That deadly concoction of motherly love!

One of the big, big things about living in desh (country) is that I am only one short, direct-flight away from baadi (home). Given the law of averages, this had to happen after 12 years of hopping trans-continental flights for 36 hours and going through multiple immigration and security checks. I have visited home about ten times in less than a year now, and every time, I come back with bags full of cooked food that lasts me a few weeks. If you ever want to know what you could and should not bring in an airplane, ask me! But more on that later.

This time, I came back from a crazy mom slaving in the kitchen for days to cook up a feast-to-go and running after me to take it all. My Aviation-IQ went up after a comically dark stint with the mango, and if there is one piece of advice I could give, it is to NEVER take aam pora’r shorbot concentrate (raw mango concentrate) in an airplane.

Amid a crazy morning after momma and grandma painstakingly packed me food for an army, she looked at me with puppy-eyes to take that raw mango concentrate that I was resisting, the one she had prepared with a lot of love and spices (pepper powder, mint, and a gazillion other things). I was arguing that I will not carry anything in a yellow water bottle with something she made to shield me from the 45 degree Celsius weather and prevent me from getting heat strokes. I have extremely low karma ratings as far as being a nice child is concerned, so I finally gave up.

I don’t know all the chemistry that went into whatever happened, but that bottle passed airport security miraculously. That same bottle would have led to a 3-hour long interrogation in a dark room in the US, leading up to them labeling me a budding terrorist and denying me entry for the rest of my life. But I digress here.

I boarded the plane and settled in with a rather steamy novel that I was going to read in the next few hours. As I was stuffing my backpack in the overhead bin, something prompted me to take that bottle out, lest it leaks. I imagined everything that could go wrong, and the worst circumstance that came to my rather unimaginative mind was a loose lid and spillage. I placed that bottle in between my feet while the airplane took off.

I knew there was a pop-sound as soon as we were airborne, but I thought it was someone goofing around and recklessly popping open a can of soda. Looking back at life in slow motion, most things often make perfect sense. Within the next 5 minutes, just when Jack was about to kiss Stella after 2 months of abstinence following a one-night stand, there was a louder pop-sound. This time, I looked below, and to my horror, the bottle had popped open with enough pressure to spit raw mango pulp all over my white clothes. An onlooker would have wondered how scared I was of flying that I could shit all over myself publicly in the middle of the day, the one of the semi-liquid kind, with telltale signs of the yellow spillage all over me.

I rushed to the restroom, the bottle in hand. It broke my heart to throw it in the trashcan, but I could not have salvaged it. I spent the next 20 minutes wiping the yellow goo off my clothes and sat through the rest of the plane ride shivering from wearing wet clothes as well as getting dirty, judgmental looks from the passengers. The swag with which I had entered the aircraft was all gone. I sat nervously like a mouse for the rest of the ride, praying that I do not hear another loud pop-sound from the restroom with some poor soul inside freaking out with their pants half-on and the pilot rerouting the airplane because there was yellow goo all over the ceiling.

Looking back, I can see why it was a bad idea to bring something that releases gas in a pressurized cabin. Mom does not fly, but I do. The rest of me and my food made it safe, and in case you are dying to know, it had chicken curry with posto, jhinge posto, potol posto, uchche bhaja, lau er torkari, lichu, jamrul, ruti, half-a-dozen gondhoraaj lebu, and even the bhaja jeere moshla for the mango drink. All this because I have a crazy mom who gets powered up listening to stories of people carrying things like ghee made out of barir gorur doodh (unadulterated milk from a cow someone keeps in their home), kilos of maach bhaja, and dhoka’r dalna, and tries to outshine them!

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A fin(garlic)king tale of crazy things I’d do for good food

Over the years, I've taken many things back home. Fancy chocolates. Interesting kitchen gadgets.

This time, I took home two pounds of unpeeled garlic! Yes, you heard me right.

My visits to Kolkata mean lots of good, rich food. I sometimes eat two breakfasts or two lunches on the same day. And all that food means my grandma chipping her nails while peeling a lot of garlic. If you have seen the almost two-dimensional, stick-thin garlic pods in India, you'd know how hard peeling garlic is. On the other hand, the garlic pods in the US are fatter than almonds and walnuts. The best thing I could bring home was garlic (my idea, completely).

Naturally, people at the US airport were not happy, although they should not care, since I was leaving, not entering the country. They eyed the garlic with a lot of suspicion. They ran it through scanners, tested with litmus lookalike papers. They might have wanted to ask me to chew some of them too. In their long experience of all the weird things they have seen people transport, the humble, innocuous garlic had never made the list. They did not ask me anything directly, but were holding up the line and had mobilized a tiny army of people to figure out what the hell was all this garlic doing here?

“I am attending the holy garlic festival in India this year. Have you heard about it?”

I got skeptical looks.

“You should look it up. Very pious festival. They ward off evil spirits.” As I said this, I held out my hands in front of my eyes to do a nomoshkaar.

And so, they let me go without any more questions, and off I flew thousands of miles with all the garlic.

The amount of good food I got to eat increased manifold as a result, and it might not be entirely my imagination. It did turn out to be a holy garlic festival in India after all. My own, holy garlic food festival at home.

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Fruits of labor

Imagine a life where the only responsibility you have, even if for a few weeks, is to buy seasonal fruits from the market while returning home. This started when I got my first job in 2005. Although earning, I was not expected to contribute anything at home. So I started buying fruits on my way back, as much as I desired for the entire family (although I always ate the lion's share). Kalojaam (blackberry), jaamrul (Java apple), lichu, safeda, you name it. I would happily come home, two large bags of fruits in hand. With my meager salary, I had never felt richer.

The trend continues. No matter whether I am in a bus or taxi, I always get off at the local market to buy fruits while returning home. I get on my haunches and hand-pick fruits. This time, I spotted a particular woman seller in between a bunch of men. Being appreciative of this, I started chatting up with her.

"Kalojaam koto kore?" How much? I asked.

"Ten rupees for 100 grams." she said.

Fruit sellers always quote prices for 100 grams here possibly because it tricks the buyer into believing that they do not have to spend much. Kaalojaam, or black berries are a close favorite after mangoes and litchis, and I have never found these in the US/Germany. So when I ask for 2 kilos, her jaws drop, and she gives me a 10% discount. I never haggle for prices, something that Ma and I always keep arguing about. Ma's point is, sellers always inflate the prices because people are going to haggle. My point is, if the price sounds reasonable enough (most things do now, since my euros give me even more buying power), I do not want to haggle with a poor man who is sitting in the sun and trying hard to make a living. If one does not haggle at Pantaloons and Westside, why haggle with fruit sellers? Those 10 rupees I save is not worth the kicks one gets.

So I continue to buy fruits from her whenever I go out, and we chat up. Now, she starts to watch out for me as well. One day, she gave me good quality plastic bags for things I had bought from another place because I was not carrying a grocery bag. The other day, she gave me a handful of kalojaams for free to chew on as we continued to chat. Every time I put a few in my mouth, she would choose a few good ones and place them in my hand. Who would have imagined making a new friend at the local market over buying kalojaams?

She was thrilled when I asked her name. She was even more thrilled and blushed profusely when I asked if I could take a picture of her. So she posed nicely and gave me her best smile.

Grandma and I have forgotten to eat other things, and have been happily overdosing on kalojaams ever since, our teeth and tongues perennially violet in color now. 

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Essen?

For many years in my workplace, I have always eaten my lunch alone, and so did the others sitting in the same room. It's like everyone putting headphones and listening to their own music, in isolation. When deadlines loomed, "eating" as a verb was substituted by other action verbs. "Grabbed" a bite."Downed" some juice. Gobbled and guzzled. Nibbled and munched. Alone. Staring at the computer screen, using one hand to run data analyses or write emails, or reading news when both hands were needed.

Not in Germany. Every day at noon, the entire department gathers in the hallway. Someone starts knocking on all the doors in the corridor, reminding people it is time for lunch. Then we walk together, a crowd of 10-15 people. Not to another room, no. We step out in the sun, and walk a bus stop to the mensa (cafeteria). There, thousands of students, staff, professors, and sometimes their family gather to eat lunch. There is usually a very good selection of everything- vegetables and meat and fish and salads, at subsidized prices. We choose our food, we pay, and we sit together at a large table. We eat. We talk. We laugh. We share stories. We learn. And we eat. Not gulping mouthfuls between checking Whatsapp messages or browsing Facebook on smart phones. When you have a large group to talk to, you do not need technology to keep you company. I am often notorious for eating the slowest. So while everyone is done and I am still finishing the last few bites, everyone waits for me to finish up. No one leaves without me. 

Then, we go back to the office together, but not right back to work. Not yet. We go back to the conference room. One of us is responsible every week to brew the coffee and boil water for tea. All of us sit and drink tea or coffee. Someone is on weekly duty to provide the cookies and crackers. Even people who do not drink tea or coffee sit for a while with the group. At this time, whoever needs to get back to work is welcome to do so. Some people linger and talk ideas. Others go back.

Here, I look forward to sharing my meal every day. Since we all need to eat, why not do it together? It makes me realize the importance of stepping back, taking a break, and interacting as a group. Food is not meant to be had in isolation, a hurried affair in between finishing deadlines. This 1-1.5 hour long break everyday is not a waste of work time. It is included within the work time, to make sure people talk, communicate, share, wait for one another, and do not forget their social skills. By the way, "essen" is the German word for eating.

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Po(o)p culture

Looks like it's not just moms who obsess about baby poop. 

All I did was ask if everything was alright, since I heard concerned voices on the phone. Although I am so glad I do not understand German.

"What is the big thing you do?", she asked, trying to explain.

"Research?", I asked proudly.

"No, big thing in the morning."

"Umm... potty?"

"Yaaa, potty!"

So looks like kitty isn't shitting right. The potty looks somewhat like, "Kuchen. Cake. Kind of flaky."

The potty sample went to the vet, who called to say that everything looked fine. But kitty started throwing up too. She suspected that the breakfast "grain" might be causing all this. So now, she is trying a different "grain" every day, collecting the potty, and describing it to the vet.

I mean, I didn't even ask for details. Friday nights, when people are busy attending kitty parties, I am writing about kitty potty. And looks like I will not be able to bring myself to eat cake for a long time now.

Bhashkor Banerjee, I can feel your spirit hovering around me!

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My Thanksgiving Speech

I am nicely perched on the sofa, Seattle sunlight streaming through the doors as I am writing a research paper. G is finishing making lunch, occasionally humming a Carnatic note. The children are in school, there is no one to jump on my laptop. The ginger tea in the morning was so good. I just decide to feel thankful for everything in life. Aloud.

"You know," I tell her. "Life has never been better. It feels like an ideal retired life. I am in Seattle. I wake up and start working while you make tea. I say goodbye to the children as they go to school. I work some more, talk to friends, and go out to meet them while they regale me with their stories. Even the food you cook is so good. The mor kolombu (buttermilk gravy) our friend brought us was so good. This is how I would love my retired life to be. I feel so thankful."

"Okay okay, come have lunch now!" she said in a hurry.

And I kept my laptop on the floor, walked up to the kitchen counter, and opened the rice cooker. A gust of hot vapor fogged my glasses. Waiting for me was a hot meal of tasteless quinoa. 

I am a foodie-Bengali, you see. I don't do this quinoa business. 

What an anti-climactic, non-foodgasmic end to my retirement and thankfulness plans it was!

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Food hunting and gathering skills

Skills practiced since childhood never go waste. I have developed some weird sleeping habit of late that has been too chronic to blame on jet lag. I doze off by 9 pm every day, as soon as G’s kids are off to sleep. As a result, I wake up by 4 am, starving and my stomach growling angrily. So I am really proud of the way I have honed my primal food hunting and food gathering instincts. The fridge is on the first floor while I sleep on the second floor, mathematically at the longest distance from the fridge. I almost feel like Catherine Zeta Jones in Entrapment while doing these stunts every day. 

1. See and walk in the dark, with only the blue little light of the thermostat mounted on the wall guiding me.

2. Tiptoe silently down the creaky wooden stairs and the wooden floors, so as not to wake up the adult humans and the tiny humans.

3. Stay away from the activated alarms, and from accidentally turning on any light, or initiating any 9-1-1-kind of disaster.

4. Not step or trip on squeaky toys on the floor.

5. Scan food quickly for stuff like dahi vada, gajar halwa, idli, and fruit cake, carefully avoiding the salads and the vegetables, and avoiding spilling, breaking, and disasters of such kinds.

6. Eat quickly, and in the dark. Also, wash my hands, opening the tap minimally to avoid any sound of water flowing.

7. Not get startled by the sounds in this home. Dish washers, the house heating furnace, and mostly, snoring human beings in the house. 

8. Tiptoe back to my room quietly, carefully avoiding the squeaky bed, or bumping into any sleeping human or humanoid.

9. Perform the entire stunt of hunting, food gathering, eating, and finding my way back in less than five minutes.

10. Not re-enter the wrong room in the dark by mistake.

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‘Coz plane food is plain food

Every now and then, I realize how much I do stuff just the way the elders in my family did, without consciously thinking about it. While taking the train and traveling overnight, I always saw Ma or grandma cook and pack dinner- luchi, porota, dry potato curry, dimer jhaal. While the men in the family packed and cleaned the home before leaving, the women cooked and took charge of the kitchen. I am both the man and the woman in my home, on a 27 hour long commute. Since they will serve food in only one of the three legs, and airport food is not up to my liking, I decided to bring my own food. I'm also on a "x number of days" mission of not eating outside. It started as "will eat one meal a week outside home", but it's been 4 weeks now, and I haven't been to a single restaurant. Like the cell phone thingy, it's one of those things of pushing myself to do something differently. 

It goes without saying that I am a foodie, and take great pride in cooking. Sure, I cannot cook fancy stuff like murir ghonto and rui maacher kalia, but I can cook all the basic stuff. So I ended up making egg fried rice. It was originally supposed to be chicken-prawn fried rice, but I ran out of chicken, and didn't want the immigration guys to smell something fishy (pun unintended). 

Now I had a full day at work, and if that is not enough, I even had to shift offices in the morning. Where was the time to cook and clean? So the night before, I painstakingly chopped all the veggies, the onions, bell peppers, spring onions, carrots, garlic until 1 am and refrigerated it. Came back from work, fried the eggs, added everything, added the chili-garlic sauce dad got me from Kolkata, and what turned out was an amazing fried rice. I started eating stuff right from the wok, and had to control myself from not finishing up something that was meant to be my food for a 27-hour long commute. 

Both my Ma and grandma, who have never eaten anything I have cooked, would have wept out of happiness. 

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Morning Walks

Morning walks are excellent for health. I can give you even better data than scientists do.

Sunday morning, 8 am. I wake up to get a message from my neighbor, asking to go for a morning walk. I don't enjoy morning walks as much, simply because they need to be done in the mornings. It takes me a while to get my batteries started, and a walk meant prepping myself by wearing multiple layers of warm clothing. I love spending the weekends just lying lazily without the compulsion of having to be anywhere or do anything. 

Anyway, I could give you all these excuses, but I was ridden with guilt when my neighbor was giving me a healthier option in life, and all I was thinking about was sinking into my bed and finishing off the Korean movie from last night. Reluctantly, I got up, downed a glass of milk, grabbed a fruit, put on warm clothes (thermals, woolen socks, gloves, cap, scarf, down jacket, etc.), and started our walk, looking more like an Eskimo/polar bear on a mission, while other runners breezed past us, showing off their lithe, beautifully sculpted bodies. 

20 minutes into our walk, it started pouring heavily, and none of us had an umbrella. We were right in front of the international guest house. I've never been inside, although I have walked by it several times and always wondered what it looked like from inside. As if reading my thoughts, someone opened the door for us, a stranger I have never met before. Not wanting to freeze outside, we stepped in. There was an undeniable smell of Indian cooking wafting in the air. So we simply followed our noses, to end up in a common kitchen, where two women were making aloo paranthas, fresh from the oven. One of them was the one who had opened the door for us a few minutes ago.

The next few minutes of what happened is not so clear to me. Everyone thought that we were the other person's friend, whereas we knew no one there. Soon, a table for six was laid, and we were invited to stay for breakfast, probably because each one thought that the other one knew us. What started off as a morning walk ended as a noon walk, where we walked back home after noon, happy and sated, after gulping many aloo paranthas, cilantro and mint chutney, pickles, and ginger chai, befriending everyone who had invited us, and exchanging promises of organizing a similar "morning walk" session soon.

Morning walks are highly recommended henceforth. Imagine going for one, bumping into a bunch of strangers, barging into their kitchen, eating their food, chatting up for hours, and coming home after the food fiesta, to jump back directly into bed and take a siesta.

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A Conference in Chicago- 5

"For the love of Biryani."- This chapter is surely going in my biography.

After my friend told me about a famous hole-in-the-wall biryani place, I could do little but think of how to get there. So this is roughly the sequence of events that happened that day.

11 am- The conference talk is really boring. I want to get out. I ask my adviser if he wants Indian food (he loves it). He has a lunch meeting. I check for bus directions to get to Devon Street.

11:20 am- I am on bus one. It takes me by the Lake Shore Drive. I get beautiful views of the turquoise aquamarine Lake Michigan.

11:50 am- Take bus 2.

12:15 pm- Still on bus 2. It takes a turn and gets on to the much acclaimed Devon Street (famous for Indian food in Chicago). Dozens of Punjabi aunties, patiala-style loosely fitting salwar kameez clad, get on the bus. Everyone is talking in Punjabi. It seems like a different world. More Punjabi aunties get on the bus at subsequent stops.

12:20 pm- Get off the bus. Walk 3 stops. See the restaurant. My stomach rumbles. My pilgrimage is over. I know that I am only a couple of minutes from attaining biryani-nirvana.

12:22 pm- Man at the restaurant tells me that the shop is being renovated, and I can only order take out. I see a sign nearby, "Parking at the rear. We deliver." I wonder if I am the only dirty mind who finds it funny.

12:24 pm- I ask for a menu. They give me one. I am thrilled to see that everything I want is $4.99. That's a steal. I order. I wait. I discover that they are open 24/7. I resolve to visit again before I leave Chicago.

12:25 pm- I watch scary-looking hefty men empty heavy sacks of wood, stones, marble chips, and construction materials into a large truck. There is an incredible amount of dust. I wonder how my biryani will magically emerge from the dust. I have no way of peeping inside. I wonder if I should also get a side order of digestive pills.

12:27 pm- I suddenly get startled to hear, "Rishi! Rishi! Jaashna. Jaashna." (Don't go Rishi). I look to find a typical Bengali looking man wearing Anil Kapoor's cap from 1942 A Love Story, trying to discipline two monkeys as he waits for his order of tandoori chicken. The boys run around and try peeping inside the construction site. I hear more of jaashna, korishna, douroshna, dhorishna. I am reverse-surprised. I have always heard Bengali parents in the US trying to train their children in Banglish (English spoken with a Bengali accent).

12: 40 pm- My order is here. I offer my credit card. They only take cash. I hunt in my purse, to find a few hundred Euros, and a US credit card and debit card. They point me to a certain Baba Bazaar where there is an ATM. The name has me in splits.

12:42 pm- I hunt down the Baba Bazaar ATM. While I try to get some cash, the annoying man at the counter tries to make conversation, asking me the same set of question every non-White US cab driver or Indian-origin man running grocery stores ask. Where are you from in India? Where do you live now? What visa are you in? Did you get full scholarship for school? I have tried tweaking these answers for my entertainment. Like once, I said that I am a domestic help from Kerala.

My card is denied twice in the meantime. Flummoxed, I realize that I am using my credit card. I insert my debit card. Baba Bazaar uncle still wants to know why I am in Chicago. I see that they will charge me a fee of $2.50. That's half the price of my Biryani. I decide to order two plates now.

12:45 pm- I am back. The guy offers me my food. I order some more. I wait. I ask the guy if he gave me spoons. He says yes.

1 pm- I walk 3 bus stops. I was hoping to eat at the restaurant, but now, it looks like I will have to sit on the last seat of the bus and sneakily eat a little while the driver isn't looking. As if on cue, my stomach growls again.

1:25 pm- I board the bus. I take the back seat. To my horror, I discover that the guy gave me no forks or spoons.

2pm- I am still on the bus. The smell of food is killing me. My food packet is hot, and it is scalding my thighs, slowly killing me. The plastic bag they gave me is really thin, and tearing apart. I hold on to my food for my dear life. I am also carrying a DSLR camera, 3 lenses, a passport, and a purse full of Euros and credit cards. But it is my food I hold on to the tightest.

2:15 pm- After 50 minutes of a bus ride in which the bus stopped at every stop, every corner, every post and pillar, I get off the bus.

2:25 pm- I walk to my hostel. I go to the kitchen and get some forks.

2:30 pm- I get in my room. I sit on the floor. I open my food. The gastronomic foreplay has lasted almost 3 hours now. I think of taking a picture. Then I say, "Screw it!" I take the first mouthful.

2:31 pm- My friend was right. It is one of the tastiest biryanis in the US. I attain gastronomic moksha.

3 pm- I am ready to take a nap. I think that I have earned it. Conferences can wait until tomorrow.

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Staying Hungry, Staying Wise

New year is the time when the world goes high on making resolutions. I read somewhere that “A new year’s resolution lasts as long as the first week of January”. Truer words were never spoken. While Facebook is replete with updates from people who resolve to lose weight, be tolerant to fellow-desis from the Bay Area, spend less time Facebooking (ironically announcing it on Facebook), strive to find a higher truth (whatever that means), cut down on spending in shopping, or waste less time listening to Kolaveri di, I wonder how many of these resolutions actually attain fruition. This gives an interesting glimpse into human behavior, where some invisible force throughout the world not only makes us guilty for our actions (or the lack of it), but also makes us announce publicly a list of all the things we will probably never do.

I do not make new year resolutions. I make resolutions, not just during the new year though. Last summer, I made a resolution to cut down on eating outside. I had to make a sudden trip to India because my father was ill, and I had to save for the trip. Not eating out was my only serious resolution, and it was hard. It was hard not because I am a big fan of eating out, but because these days, eating out is a major form of socialization. We have all the time to stalk people and stay abreast of gossip, but we do not have the time to invest into cutting, chopping, and cooking. I did not stop eating out altogether, I just reduced it to once a week, then once in two weeks, until I reached a stage where I rarely wanted to eat out. I started with saying no to outside meets, but yes to potlucks at home. I continued it with making less frequent visits to Chipotle and Starbucks (I used to frequent them every alternate day). I started skipping get-togethers, and with each dinner meet missed, the peer pressure of making it to the next one got worse. I would order a glass of water at the coffee shop if that was my only option. It was about saving money. It was about taking a little step toward a healthy lifestyle. But most importantly, it was taking a major step toward self-disciplining yourself, and sticking to that. I feel I cared more about money when I did not earn it. I started to hang out with people in smaller groups. I would call them up, asking if I can come over for dinner, and always bring a dish or two to share. Every time I went out, I made sure I had some yoghurt or bananas with me. I started rewarding myself by buying things I am passionate about (for example, office supplies and photography gear). I have eaten out once at Chipotle, and have been to Starbucks once since summer. That is more than six months. We went for a little trip on new year, and I had packed some bananas and yoghurt in case we got hungry after the hike. I mentally congratulated myself when I could convince my friend to not eat out, and we came home to enjoy two courses of chicken curry, shrimp curry, and some lentils, all prepared at home. This morning, I put some time into chopping vegetables and making an omelet and some coffee for my friend, rather than head to ihop.

I am not going to start telling you the advantages of not eating out. It works great for me, but that might not be your calling. It works for me because I save money, plan my food supplies better, restrict my socializing (if socializing is equivalent to eating outside), feel less guilty about eating unhealthy, and afford the best quality stuff (the best quality of organic food is still cheaper than eating outside). Most importantly, I feel I have a say in deciding my life, about which get-togethers I want to go to, and which I want to avoid. I like the power of being able to say no. I spend more time cooking for friends at home, and hang out with people who spend time cooking for me. When I was in Calcutta, I ate at home every day. I might not know what food in Oh Calcutta or Mainland China tastes like, but I sure know how good it feels when my mother, grandmother, father, and even my neighbor aunt put in the time and effort to cook something I enjoy.

Since this was not a new year resolution, it did not die by the end of the first week of January. I still have to work on disciplining myself in sleeping earlier, working out everyday, reading and writing more regularly, or keeping myself motivated through the rest of my doctoral study. However, minimizing eating out is a resolution I am going to observe for life. I am going to eat out only when either the food or the company is compelling enough for me, or when I know I am going to die for the lack of food.

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A Big Fat-(free) Lie

At some point of my life, roughly 83 hours and 52 minutes ago, I got tired of hogging on all the Rasgulla, Gulab Jamuns, Rabri, and all those deep fried masses of sugars and calories. Nothing triggered it, it just happened. I guess it’s like giving up on smoking (or getting rid of that loser of a boyfriend you should have left 5 years ago). You have been thinking of doing it for a while, and every time you try, you just fail. Then one fine morning, you wake up and just do it. I think the same happened to me. I have been unhappy with the way I have put on weight for the last few years. From being a person who jumped at the center of the screen whenever I spotted a camera, now I started shying away from the camera, finding a comfort spot behind somebody so that my paunch was hiding. Paunch I could still hide wearing appropriate clothes, but where would I hide my face, a big round blob of fat now with chubby cheeks? It’s been years since I’ve seen my face oval, the original way God designed it. Anyway I will rant about my body and looks some other time (I promise I will). I will not spare you, I will even rant about my huge biceps, till you are bored to death. Anyway.

So one fine day I just decided to give up on the empty calories. This was the least I could do, since I wasn’t committed to gymming and working out big time. The mangoes looked at me from the fridge expectantly and I looked back at the mangoes with pain. The neighbor who makes awesome “Patisaptas” (sweet crepes stuffed with coconut and jaggery and sometimes condensed milk filling) was promptly asked not to make those for my goodbye dinner in 5 days. Convincing mother wasn’t a problem since she has always been after me to lose weight, but convincing neighbors and relatives who believe in increasing their good karma by stuffing another Rasgulla into your mouth became a big problem. I turned down two dinner invitations feigning a stomach ache because it is futile to argue and explain to these people why I will not hog on the coconut cream based prawns, the deep fried potato tikkis, and the four courses of dessert following a five course dinner. Not that I have slimmed down overnight, but I still intended to stick to my decision of not eating rubbish.

So I went to visit my ex-student’s place. I taught her Math for 4 years and though she sucked at Math, we became great friends. Ironically I was the one who told her that Math isn’t everything in life, but as long as she studies it, she should do it well. I go visit my student after 4 years, and aunty (her mom) gets me a huge brown chocolate pastry and a tall glass of chilled iced tea. Poor aunty is familiar with my eating habits four years ago when I used to religiously devour every sweet she put on my plate (I don’t just have A sweet tooth, my entire dentition is sweet !!). Today I had already reached the stage when I was having sugar withdrawal symptoms, a little dizziness in my head and a very irritable temper caused by it. Not that I was starving or dieting, I just decided not to hog on high-calorie, low-nutrient stuff.

My plea of neither touching the chocolate pastry nor the iced tea fell on deaf ears. I promised I was more than happy sipping on a glass of cold water, but she wouldn’t understand. I tried reasoning with her, feigning a stomach ache, but nothing worked. Poor aunty must have been worried what she would offer me instead; maybe she didn’t have too many options. When nothing worked out, I had the most innovative idea. The only problem with that was, well, I can plan a lie beforehand and deliver it well, but when I make up an instant lie, I usually get caught.

“Aunty, please don’t insist. I have been diagnosed with high cholesterol”.

I don’t know why I said it, but it was one of those things you say first and think later. It sounded odd to my ears, high cholesterol at 28?

“Oh dear, sorry about it”. Aunty promptly put back the goodies away.

So we sat in an uncomfortable silence the next few minutes, aunty too shocked to ask me to eat anything and me too scared to speak lest I am caught.

“So how did it happen?”, she asked. “Family history?”

Now something in me refused to malign my impeccable family history. I was already feeling guilty for making up illnesses I do not have.

“Uh, not really. Just a bad American lifestyle. Not eating well and all”.

So the conversation drifted to normal soon. We spoke about this and that.

“Where did you get your tests done?”

I must admit I was totally unprepared for the question that caught me off guard. I was about to say our family doctor’s name in Kolkata, but something in my head was screaming our family doctor is aunty’s brother-in-law too.

“Aa- aa- bbb- bbb….”

Aunty stared at me stammer.

“Bbb—bbb--- Bellevue clinic”

“Which one? In Kolkata?”, she asked.

“No no, the one in Seattle? Bellevue clinic in Seattle”

“Oh.. okay”

“My memory getting bad aunty. These days I forget names so often”, I explained lamely.

The chocolate pastry stared at me from the corner of the room for the next 30 minutes, untouched. I came back later that night and had healthy roti and subzee for dinner. I wonder if aunty ever realized I gave her some instantly concocted lie. Even if she did, I’m sure she would know it was an innocuous, fat fat-free lie.

sunshine