Breaking the past

Eating is one of the pleasures of life, even though cooking rates higher on the satisfaction scale. And over the past week, I did too much of the ‘eating-out’ thing or, at least, the eating-food-not-from-my-own-kitchen thing. Which made my stomach finally curl up and beg to be spared further torture. When I stopped my usual work-week frenzy to listen to what it – and Father, friends and weighing scale – had to say, I agreed wholeheartedly that the way I ate was not very good for me and, consequently, mine, since it tended to keep me rushing from dining table to loo at the most awkward moments and caused me to erupt with the most unladylike sounds just when I was trying to be well-bred and polite. As a result, I am resolved to stay far away from restaurants, fast food delivery outlets and friends who speak with fork in hand and persuasive tongue. For now, my lunch will be brought in by me and eaten at the right time with the right state of mind as a suitable accompaniment.

It is not that I do not enjoy the biryani, the grilled sandwiches, the kathi rolls, the kulfi, the khir-kodom and the French fries that have been an over-frequent presence on my desk through the afternoon. It is not that I have consumed vast quantities of any of these, or mixed them into a dreadful collation of calories that decimated whatever shape I take pride in owning. It is not even that any of it – or all of it, really – has affected my internal workings for more than a few hours, if it did at all. It is just that my nutritional conscience has been making its assorted noises and telling me that I have been a very bad girl and need to shape up – ha, ha, I didn’t need to be told that one – or ship out to a health farm or a military-style gym. And to detox my insides, asap.

So from going astray with a self-indulgent lifestyle of nibbling arbitrarily at bits and bobs that floated past and being easily influenced by calorie-unconscious friends who smile enchantingly and order food that is spelled s-i-in, I am now back to my rather austere diet of fruit and yoghurt, with an occasional dash of leftovers from home thrown in. My ankles are slowly deflating from their salt-swollen state, my mind is clearer since the time it was delightfully fogged by heavy sugar-dosage desserts and I am able to walk past the coffee machine every afternoon without needing to inhale a cupful of the swill it dispenses in order to keep awake long enough to write a semi-intelligent edit on the shortage of fish in coastal waters, the gender divide or why to pay attention to not paying attention.

But not everyone is like me. My friend, the one with forked tongue – well, sort of, since she wields a fork with alacrity and talks me into more food than I need to handle – finds me odd, since she believes that food should be eaten heartily and enjoyed thoroughly. Father occasionally fires a lecture in my direction, the one that speaks of nutrition and work levels and evenings that are all about being grouchy and over-tired. And my colleagues look at the ‘picnic’ set out on my desk and make disparaging remarks about apples, yoghurt and small containers of high-fibre foodstuffs. All this, as I happily chew my healthy way through my dainty lunch, relish every bite and then rattle through my work on my way out to a life that is all about more than just a job.

I like what I eat. And I like that I can eat it, without getting bored or light-headed. So for all those who eat too much Chinese food or sandwiches and chips or oil-laden Mughlai too often during the week, I am a happy camper with a happy tummy. And at the end of that occasional splurge meal, at least my jeans don’t need to be unbuttoned!