me. My father earns 200 rupees ($3) per day and he has bor­rowed mon­ey to give me the 300 rupees I need just to diet prop­er­ly and train every day. My moth­er even sold her ear­rings so I could go to a state competition.”

Aji’s plans to recov­er peak fit­ness are boost­ed when Mr South India, a com­pe­ti­tion in Chen­nai can­celled due to the cyclone, is resched­uled one week before Mr India – allow­ing him to use it as a warm-up event. He trav­els with oth­er guys from GM’s gym, many of whom are mak­ing their first big trip away from home, all of them rel­ish­ing the cama­raderie that this bur­geon­ing com­mu­ni­ty offers.

In Chen­nai, the scale of India’s body­build­ing scene becomes clear as soon as you step inside the enor­mous Jawa­har­lal Nehru Sta­di­um. Spon­sors’ logos are plas­tered every­where, with count­less pop-up stalls sell­ing import­ed pro­tein sup­ple­ments and train­ing aids. One ven­dor says that the mar­ket for these expen­sive prod­ucts remains small, but he’s posi­tion­ing him­self to build a busi­ness around the grow­ing appeal of sculpt­ed muscles.

But Aji is obliv­i­ous to all of that. He’s in the mid­dle of a gru­elling three-day ​‘shred’: prepa­ra­tion that involves restrict­ing his pro­tein-heavy diet to the bare min­i­mum and dras­ti­cal­ly cut­ting salt and water intake, just to high­light his mus­cles. As body­builders from each cat­e­go­ry take their time on stage, Aji grows quiet.

He’s already sapped of ener­gy, gri­mac­ing with every move­ment, his mouth dried both from dehy­dra­tion and ner­vous­ness. After push­ing through his final warm-up exer­cis­es, a gym bud­dy spreads fake tan across his body with a paint roller and, with­in moments, the call comes. It’s time.

Right on cue, Aji sum­mons his game face, strides onto the stage and grace­ful­ly per­forms his required pos­es. The biggest cheers and whis­tles are direct­ed towards the local tal­ent, but Aji’s form and fin­ish see the judges award him third place – beat­en by two much old­er bodybuilders.

Back out­side the are­na, Aji lies down flat on his back and cov­ers his face with a tow­el. He’s beyond exhaust­ed, but the per­for­mance bodes well for Mr India – where the guys who fin­ished ahead of him would have been placed in a dif­fer­ent cat­e­go­ry. ​“I’m hap­py with that result,” he says. ​“But I only have one week left to pre­pare; I have to start work­outs as soon as possible.”

For Aji, get­ting to Mr India requires a jour­ney span­ning the length of the coun­try: an overnight flight to New Del­hi (his first time on a plane), then a four-hour train to Lud­hi­ana in Pun­jab, close to the Pak­istan bor­der and the Himalayan foothills. This far north, it’s much cold­er than the trop­i­cal cli­mate Aji is used to.

It’s also a pre­dom­i­nant­ly Sikh area where tur­bans and beards abound. Feel­ing the chill, and look­ing out of his com­fort zone, the 22-year-old grows reclu­sive. He doesn’t want to stress his tired mus­cles, keep­ing to his room instead. ​“I need eggs!” is all he’s will­ing to say.

When the com­pe­ti­tion final­ly begins, it erupts with com­i­cal bom­bast. One of the organ­is­ers dri­ves a Roy­al Enfield motor­bike onto the stage, bass begins pump­ing and the host lets loose with a non-stop stream of mind-jar­ring commentary.

Aji, how­ev­er, has blocked out every­thing that’s beyond his own con­trol. Instead he runs through his nor­mal rou­tine, com­fort­ing him­self with the rit­u­al, before mak­ing a last-minute call to GM to dis­cuss strategy.

When the big moment arrives, Aji digs deep and man­ages to radi­ate a com­mand­ing pres­ence. He’s notice­ably big­ger than many in the line-up and per­forms his pos­es well. But when the judges announce who won’t be pro­gress­ing, Aji’s num­ber is called.

The look of shock on his face shifts to bewil­der­ment; guys who seem infe­ri­or have been vot­ed through to the sec­ond round, while many of those who’ve been elim­i­nat­ed along­side him look like stick-insects by comparison.

Aji is gut­ted, con­vinced that he’s been unfair­ly treat­ed. A few rounds lat­er, he’s still bark­ing angri­ly on the phone to GM when a scuf­fle breaks out on stage – a result of ris­ing ten­sion among judges over what seem to be ques­tion­able ver­dicts, per­haps even signs of favouritism towards body­builders from cer­tain regions. But there’s noth­ing Aji can do to appeal the outcome.

Unlike oth­er coun­tries, Indi­an judges don’t reveal scores for each bodybuilder’s rou­tines, so their deci­sions are opaque and can’t be chal­lenged. Organ­is­ers are also known for push­ing ​‘their guys’ for­ward, lead­ing to dis­putes between train­ers, offi­cials and a pro­lif­er­a­tion of com­pet­ing federations.

“Every­thing seemed fair when I won my first state com­pe­ti­tion in 2008,” says Biglee Murali, a for­mer cham­pi­on-turned-train­er stand­ing back­stage, shel­tered from the chaos.

“But when I tried to win a sec­ond time, I under­stood that cer­tain cat­e­gories were fixed. In India, we have gov­ern­ment jobs for suc­cess­ful ath­letes. Dur­ing one con­test a judge open­ly told me, ​‘You’re just doing this for a hob­by, so we’re giv­ing the title to anoth­er guy who’s try­ing to win a sports appointment.’

“I was bust­ing my balls in the IT indus­try for 14 hours a day to pay for train­ing and the nutri­tion, so after that I just said, ​‘For­get it.’ Some of the new fed­er­a­tions start out hon­est, but that rarely lasts. Every­one ends up look­ing out for their own.”

The spec­tre of cor­rup­tion – be it in edu­ca­tion, gov­ern­ment or sport – has long been seen as a hang­over from British colo­nial rule. Sev­en­ty years after gain­ing inde­pen­dence, India remains a soci­ety where peo­ple out­num­ber oppor­tu­ni­ties – a place where dreams don’t seem to stand much of a chance unless you have the right connections.

As Aji slumps deject­ed­ly at the back of the are­na, watch­ing the rest of the con­test with glazed-over eyes, you can prac­ti­cal­ly see the dream slip­ping away from him. All that’s left is a long, som­bre jour­ney back home.

“I don’t care about the spon­sor­ship, the mon­ey or Mr Asia,” he says lat­er, hav­ing had time to reflect and cool off. ​“I just want­ed to be a Tamil from Nager­coil who was able to com­pete on an equal foot­ing with guys my age from across the coun­try – and prove myself, fair­ly and hon­est­ly, in front of their eyes.

“Body­build­ing has been my dri­ve since child­hood. That’s why I decid­ed that, what­ev­er the chal­lenges, I will with­stand any­thing. I will con­tin­ue this; I will nev­er aban­don it.”

Huck’s debut fea­ture film, Tight: The World of Indi­an Body­build­ing pre­mieres at the BFI on Sat­ur­day June 29 from 20:45, as part of the Lon­don Indi­an Film Festival.

After the BFI screen­ing, Lon­don Indi­an Film Fes­ti­val takes Tight on tour around the UK:

Lon­don — Sun­day 30 June | 17:30 | Rich Mix

Birm­ing­ham — Mon­day 01 July | 19:00 | Mid­lands Arts Cen­tre (plus Q&A)

Leeds — Tues­day 02 July | 18:00 | Hyde Park Pic­ture­house (plus Q&A)

This arti­cle orig­i­nal­ly appeared in Huck 66 – The Atti­tude Issue. Buy it in the Huck Shop or sub­scribe to make sure you nev­er miss anoth­er issue.