Manohar Aich, India's first Mr Universe turned 100 this year. But a visit to his house in Kolkata shows two Indias just floors apart - his son's multigym upstairs, his old akhara downstairs and a world of difference in between.

Editor's Note: This copy was first published in 2012 on the occasion of Manohar Aich's 100th birthday. It is being updated in light of Aich's passing in Kolkata on Sunday.

Manohar Aich towers over the lane where he lives in Kolkata.

At the head of the street there’s a big hoarding with an old black and white photograph of him, flexing in a posing strap, looking down on the usual clutter of tea stalls, sabziwallahs and auto-rickshaws.

“Towers” is an odd word to use for Manohar Aich. India’s first Mr. Universe was 4’11” at his peak – a pocket Hercules. He might have shrunk an inch or two now. Manohar Aich turned 100 this year.

“They took me in a procession, the TV came and took interviews. The government gave me a cheque,” says the dimunitive bodybuilder. He claims it’s the first time the government has given him a cash award since he won his grand title in 1952.

How much did they give I ask.

“I don’t know,” he shrugs “Ask them. They keep track of all that now.” He gestures at his family milling around the small one-storey house.

One lakh, his grandson replies.

Innards for two annas

This should be Manohar Aich’s season in the sun. He has lived to see the vindication of his great passion – the worship of the body. In his day it was the lonely obsession of a few. Now it has become mainstream. It’s been a long time coming. In 1952, the Mr. Universe title made him famous. But it brought no sponsorships, ad-deals, or gym franchises.

“I remember going to his house,” says Kshitish Chatterjee, Mr. India 1966 and one of his closest disciples. “His wife would get naari bhuri (innards) for two annas and fry them up. He never did the high protein diet. He never had the money. This was the state of Mr. Universe.”

“My father used to show his muscle in the circus,” remembers Manohar’s son Bishnu. “He would lift 600 pounds on his shoulders. That’s how he earned money.”

He also asked crowds to shout out letters of the English alphabet during his muscle shows. Then he would bend six-inch nails into those shapes with his bare hands. He has sold green coconuts at Sealdah train station, worked clerical office jobs, and been a subway conductor in London. He signed up as a paratrooper for the RAF for a ten-rupee salary increment after his first daughter was born and played the khol (drums) in kirtan groups. All along he kept pumping iron.

Now it seems the world has finally caught up with him. Fitness can actually be a profession. Gyms are everywhere – dream gyms, no-machine gyms, fitness centres (separate floors for ladies and gents), multigyms.

Even his own son runs one – the Bishnu Manohar Aich’s Multigym and Fitness Centre.

The multigym vs the single minded bodybuilder

But Aich, the elder, seems a lonely man.

“I never thought of gyms as a business. I did it because I had the ichhe (desire),” he says. “Now it is all wrong. They just want quick results. Is that possible?”

He is not even very interested in his son’s multigym.

“(My father) doesn’t like it. He only likes big muscles,” says Bishnu. “Normal life does not require big muscle. But people have to live in the world with fitness.”

Bishnu was a bodybuilder when he was 22. He has pictures of himself on the wall, posing with bulging muscles. “But I found this cannot be my profession. It is not financially sound. People do not have 4 to 6 hours a day to build muscles.”

He points to picture of a sari-clad woman on the wall. “That is my creation. She came to me at 100 Kg. She came down to 65 kg. Natural method – diet control, calorie burning, strengthening the muscle.” His father didn’t particularly approve of women working out. Chatterjee remembers him advising a woman whose three daughters wanted to work out that they should just dismiss the servants and the girls could pick up their chores – one could grind the masalas, one could mop the floors, one could wash the clothes.

Three floors down from Bishnu is what remains of his father’s world. At the akhara where Manohar Aich worked out well into his nineties the clang of raw iron weights replaces the whirr of stationary bicycles. The floor is red brick dust. A faded poster of Arnold Schwarzenegger from his Conan days shares column space with Bajrang Bali. Teenaged boys, mostly shirtless, grunt as they pump iron and do push-ups, sweat beading their brows. There is no air-conditioning.

“I want to be fit like Manohar-dadu (grandpa),” says Sumon Mondal. He’s 16 and he has been coming to the akhara for a couple of months. “Everyone is building the body. So I wanted to as well.” Sumon says other dadas show him the ropes. Other than that they are on their own.

It’s certainly a very different world from the multigyms where uniformed trainers outnumber the machines, hovering over their clients in their Puma tracksuits and muscle-tees autographed by John Abraham. Those gyms cost thousands of rupees a month. Manohar Aich’s akhara costs Rs 60 with a joining fee of Rs 120.

Affordable as they might be, they belong to a different culture that’s fallen out of favour with urban middle class India. “You go to gyms with air conditioning,” Chatterjee tells me. “That makes no sense. The point of working out is to get the heart pumping to raise the body temperature.” Gyms are about selling – personal trainer packages, massages, supplements, nutrition bars. They also want to give their clients quick results whether they want to build muscle or lose inches.

“Body building is not Nescafe,” says Chatterjee. “Put it in, stir and it’s ready. You need to work hard. You need patience. You need dedication.” He says the whole culture has changed. “You don’t get a body from machines,” he sighs. “You get a body maathar ghaam paaye pheley ( from the sweat of your brow). We were natural bodybuilders. Our guru was Manohar Aich. Now the guru is the druggist.”

Mr. Little Great

For Manohar Aich exercise was a religion, a stubborn devotion against all odds.

He got into it after he was thrown into jail for slapping a British officer during the Raj days. He did shows to raise the funds to go to London to compete in Mr. Universe. The then West Bengal chief minister Bidhan Roy gave him 200 rupees. In 1951 he placed second but he stuck it out in London for a year. He would do shows with Reg Park, Mr. Universe 1951, to raise money. They billed themselves as Mr. Tall Great and Mr. Little Great. He went on to compete four times for the title, itself a record for an Indian, and found a place in the first four each time.

Back in India, he was a celebrity of sorts but found few who understood him. He even got rejected for an LIC life insurance policy because the chief medical officer (CMO) thought a man whose chest was almost as wide as he was tall would drop dead any day. “He just drove his bike to the LIC building, stormed into the CMO’s office, stripped off his shirt, and flexed his muscles and said how dare you fail me, did you pass your medical exam by cheating?” laughs Chatterjee.

The officer hurriedly admitted he was wrong. But the country at large was indifferent. The Sports Authority of India hired him as an advisor for 5000 rupees a month. But he quit after a while says Chatterjee. He said he did not just want to draw a salary for doing nothing.

Now Manohar Aich seems to both enjoy the spotlight and be tired by it.

“I don’t remember,” he says when I ask him what he did to celebrate that big victory in 1952. “It’s been a long time. I am a hundred years old.”

As I walk out of his compound a young woman with a gym bag walks in. On her left is the little house where India’s Pocket Hercules sits on the verandah and reads the newspaper. On her right is his old “iron gym” where young Sumon and his friends are working out. But she just follows the arrow that points to the multigym upstairs, a multigym that salutes Manohar Aich in its name.