I had not imagined, as I stepped through the doors of the gym that morning, that the day would offer me a lesson far deeper than any abdominal exercise my coach had planned. I had resolved—after much hesitation—to begin a serious programme under his guidance. My body needed a jolt of life, and my spirit, burdened by long hours spent between books and desks, was calling for renewal. So there I stood, facing the coach as if about to sign a pact with myself.
The Beginning with the Coach: A Gentle Pain that Felt Like Awakening
He greeted me with a restrained smile and a tone marked by discipline. He was not one for unnecessary flattery, which, oddly enough, was precisely what endeared him to me.
"What is your primary goal?" he asked, glancing over the training file.
Without a moment's pause, I replied,"To strengthen my abdominal muscles… and revive the soul."
He let out a light chuckle."The second is far more difficult than the first. But we shall attempt it."
We began the session—leg raises, planks, crunches, and a host of other movements that forced me to rethink the meaning of endurance. The first minutes passed smoothly, but once the trembling began in my midsection, I realised just how monumental the task was. Still, the pain carried with it a strange sense of order, as if something within me was being realigned. The coach corrected my posture, pushed me to complete each set, and never permitted surrender.
By the end of the hour, I emerged from the gym with beads of sweat marking a small victory. The cold air outside struck my face like the turning of a fresh page.
I expected nothing more than quiet. Yet fate had arranged a meeting that would reveal far more than I anticipated.
An Unexpected Encounter with the "Roman Language" Teacher
Not far from the bus stop, I spotted him—the teacher of the so-called "Roman language." I had met him on several cultural occasions. He had always struck me as a refined, courteous man. His words were measured, his smile ever-present, and his demeanour reminiscent of the well-mannered scholars of calmer eras.
He greeted me warmly."It has been some time, Doctor!"
"I've been occupied," I replied. "Today I returned to training."
We waited together for the bus on Broad Street, one of Birmingham's liveliest arteries. The city was moving in its usual rhythm—half-muted crowds, hurried footsteps, and the ever-present hum of urban life. Nothing in that moment hinted that this meeting would expose a far less pleasant side of the man I thought I understood.
The bus arrived—Number 9—and we boarded. He took the window seat, and I sat beside him. The glass was misted with the remnants of a light rain, and the seats were still slightly damp. As the bus made its way through the city's glowing streets, our conversation began harmlessly enough.
But when my brother's name surfaced, everything shifted.
The Moment the Hatred Revealed Itself
I had once mentioned my brother's move to the East. At the time, it seemed an ordinary detail. I had no idea how deeply it resided in this man's mind.
He asked quietly,"Your brother… he is still in the East?"
"Yes," I replied. "And he's doing well."
He looked outside, jaw tightening ever so slightly."Curious," he muttered. "Some people seem to have doors opened for them without the slightest effort."
It was an odd remark. I chose to ignore it.
But he did not.
He launched into an unexpected tirade about luck, about people who receive opportunities they do not deserve. His tone shifted—a simmering bitterness that had clearly been waiting for the smallest spark.
He spoke as if the world were a stage on which others were undeservedly triumphant.
I remained quiet, studying him. This was not the courteous man of cultural evenings. This was someone else—someone who had long harboured envy and had merely concealed it behind polite conversation.
I attempted to ease the tension:"Everyone finds their path in time. What matters is effort."
He laughed a dry, elegant-like but sharp laugh."Effort? Do not amuse me. Some of you succeed because you know how to flatter."
It was directed at me—plainly, pointedly.
The mask had fallen.
Birmingham Passing by the Window
As the bus made its way past shops, old brick buildings, and crowds escaping the drizzle, I realised that I was sitting beside a stranger. The city lights flickered across his distorted expression, highlighting a man who resented not only my brother's journey but the very idea that someone close to him could thrive elsewhere.
He spoke again, venomous and low:"Your brother will not last there. You will see. Success does not come so easily."
His tone was not predictive—it was wishful.
I replied with calm grace,"The future is in God's hands. We do what we can."
He frowned, unsatisfied. Then silence overtook him—heavy, cold, and unmistakably revealing.
Stepping Off the Bus: A Quiet Understanding
When the bus approached my stop, I stood and said,"It was pleasant speaking with you. Until next time."
He did not meet my eyes."Yes… all the best," he murmured.
I stepped off the bus into the brisk evening air. The doors closed, and the bus continued on its path, leaving behind more than just a brief encounter. It left behind an illusion.
I realised, as I walked home, that the man I had believed to be kind was merely well-spoken. Politeness, after all, is not always kindness. And smiles are often nothing more than masks.
The Real Lesson of the Day
As I reached my doorstep, the fatigue from the abdominal exercises returned to my mind—but it no longer seemed significant. The emotional lesson far outweighed the physical strain.
In the gym, I had trained my body.
On the bus, I had trained my awareness.
Some people test your strength; others test your peace.And sometimes, the revelation of a man's true nature comes in the most ordinary of settings—on a bus, under dim lights, between droplets of rain.
That day, I learnt that not every courteous word is sincere, not every cordial smile is genuine, and not every quiet person carries goodness within.
The true training, I discovered, begins where illusions end.