I work out only with my trainer. And I make sure to do a lot of

Host: The dawn broke like a whisper — a soft orange glow bleeding across the misty horizon. A cricket field, still wrapped in fog, stretched wide beneath the awakening sky. The dewdrops on the grass glimmered like a thousand quiet truths, waiting to be stepped on.

The air was clean, cool — filled with birdsong and breath, not the artificial hum of treadmills. Somewhere near the pitch, the faint thud of shoes on soil echoed rhythmically. Jack stood mid-field, his shirt damp with morning sweat, hands on his knees, drawing slow breaths. His chest rose and fell, his body not chasing vanity, but mastery.

Jeeny, holding a flask of coffee, watched from the edge of the ground — the sunlight catching her hair, turning it to molten gold. She smiled faintly as she called out, her voice carrying easily in the wide silence.

Jeeny: “Dinesh Karthik once said, ‘I work out only with my trainer. And I make sure to do a lot of power training. For me, fitness is more about being on the ground rather than being in a gym.’”
She paused, watching Jack straighten. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? The idea that strength isn’t made under fluorescent lights but under the sun.”

Jack: “Because it’s real.”
He stretched his shoulders, the sound of bone and tendon like small thunder. “The ground doesn’t lie to you, Jeeny. It doesn’t flatter you with mirrors or playlists. It tests you — honestly.”

Jeeny: “Honesty and exercise. There’s a philosophy in that.”

Jack: “There’s a philosophy in everything that hurts but makes you stronger.”

Host: The wind stirred, sweeping a light veil of dust across the field. Somewhere, a whistle blew, and the sound carried — sharp, awakening. Jack began jogging again, slow, deliberate, the rhythm of his feet syncing with the beat of his breath.

Jeeny walked along the boundary line, her shoes brushing through the grass, her voice steady but thoughtful.

Jeeny: “Karthik’s idea of fitness — it’s deeper than muscle, isn’t it? It’s about belonging. To the ground, to gravity, to life itself.”

Jack: “That’s because the gym isolates you. The field connects you. Every step, every fall, every push — it’s a conversation with the earth.”

Jeeny: “And the earth always answers.”

Jack: “Sometimes with strength. Sometimes with pain.”

Jeeny: “But always with truth.”

Host: The sun broke free from the horizon, spilling gold over the field. Jack stopped and dropped to the ground, doing push-ups in the dirt. His hands pressed into the earth, palms coated in mud. It was deliberate — a kind of reverence.

Jack: “When you train out here, you can’t hide behind machines or numbers. The ground doesn’t care about your ego. It humbles you every time.”

Jeeny: “That’s why most people avoid it.”

Jack: “Exactly. They want progress without surrender. They want fitness without failure.”

Jeeny: “But failure is fitness. That’s what Karthik meant. You don’t grow because you’re comfortable — you grow because you struggle.”

Jack: “Struggle’s the only exercise life guarantees.”

Host: The air warmed slowly, the fog lifting from the edges of the field, revealing the worn white lines, the scattered leaves, the signs of persistence.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how being on the ground — literally — makes you feel smaller and stronger at the same time?”

Jack: “Because it reminds you that gravity isn’t the enemy. It’s the teacher.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound like philosophy.”

Jack: “It is. Every rep, every sprint, every bead of sweat — it’s not about building a body, it’s about building balance.”

Jeeny: “Balance?”

Jack: “Yeah. Between strength and humility. Between control and chaos. You lift weights in a gym to fight resistance. Out here, you learn to work with it.”

Jeeny: “That’s why I love athletes like Karthik. They don’t just train for muscle — they train for awareness. They treat their bodies like instruments, not ornaments.”

Jack: “Instruments of truth.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because the field doesn’t care how you look — it cares how you move.”

Host: Jack stood again, wiping his hands on his shirt. His skin glistened in the sunlight — not polished, but earned. The crickets and morning doves had begun their symphony, and somewhere in that natural rhythm, the human heartbeat found its echo.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I thought strength meant domination — being able to lift more, run faster, endure longer. But now I think it’s simpler. Strength’s just the quiet agreement between your will and your body.”

Jeeny: “And fitness is the dialogue.”

Jack: “Yeah. And Karthik’s right — the best conversations don’t happen under a roof. They happen right here, where you can feel the world push back.”

Host: The sun climbed higher, melting the mist completely. The grass shimmered, and the faint scent of mud and sweat filled the air. Jeeny poured two cups of coffee from her flask and handed one to Jack. He took it, still catching his breath.

Jeeny: “You know, I like what he said about training with a coach. It’s not just about physical guidance — it’s trust. Vulnerability. You let someone see you at your weakest, so they can build your strength honestly.”

Jack: “That’s rare. Most people hide their weaknesses like secrets. But that’s the thing — strength only grows in the open.”

Jeeny: “And the ground doesn’t judge. It takes your fall, absorbs your sweat, and still holds you up.”

Jack: “That’s the mercy of earth. It breaks you to rebuild you.”

Jeeny: “And you keep showing up — not for perfection, but for presence.”

Jack: “Exactly. That’s the real discipline — not the workout itself, but the willingness to return.”

Host: The sound of distant traffic began to rise, the world waking up beyond the field. But in this little pocket of morning, time felt slower, sacred.

Jeeny: “You ever think maybe fitness isn’t about what you do, but where you are while doing it?”

Jack: “Meaning?”

Jeeny: “Meaning — the gym’s about repetition. The ground’s about revelation.”

Jack: “That’s good.”
He smiled faintly, his voice quiet but sure. “You can’t fake movement when the earth is watching.”

Jeeny: “And the earth always watches.”

Host: They stood together now, both barefoot on the cool grass, steam curling from their coffee cups. The sun flared fully, cutting the last of the shadows away.

Jack looked down at his footprints in the dirt, dark and distinct — a record of motion, of will, of being.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what fitness really means — not to look strong, but to feel grounded.”

Jeeny: “And to remember that every lift, every step, every breath is a kind of gratitude — for still being here, still moving, still alive.”

Host: The wind shifted again, carrying the scent of soil and sky. The world had awoken — cars moving, birds calling, the noise of existence rising — but the ground beneath them stayed steady.

And as they stood there, side by side, their breath steaming in the golden air, Dinesh Karthik’s words lingered like sunlight on skin:

that true fitness is not forged in mirrors, but in dirt —
not measured in muscles, but in moments of presence.

Because to be on the ground
is to return to the origin —
to learn from the earth that steadiness is strength,
that sweat is prayer,
and that the purest kind of power
is the kind that still knows how to kneel.