The king's tomb

Ma and I sometimes have long, reflective talks. Ma does most of the talking while I do the reflecting, wondering about her quips and the funny, (un)scientific theories she comes up with all the time. But let me digress and give you a little bit of background first.

I was diagnosed with a lot of unexplained health issues a few years ago. A lot of my readings were already problematic or borderline problematic. I was on medication, and it didn’t seem right at my age. Something my physician told me that I had known all along but not fully acknowledged is-- a lot of these issues would go away if I lost some weight. My health issues were a result of weighing more than what I should for the past 13 years, and the bad effects were finally starting to show.

I wasn’t willing to be on pills for the rest of my life. I needed to do something. I had to fix what I eat. You cannot out-exercise a bad diet, and my bone health was so poor that the only workout I was allowed was an hour-long walk daily. No lifting weights, no squatting, no gymming.

The good thing my Ma did was connect me with a nutritionist. I had seen another nutritionist many years ago, but she was a celebrity nutritionist, charged a lot, and her methods showed zero results. She had tie-ups with companies whose (expensive) products she endorsed, it was hard to get an appointment, and she barely gave me any time. She asked me to eat things I didn’t want to eat, including starting the day with a cream cracker biscuit. I wasn’t going back to her.

However, the nutritionist this time was amazing. She spent hours listening to me and gave me a plan that was sustainable, workable, and based on my lifestyle. She was kind, patient, not only gave me exact measurements of what and how much I should eat, but also explained the science behind it. Her plan was based more on nourishing than deprivation. It included so many things I love to eat, including eggs (with the yolk), mangoes in the summer, and plenty of meat.  

My Ma also got a consultation for herself while we were there. I think she wanted to support me and be my accountability buddy in this journey, losing weight and gaining health together. She even photocopied my diet chart.

That was 2019. Then came 2020. A year was over, and it was time for my follow-up visit. My nutritionist was pleased with my progress. She wanted me to lose not more than one kilogram a month, which is exactly what I did. Everything in moderation, nothing drastic. She gave me a new chart for the following year.

That was the background behind the actual post, which is a reflective conversation Ma and I were having, sitting in a sunny park one wintry afternoon and enjoying oranges.

Ma: “I love how you achieved your target, lost so much of the unwanted weight and fixed your health.”

Me: “Yeah, it was a great journey for me too. I learnt so much about food, health, and the best thing is she didn’t make me do anything drastic, like chug juice or chew on salad all day. No keto, bullet coffee, and other deprivation fads. It’s like I’ve found my relationship with my food again.”

Ma: “Too bad it didn’t work for me. I lost 5 kilograms, gained back 4 during the pandemic, and never moved from there.”

I am really intrigued now, since that was not my experience at all. I religiously followed about 70% of what was told to me and it worked wonders.

Me: “That’s so odd. Why do you think it did not work for you?”

Ma: “Aar bolishna! (don’t ask!). I thought I would get better results if I used my brains too.”

(I think I knew where this was going now. I mean, I just know Ma. I didn’t know what did she do when she talked about using her brains, but I intuitively knew she did something she was not supposed to!).

Me: “So what did you do?”

Ma: “I took her diet chart, punched it with the diet charts of other nutritionists I had seen before, and created my own, customized diet plan. To that, I added some tadka (tempering) of my YouTube knowledge, all that I learnt by watching YouTube videos about losing weight. And I created my own, unique diet plan. But looks like it does not work that way.”

(I really do not know what to say at this point, so I say the only thing I could say).

Me: “And what made you think this would work?”

Ma: “Arrey when I was in school, I loved to study. I would be done studying from the textbook and got bored. So I made my own notes by studying multiple textbooks, adding some information from here and some information from there. Once in my history exam, I even wrote down the dimensions of the king’s tomb. The teacher was really surprised since nowhere in the book, the dimensions of the king’s tomb was mentioned. She was so happy, she appreciated me in front of the entire class.”

Me: “And where did you find the dimensions of the king’s tomb?”

Ma: “I was in the sixth grade and Shanti di (her older cousin) was in the ninth grade. So after I was done studying my textbook, I studied her textbooks too. I found the dimensions there. I got the highest marks in my class that time. But looks like compiling and punching information only works for exams, not for losing weight.”

I must say, ever since, Ma has re-defined my perception of “normal” behavior.  

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The Danger of a Single Story

Somnath bhai is happy to see me after many months. While splitting a green coconut, he asks me multiple times if I no longer live here and why have I stopped visiting him. I have grown so used to the little favors, like how he taps individual coconuts to find the best ones for me, with sweet water and a thin layer of flesh. I am very hungry today. I have had no lunch, and this is all that I am going to get. So I stand there for some time as he splits multiple coconuts, some to drink and some to take home. In between, he tells me that he has spent most of his life in the city. He shares that he is 24 years old and has been married for three years now. I find that a little surprising, since he does not look a day past his teens. I jokingly tell him that but he takes my comment seriously. So he starts browsing his phone to show me pictures of his wife. He shares that his wife is a nurse whose family lives in a nearby city. 

What's your wife's name? I ask him. He smiles sheepishly while showing me her pics but says nothing. I drink some more water while he browses some more. He finds a picture of their wedding card where their names are written. He points to her name. 

Don't you take your wife's name? He nods shyly, telling me that he has never taken her name. It's a sign of love and respect. He is blushing profusely, to my utter surprise. So what do you call her?, I ask. He shares that his niece's name is Aarushi, so he calls his wife Aaroo ki chachi (Aaroo's aunt). He reinstates that till date, he has never called her by her name. 

I remind him that there was a time when he was addicted to playing PUBG on his phone all day. One could steal a few coconuts from his rickshaw and he would not even notice. He nods in agreement and tells me that all that has changed now. He is married and takes his responsibilities seriously. True, I no longer see him on his phone. 

As I walk back reflecting on this dissonance, I am reminded of a beautiful TED Talk about the danger of a single story by the Nigerian writer, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. All these years, I had pictured Somnath bhai's life based on the little I saw. He sold coconuts in a trolley rickshaw all day, come rain and sun. His clothes were sometimes dirty. He is really thin. Once, he had accidentally cut his hand while splitting coconuts and the memory of all the blood he lost has scarred me more than him. 

I once asked him if I could donate some old tee shirts to him and he readily agreed. He had told me that he suffered a huge loss during COVID-19, and once, the local goons and a competitor coconut seller ganged up against him, beat him up, and damaged his earlier rickshaw, so he had to change spots where he did business. I had always imagined him having an impoverished life, a difficult life full of lacking. And that single story biased me and made it so hard for me to believe that he could have a life of plenty too, that he could have a family and people he loved. That he could get really shy talking about his wife and had values that made him not take her name. Perhaps they went to the riverside on the weekends and hung out. Perhaps they ate falooda and paani puri at the chowk on special occasions. There was a possibility of such endless stories and all of them could be true. I looked at his clothes closely. He wore a smart shirt buttoned up all the way. Maybe his clothes being dirty and stained had been a figment of my imagination too based on that single story I had of him in my mind. 

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A Passport Story

My new passport is here. The older one still had some time on it, and three years of COVID-19 meant no traveling, but I ran out of blank pages  because of poor stamping practices. 

The process of applying for a passport in India after twenty years is a story for another day. The way it reached me is another story. A colleague's spouse called me to say that the mailman was standing in front of their door with my passport. I dashed out of the office. Thankfully, he was still standing there after five minutes. 

"So soon?" I asked. I had applied only late last month. 

What soon, madam? This is my fourth attempt at contacting you. One more failed attempt, and your passport would have gone back to Mumbai and you would have to pay a fine to get it. 

Three failed attempts already? How is that possible? Well, this person showed up thrice, and I was in the office all three times. He did not leave a note; did not ask my neighbors or the security; and the passport people neither shared my phone number nor updated the weblink, notifying me that my passport is on its way. 

So how did you find me today? 

Madam, I read your surname and started biking around the campus looking for the same surname in another house, hoping to find your relatives. 

Uncommon sense, much? Instead of doing the next logical thing like asking the neighbors, he takes this convoluted route of looking for more same-last-name people on campus. I did get the call from a same-last-name person, which is a miracle because there are only three same-last-name people on campus (including me). The human mind will never fail to fascinate me. 

Then he adds, madam, aapka passport jaldi aa gaya tha. Shayad koi criminal record nahi tha. Ma'am, your passport came in quickly. Seems like you did not have a criminal record. 

Am I relieved or am I relieved? I take out a crispy bill and hand it to him. He refuses at first, but takes it and thanks me. I would have to spend much more in fines if my passport went back after the fifth failed attempt. And all this while, I had no idea about what was going on. It tells me that you can work hard all you want, put in all the effort for something, and you must. But looks like getting something involves much more than hard work. It involves a lot of randomness, sheer luck, and some odd logic of finding a kin with a common last name. The person gave me his name and phone number, in case another important document arrives again. Thankfully, I have ordered a 60 pager this time and hope not needing another one anytime soon.  

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Thappad in Philly

On the first day of the conference in Philadelphia, I saw my student lugging around two heavy suitcases. Curious, I tried lifting one, quickly regretting the possibility of a hernia. What are you carrying?-- I ask out of curiosity. He grins and says, ready-to-eat food/snacks. The voice in my head goes, "What a desi you are! Carrying your food all the way to Amrika!" As if reading my mind, he proudly says, "Professor, I am Gujarati. Even if Philadelphia runs out of food, I can survive for the next two weeks. And you can too!"

I pretended to ignore his generous offer. A few times after that, he asked me if I wanted upma or poha or bhakri or anything else. My snooty nose quickly declined. I was having sushi three meals a day, hoping that my sushi honeymoon would last forever. No, I did not want dhokla or papad. 

Papad, I didn't get, but I got a thappad (slap) from God quick enough. I woke up with a terrible headache one morning and could not immediately go outside to find food. My student rose up to the occasion and beamed confidently, do you want ginger or cardamom in your tea? Now I am not a morning tea drinker and I had no tea with me. I don't know if he was hallucinating. Who will get me ginger tea in the land of coffee?

In five minutes, he made me a cup of strong ginger tea and filled a plate with bhakri and other snacks. And like a hungry wolf, I gulped down my pride and all the food that came right off his suitcase, the one I had made fun of, including the ginger tea. It felt so good. My headache was gone in no time. I had only known him as a student so far, but now, I learnt what an industrious person he was too. He was visiting the US for the first time and as a vegetarian, he did not know what options he would have. Plus he is a student with not a lot of money, and has been very careful about what he eats for the last three years (he lost about 15 kilos and reversed all his health conditions). I know that he does not need my recommendation letter, he already has a job long before he finishes the PhD. But if he ever asks for one, I'd write him the strongest letter. Not too sure if he would write me a strong letter though.  

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