Empire of Lunges and Sun Salutations

I stepped tentatively into the bustling city of Bombay, my senses immediately assaulted by the humid clamor of this 1923 parallel era. Much felt familiar: the colonial architecture towering with stoic self-importance over the clamorous masses, the trams screeching their way down avenues policed by impossibly-polished constables, and the perpetual mélange of languages, from Queen’s English to Marathi, floating on the hot breeze. But, then again, there were lunges. Everywhere. If the world I know had once turned on money, power, and the occasional cricket match, this Bombay seemed to revolve entirely around aerobic exercises and plyometric feats. British administrators practiced somber jump squats in polished leather boots while their Indian clerks kept pace with synchronized high knees, umbrellas still in hand. It was baffling until I remembered that this timeline saw the likes of Major-General Leighton Bexley raise physical fitness to a quasi-religious cornerstone of governance and survival.

After pausing to gape at a group of surly British officers engaged in synchronized bear crawls along Chowpatty Beach, I decided to explore the results of this fitness-first philosophy. Bombay’s rhythm was clearly dictated by a strict devotion to exercise. On my walk through the Fort district, I passed a courthouse where the judge—not seated but in an impeccable downward dog—barked legal decrees while bailiffs performed planks beside him. This hybridization of muscle and civics reached its apex during my unintended audience with an administrative officer who, after calling me into his elaborately arranged Indo-Victorian office, spent our entire conversation cycling furiously on a stationary bicycle affixed with an adjustable tea tray. Each sip of Darjeeling he took was accompanied by labored, mechanical pedaling, as the sweat pooled on his freckled astonishment at my lack of visible perspiration.

My own attempts to blend in ended poorly, of course. Rather unwisely, I joined a group of vegetable vendors participating in an outdoor aerobics class layered with a distinctly imperial flair. Breathing heavily beside me, Shanta—a wiry woman balancing a basket of radishes through the entire ordeal—suggested that she wouldn’t dare skip exercise. "If a Britisher can do pushups while scolding us," she panted between movements, "why should I fall behind?" By the end, she laughed at my wheezing as my tunic, soaked in sweat, clung to my sensitivity about time-travel-induced cardiovascular fitness. A particularly stubborn burpee left me sprawled on the dirt, thoroughly disheveled. It was humiliating, though thankfully no governess sprang forth armed with a whistle to critique my form.

Perhaps the most surreal sight of my visit unfolded near the bustling docks. Large crowds gathered to watch uniformed port officers and merchants hoist crates via Olympic-style weightlifting regimens choreographed to “Rule, Britannia” played on brass instruments—live, no less. A British merchant captain informed me that the port's efficiency doubled under this regimen, though I could see the exasperated eye-rolls from the Indian stevedores required to incorporate these routines into their backbreaking labor. "Fitness is the ultimate compliance," the captain offered with an air of pomposity, flexing a strikingly muscular forearm before triumphantly deadlifting a barrel full of spices. I kept my face neutral but made a mental note that diplomacy and decorum, in this case, also required muscle.

Amusingly, while this fitness dystopia created its share of a fitter populace, it didn’t seem to solve anything significant. The colonial grip over India was, as in my own timeline, visibly unsteady. Tumult, protests, and despair lingered in the humid air like languorous mosquitoes. "All this stretching," lamented an older merchant I encountered near Crawford Market, "and they still cannot stretch their compassion for our plight." Clearly, no crunch or quad stretch could bridge the chasm of cultural misunderstandings or wash away the Empire’s foundational inequities. For all the lung power channeled into Bombay’s routines, the British seemed as oblivious to their colonies’ needs as ever—though notably better at handstands than any other imperial power I’ve seen.

As I write this, sprawled beneath the shade of a mangrove tree, I hear the grunty echoes of an outdoor yoga class nearby—its musical accompaniment an odd mishmash of harmonium tones, sitar strings, and the tinny whine of a trumpet. The discordant blend perfectly embodies my visit. Is it charming? Occasionally. Exhausting? More than I care to admit. Bizarre? Utterly. Yet, despite their bulging enthusiasm and endless burpees, the British remain limited by the perpetual blinders of an empire desperate to flex its way into eternity.