But then, nobody thought that Veerappan would abduct Rajakumar. Or that contingents of Andhra police deployed to Bangalore would bunk and eat in the empty sheds below my gym.

In fact, the only connection between Santosh's popular Figurine Fitness Centre and Rajakumar was that two of the matinee idol's sons, Raghavendra and Puneet, were members. Raghavendra has dropped out now, and contents himself with walking very fast around Sadashivanagar, where he lives.

But Puneet, better known to his exercise-conscious friends as Appu, is a regular. He works out religiously every evening, right beside yours truly.

It speaks volumes about the emotional distress the Rajakumar family is undergoing that they should have stopped all forms of exercise, barring the occasional hour of yoga. We half-expected to see Appu back a week after his father's abduction. Then we realised that the entire family was busy fielding visitors, meeting political leaders and top police brass, and pacifying distressed fans to find time for exercise.

Besides, Appu had to hold fort in Bangalore while his older brothers rushed between Madras and Bangalore.

But more about the policemen. There are at least three of us journalists who work out with Santosh. We are all perfectly used to talking to them frequently. But not dressed in leotards or clingy tights.

So we take pains to conceal our identity, and manage to merge successfully with what a lady scientist and fellow workoutaholic aptly described as a "cell phone-toting, Cielo-driving" group of wealthy fitness addicts.

The price we pay for this is to face a barrage of wolf whistles and lewd remarks from hungry cops waiting for their chapatis and meat stew. Sometimes, the few women police personnel around walk upstairs behind us, and lounge against the walls, either trying to pick up a few good exercise routines, or simply eyeing the hunks and future-hunks around.

"Santosh, how do you expect us to breathe deeply and jump high when the gym reeks of cooking smells?" I groaned.

To which my trainer replied righteously, "Consider it your small contribution to the huge effort to get our dear Rajakumar back..."

I drive past Rajakumar's house several times a day, sometimes stopping if my editor's requirements demanded it. I have noticed a small but steady growth in the number of street hawkers and tea gaadis on the roads surrounding the house. Were it not for the two -- and sometimes three -- truckloads of policemen parked outside the house, I am sure that there would have been far more of those by now.

Like the time last year, when over 100 jeeps suddenly materialised from nowhere and were parked within one kilometre of Ramakrishna Hegde's house. This was during the assembly election campaign. Hegde had apparently commissioned the vehicles to take men and materials all over Karnataka. Many of the jeeps bore Kerala license plates.

Then, the roads where the jeeps parked became a veritable haven for street vendors. You could get everything from roasted corn and sugarcane sticks to bhel puri and steaming glasses of tea.

Now, there are transient crowds outside Rajakumar's house all the time, whiling away an idle hour or two speculating on the identity of the important-looking people who emerge from the vehicles that draw up at the closed gates.

"Annavru has come. I spotted him in that big white car," yells an excited schoolgirl as a huge car with government license plates slows down.

Her mother quickly clamps a hand over her mouth. A complacent-looking politician emerges from the car, smoothes a suitably despairing expression over his face and walks with bowed shoulders into the Rajakumar compound.

Expectedly, Rajakumar's family and friends show signs of the grief and turmoil they are enduring. All his three sons, film star Shivaraj, Raghavendra and Puneet, sport unshaven jowls, obviously having vowed not to shave until their father returns. Family friends reveal that the brothers will fulfil vows and do pujas at Tirumala, Mantralaya and the other pilgrimage centres that they patronise as soon as Veerappan releases Rajakumar.

Street vendors who make quick forays into the roads surrounding the house before they are chased away by the bored policemen seem to be doing roaring business. So are the others who sell Rajakumar memorabilia in places like the busy commercial hub of Majestic in Bangalore.

They have extensive stocks of Rajakumar posters, the red-and-yellow flags of Karnataka popularised by the Chaluvali movement many years ago with Rajakumar's face in the middle instead of a state map, and even caps with Rajakumar's face on them. In the first 10 days they minted money; the business has slowed down now.

In direct contrast is the Kannada film industry, which professes to be enduring a loss of Rs 50 million every day. Will it ever recover from this extended period of inactivity?

The films ready for release may benefit and do far better than expected in the first and second weeks of box office collections, drawing in the movie-starved crowds of Karnataka -- all theatres have stopped shows for the last three weeks. But those under production will have a tough time reorganising schedules, actors' dates and location bookings.

Will Rajakumar's own image as the all-conquering and powerful living god of Karnataka ever recover from this episode? Or will images of the legend pleading Veerappan's case in Tamil on television linger in the memories of Kannadigas?

"I fully expected him to emerge from the jungles within a week, leading Veerappan by hand, having fully reformed him," says young Kannada actress Hema, ensconced comfortably in Rajakumar's living room, paying a courtesy call.

"Her admiration of Annavru is touching, but her immaturity shows," said a hovering family friend, with an apologetic smile. "Annavru is a great man, no doubt, but he himself has repeatedly reminded us that he is very human, and not god."

The way things are going, it looks as if only god can secure Rajakumar release and remove the cops from Santosh's gym building...

Come hell, high water or visiting cops, M D Riti will not miss her workouts.

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