It alarmed me when it first appeared on the scene, seemingly out of nowhere. I'd always felt that my thin frame was a natural immunization to it- a combination of the two would be such an ugly sight that God would take offence at such a product of his own device. But there it had surreptitiously arrived, always right in front of my eyes, taunting me amoebically every moment I looked down or at the mirror. I was doomed.
But that's a lie, actually. That was my second reaction to it. My initial reaction to it was actually a feeling of snug accomplishment. After all, as a kid, I'd always envied those who proudly flaunted it- the gilt-covered Punjabi businessman (and his wife!) who lived across the street, the perenially-juice drinking Gujarati stockbroker/estate agent/jeweller and closer to home, my father- they all seemed so comfortable with it, displaying that elusive, fine balance of ease and care as they proudly carried it everywhere they went. I ventured to ask my mother as to how I could get one, and she laughed it off- apparently it was correlated with happiness and wealth, and hence I should work hard at school so that I could be rich later and get one. Mothers should be held accountable for the responses that they sometimes provide to their kids.
So, all these years later, I'd finally got one. It meant I was happy and contented, so I happily stomached all the abuse. "You aren't even married!" announced one friend, "When is the delivery?" wisecracked another. "Call up your courier firm!" I desperately riposted, but even I wasn't finding it funny after a while, what with the evidence showing up in every frontal (sorry) photograph of mine, every holiday at the beach and every sight of me in a tight tee. It became an issue of national importance for Mehtasia. Her borders had to be reined in.
Worry soon had grown into paranoia. I shunned beer altogether, and dived headlong into whisky. I banned the basmati and gave exclusive curry accompaniment rights to the naan. I was caught attempting to fry onions with no oil on the frying pan. But no avail. Whatever I did, it was always ahead of me (yeah!).
Then the girl mentioned exercise. I balked and gulped, but soon caved in, especially after she threatened to get one herself (physical promixity was already being annoyingly impeded by one, imagine two!). And thus, the drunken evenings discussing the rumour mills were converted into gym sessions on the treadmill. And Saturday a.m hangovers were replaced by basketball court stopovers. And voila! I was soon tending back to shape.
But every cure has its own side-effect, and in this case it was my overall weight which turned out to be the unfortunate victim. And then I realized the sinister workings of my body's capitalist economy. When I gain weight, it all runs straight to the flab sink called the stomach- when I lose weight however, it is my cheeks that suffer a liquidity crisis!
But what the hell, I haven't given up running- the punchy paunch will be conquered. :)
P.s: Hello all you esteemed readers, could I please request you to comment on my blog, if you manage to wade through the proceedings? A comment is for the blogger what applause means to the stage performer- you might not necessarily like the performance, and you don't HAVE to clap, but it is that moment of deafening that she lives for, so you do it out of respect. And it's nice to know who's been here, because sitemeters don't give any useful information. You don't need to say anything, mabe just a frank rating on 10 would do? Gracias!
But that's a lie, actually. That was my second reaction to it. My initial reaction to it was actually a feeling of snug accomplishment. After all, as a kid, I'd always envied those who proudly flaunted it- the gilt-covered Punjabi businessman (and his wife!) who lived across the street, the perenially-juice drinking Gujarati stockbroker/estate agent/jeweller and closer to home, my father- they all seemed so comfortable with it, displaying that elusive, fine balance of ease and care as they proudly carried it everywhere they went. I ventured to ask my mother as to how I could get one, and she laughed it off- apparently it was correlated with happiness and wealth, and hence I should work hard at school so that I could be rich later and get one. Mothers should be held accountable for the responses that they sometimes provide to their kids.
So, all these years later, I'd finally got one. It meant I was happy and contented, so I happily stomached all the abuse. "You aren't even married!" announced one friend, "When is the delivery?" wisecracked another. "Call up your courier firm!" I desperately riposted, but even I wasn't finding it funny after a while, what with the evidence showing up in every frontal (sorry) photograph of mine, every holiday at the beach and every sight of me in a tight tee. It became an issue of national importance for Mehtasia. Her borders had to be reined in.
Worry soon had grown into paranoia. I shunned beer altogether, and dived headlong into whisky. I banned the basmati and gave exclusive curry accompaniment rights to the naan. I was caught attempting to fry onions with no oil on the frying pan. But no avail. Whatever I did, it was always ahead of me (yeah!).
Then the girl mentioned exercise. I balked and gulped, but soon caved in, especially after she threatened to get one herself (physical promixity was already being annoyingly impeded by one, imagine two!). And thus, the drunken evenings discussing the rumour mills were converted into gym sessions on the treadmill. And Saturday a.m hangovers were replaced by basketball court stopovers. And voila! I was soon tending back to shape.
But every cure has its own side-effect, and in this case it was my overall weight which turned out to be the unfortunate victim. And then I realized the sinister workings of my body's capitalist economy. When I gain weight, it all runs straight to the flab sink called the stomach- when I lose weight however, it is my cheeks that suffer a liquidity crisis!
But what the hell, I haven't given up running- the punchy paunch will be conquered. :)
P.s: Hello all you esteemed readers, could I please request you to comment on my blog, if you manage to wade through the proceedings? A comment is for the blogger what applause means to the stage performer- you might not necessarily like the performance, and you don't HAVE to clap, but it is that moment of deafening that she lives for, so you do it out of respect. And it's nice to know who's been here, because sitemeters don't give any useful information. You don't need to say anything, mabe just a frank rating on 10 would do? Gracias!
