However inconsequential this may sound, I am on a ‘diet’…code for being galactically stupid…for the umpteenth time in my life.
The idea originates from a feeling within me that says I look like the ‘before’ part, of a ‘before and after’ advertisement. This is a perennial feeling. So ‘diet’ reigns.
I thrive on diet supplements (yes, I have fallen prey to a blatant advertising gimmick), blanched peanuts (mildly tolerable), apples, (never been the love of my life), broccoli cooked in olive oil (bourgeois and bland), and a boiled potato with a pat of butter (my only high point of the day).
The visible results of this near-impossible gastronomical routine are dark circles, mood swings, irrelevant tiffs with my husband, and fatigue.
However, I am completely adamant on shedding the extra baggage…even if a Qutub leans like a Pisa, even if Pakistan declares that Kasab is from Neptune, even if Ramalinga Raju gets the Padma Shree, even if Rahul Gandhi becomes the Premier…you get the drift and the desperation! No amount of dark circles and mood swings can stop me from aiming to be the ‘after’ part in the advertisement.
This self-inflicted lent against cheese, beer, chicken chettinad, hamburgers, rabdi and other such ambrosia had started to take its toll though, when this week began. The usual Monday-blue bug had bitten me early, and the depression became quite unmanageable after lunch (just an apple). To give my spirits the much-needed lift, I decided to saunter over to the nearest Higginbotham’s bookstore.
To give you a better picture, the store is quiet, with a mildly humming air conditioning system, no music, occasional good-looking corporates (there were a couple on Monday), and mute floor attendants. Sub-zero disturbance. Good place to be.
Now the bad part of any diet (no matter what Rujuta ‘Kareena’ Diwekar says) is that you end up feeing hungry most of the times. The fifteen odd minutes that I was at Higginbotham’s was no different. I was holding a copy of The Namesake, but the pat of butter for dinner was all that was on my mind…hunks notwithstanding.
It is some evil cosmic design though that made the next few minutes at the bookstore possible. The hunks decided to give me some attention (I don’t know why, and I don’t care why). Just then, my ever-hungry stomach rumbled like a pair Dolby speakers. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought that a plane had hit the building. The hunks looked confused. Probably in their chauvinistic scheme of things, it’s uncouth for a lady to let her stomach rumble. The guy at the till flashed a grin…May horrendously difficult things happen to grinning men at cash counters. The worst part of the whole rumbling affair was that it went on for half a minute (sounds incredible, but true) at different pitches. By then the hunks realized the source of the rumble. I heard stifling laughter behind me. All that was left for me to do was to rush out of the store at the earliest…hiding myself in my water-buffalo fat.
The moral of the story is…don’t visit quiet places on a near-empty stomach. 'Diet' reigns though.
The idea originates from a feeling within me that says I look like the ‘before’ part, of a ‘before and after’ advertisement. This is a perennial feeling. So ‘diet’ reigns.
I thrive on diet supplements (yes, I have fallen prey to a blatant advertising gimmick), blanched peanuts (mildly tolerable), apples, (never been the love of my life), broccoli cooked in olive oil (bourgeois and bland), and a boiled potato with a pat of butter (my only high point of the day).
The visible results of this near-impossible gastronomical routine are dark circles, mood swings, irrelevant tiffs with my husband, and fatigue.
However, I am completely adamant on shedding the extra baggage…even if a Qutub leans like a Pisa, even if Pakistan declares that Kasab is from Neptune, even if Ramalinga Raju gets the Padma Shree, even if Rahul Gandhi becomes the Premier…you get the drift and the desperation! No amount of dark circles and mood swings can stop me from aiming to be the ‘after’ part in the advertisement.
This self-inflicted lent against cheese, beer, chicken chettinad, hamburgers, rabdi and other such ambrosia had started to take its toll though, when this week began. The usual Monday-blue bug had bitten me early, and the depression became quite unmanageable after lunch (just an apple). To give my spirits the much-needed lift, I decided to saunter over to the nearest Higginbotham’s bookstore.
To give you a better picture, the store is quiet, with a mildly humming air conditioning system, no music, occasional good-looking corporates (there were a couple on Monday), and mute floor attendants. Sub-zero disturbance. Good place to be.
Now the bad part of any diet (no matter what Rujuta ‘Kareena’ Diwekar says) is that you end up feeing hungry most of the times. The fifteen odd minutes that I was at Higginbotham’s was no different. I was holding a copy of The Namesake, but the pat of butter for dinner was all that was on my mind…hunks notwithstanding.
It is some evil cosmic design though that made the next few minutes at the bookstore possible. The hunks decided to give me some attention (I don’t know why, and I don’t care why). Just then, my ever-hungry stomach rumbled like a pair Dolby speakers. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought that a plane had hit the building. The hunks looked confused. Probably in their chauvinistic scheme of things, it’s uncouth for a lady to let her stomach rumble. The guy at the till flashed a grin…May horrendously difficult things happen to grinning men at cash counters. The worst part of the whole rumbling affair was that it went on for half a minute (sounds incredible, but true) at different pitches. By then the hunks realized the source of the rumble. I heard stifling laughter behind me. All that was left for me to do was to rush out of the store at the earliest…hiding myself in my water-buffalo fat.
The moral of the story is…don’t visit quiet places on a near-empty stomach. 'Diet' reigns though.
