Tips, tips, folks have said…

I havent weighed myself in a while and I dont intend to. It is good enough for me that my trousers are hanging off my hips, and the thighs are no long chicken leg on a larger scale. I havent used the measuring tape, for I do know that I havent really whittled down per se, it is good enough for me that I now fit into jeans I had long given up any hopes of getting past my knees. The difference is perceptible. And I say this with absolutely no modesty. I know I have lost weight, and I am not about to preen and pretend to be nonchalant and say, “Really, you think so, No, no, there’s so much fat here still to go.” Yup there is still so much fat still to be whittled off, but I’m liking myself where I am right now. I’m looking slimmer. Fitter. And feeling more energetic and positive. I do need more to go off. But I’m happy with this.

How did this happen? Was it a miracle? Was it a Stomach belt and exerciser? Was it diet? Was it concerted gymming? Was it stapling of the lips? Was it cooking for one’s self? Nope. It all started with a photograph of me clicked during Independence Day. A group photograph. I’m standing with a few friends. And I looked at it. And looked again to find myself in the photograph. I couldnt spot me. Naturally, I couldnt. I was looking for a mental image of a curvaceous moi. And suddenly, whomp, it hit me. I was the fat one in the middle. The curves had gone to pure fat, and no matter which angle I tried to explain it out (unshapely kurta, wearing white, churidar making legs look skinny in comparison to torso), I was just plain overweight. No two ways about it. And all the kidding of self that I had been doing (its PMS, its constipation, its water retention) when it came to struggling into my denims was just that, kidding of the self. It was heartbreaking. I was the invisible fat woman now. No wonder shopkeepers didnt notice me. And salepeople smirked when I picked up stuff that seemed sort of trendy.

How had the fat crept on? Laziness, sheer laziness. And gluttony. I was doing buffet lunches. Eating like it was going out of fashion. Zero housework. Zero exercise. And concealing it all by wearing tops that were progressively becoming like tents. And wearing the loosest trousers in my wardrobe. Of course, I was kidding no one but myself. Everyone around me could see me blimp out, except me. It also didnt help that I have a sweetheart of a husband who values his life, and will never make any incriminatory comments about weight when asked but just dodge sticky questions by non committal grunts or dig nose deep into the Day Trading tips tomes that he devours like some folk devour Playboy.

I had to lose weight. I weighed myself. I was at 62 kgs. For my height, my optimum is 55 to 58 kgs. I had a minor crying attack when I realised my weight at full term when carrying the child was 63. I had been 54 when I conceived. I was not greedy. I didnt want to get to 54 again. That would be expecting a bit too much from a person who loves food, and hates to exercise. But a couple of kilos off would be good. It wasnt just the vanity. It was also the health angle. I do have PCOD. The weight keeps piling on, despite all my attempts to keep it off, and it becomes a vicious cycle. Being overweight also leads to high BP, and cholesterol, and diabetes and heart attacks. All of which is there, ready and waiting to pounce on my, from family history.

I needed a plan. Thankfully, I soon found one. Rujuta Diwekar. Didnt read the book that got Kareena to size zero, and of course, I thought she looked her worst when she hit size zero, but I did chance upon her tips on a website and they all sounded pretty sensible and do-able. Starting with the dont start your day with tea or coffee. So I went through the tips and picked out the ones that suited me. Which were more likely to be tips I stuck with. Not for me the GM and South Beach diets, or Atkins or all the stuff that has worked for so many people, because I couldnt be damned to regulate my food intake according to categories. So here is what I did do:

Start my morning with milk (with two heaped spoons of Bournvita to allow it to get down the gullet)

Completely cut out tea and coffee.  I’ve already cut out alcohol. I dont smoke. I dont drink carbonated beverages.

I rarely eat chocolates or sweets. Maybe occasionally. I just dont get them home. Fried food? That would be another no. 

I’ve also cut down on eating out, and takeaways. Being broke has also helped. I’m less likely to suggest meeting up for lunch to friends. Stuff like pizzas and burgers have given way to frankies and chicken wraps. And are very occasional.

I try to snack every 2 hours on something. Not much. Just a little to keep the hunger pangs from turning me into a feeding machine when I hit proper food. Peanuts. Chana. A fruit.

I eat a very hearty breakfast with two parathas. It keeps me full for a good part of the morning.  I eat a proper lunch and a proper dinner. But lunch is sharp at 1 pm, and dinner by 8pm.

I serve myself only enough to be cupped in the palm of two hands for lunch and one hand for dinner.

I drink a lot of water and liquids like fresh juices, nimbu sharbat, lassi, chaas.  It does make it a bit of a sticky situation when one is stuck in traffic with no restroom in sight, but one rides it out by crossing and uncrossing ones legs till one can hobble into the nearest available rest room.

I dont have junk food. No snacks. No 4 pm grazing on bhujia, mixture and such like. And frankly, I dont have the urge to do so anymore. If I’m really desperate, I will grab a handful of dry fruits.

And no, I havent given up white rice. I am a rice eater and will be one till my dying day. Still eat rice twice a day. Even at night. Post 7 pm. Blasphemy. But I limit my quantity. I’ve cut out white bread completely though.

I try to keep myself busy through the day, and not just veg out with Google or a book. I try to maximise trips into the kitchen and to the bedroom just to add up steps through my day.

And finally, and the most important.  I try to walk for an hour every single day. Not a fast walk that puts me out of breath, but a relaxed gentle pace, gossiping with friends, and enjoying the evening breeze. It destresses me and releases a lot of feel good hormones.

This is all I do. No gymming. No diet foods. No exercise machines. It has worked for me. Now all I have to do is stick to the routine. I dont think it is a diet I’m on. It’s plain simple commonsense. Eat less than you expend. Eat healthy. Cut out junk food. And be active.

Tell me what you do to keep your weight in control.

 

How can you raise your hand on a woman?

Happened close enough to me to disturb me. A regular fight got ugly and the man in question started pushing the woman around. She screams. He threatens to throw her off the balcony. I get to know of this the next morning. My stomach turns. My first words to her are dont you take the first slap, because thats when the hitting will never stop. I dont know their relationship. I dont know the issues behind the fight. But I do know that I have zero respect for the man in question. I wouldnt put it past him. I do also know that a woman has to stand up for herself. A woman has to be strong enough to not let a man get such total control over her that he assumes she is okay with being a punching bag. A woman has to be intimidating enough that he never ever has the courage to raise a hand. A woman should shout for help and not cower in her room, and let the abuse continue behind closed doors.

If a man hits you once, he is going to do it again. And again. And again. And it will only get worse. I have no first hand experience of this. The spouse is a gentleman. He will yell, scream, shake the earth, but not raise his hand. Ever. Not even in jest. It sometimes is amazing how the same genetic pool can create such disparate personalities.

Then I read about Rihanna’s album and her song written after her boyfriend Chris Brown assaulted her, and my stomach turns some more. If a woman like Rihanna, who is the epitome of gorgeous and successful can get assaulted, how safe is the average woman from the average guy she is in a relationship with. As safe as Aishwarya was when she was in a relationship with Salman Khan, I guess. But thats old history. I would like to think the man has changed. I havent read of any assaults with the newly recent ex-girlfriend.

My earliest lesson on how to deal with domestic violence came at home. My parents were in a gruesome argument. My dad, tall, broadshouldered, handsome and genial at the best of times had become a stranger. And in the midst of the fight, he smacked my mother hard on the face. The next moment is something that has stayed with me all my life. My tiny, wren like mother, stood on her toes, eyes blazing, and smacked my father right back across his face. Needless to say, he never, ever dared lift his hand again. No matter how terrible the fight.

Dont take the first slap. Dont stay back in the relationship. A man who hits is not a man to be trusted. Dont expect him to change. Dont explain away his behaviour by drink, or depression or a mood swing. Just get away. And save yourself. You need to respect yourself before expecting him to respect you.

Lists. And the making of.

A confession at the outset. I am a very very scattered and disorganised person. I am the kind of person when managerial teams are picked, who is deputed to be the ideator and left at that. And a team of efficient micro managing types need to be rolled in to iron out all the details of my extravagant ideating. I am the queen of ideating, I need my worker bees to do the implementation. Unfortunately, God forgot to assign me some when he sent me down, and I end up doing all my own implementation. Which is not a good thing for the task at hand. It always gets done slipshod or incomplete, or I manage to goof up big time.

For those who believe in the maxim God Lies in the Details, well, I’m on the ungodly side of the divide.

Which is why I turned to list making in the vain fervent hope that I would be able to get through my day without needing to be shot in the head by the end of it by forgetting essential tasks, i.e,  Brush, rinse repeat, before stepping out of the house, and then wondering why folks roll their eyes, keel over and pass out when I try to make scintillating conversation in confined spaces.  Let me not digress. I end my day with my list book. Currently, I have nicked a Hulk pocket book from the child’s stash. It is pretty reassuring to know the Hulk, grim, green and with torn pants and an elastic waist that doesnt split as he morphs from Edward Norton into Hulk is the repository of all my tasks for the day.  Dare anyone peep inside and check how much I actually manage to cross off by the end of the day?

I sit in my armchair at the end of each day and tick off what I actually manage to achieve through the day from my list of things to do. Then I carry over the incomplete items into the list for the next day. Thankfully, having a bath and brushing one’s teeth rarely make it into the carryforward list. Eating, of course, never does. What does make it to the carryforward list is generally the stuff marked Immediate and Urgent. Like deadlined yesterday features that need to be submitted before commissioning editors have hyperventilation attacks and need to be calmed by the immediate strapping on of oxygen marks and hypodermic bearing health care personnel. Like bills which have to be paid immediately or we will be reduced to having dinner by candlelight. I’m super efficient. The mails that need to replied to pronto, form the third category of the must do carry overs.

Seriously though, I am a great fan of making lists. I make lists for everything. Lists of groceries to be bought. Lists of clothes and stuff to be packed when I am going out of town. Lists of phone calls to be made while travelling in the course of my day. Lists of books to be bought. Lists of cosmetics to be bought. Wish lists of clothes to be bought. I measure my life out in lists. It gives me the false sense of being in control, when the truth, as you and I know, is that lists have very little to do with reality. Take for instance, a grocery list in your hand and you hitting the hypermarket. The grocery list talks of wildly interesting items of necessary consumption like cooking oil, pulses, detergent and such like. The heart draws me to the creams and lotions and shampoos and conditioners. Which quickly fill the trolly, before I finally manage to tear myself away from their enticing alluring beckoning Succubus like charms and make my way, shaken and drained, to the the provisions and pulses, where I spend half my time squinting to check the price on each item and scouring the shelves desperately to find discount offers to justify the off list items I’ve chucked into said trolley. As you can surmise, my priorities and my lists have still to meet. Having said that, I do reach a happy compromise by chucking out whatever essential groceries dont fit within my budget after having allowed for the non list shopping. So I still have my list intact for the next day, the next round of shopping.

I’m also the queen of making lists of stuff to pack when going for a trip out of town. The list generally looks like this. Pack lots of clothes and shoes. And handbags to match. Its a simple list. I also am very particular. One column is also devoted to cosmetics and skin and hair care requirements. This often necessitates a last minute run to the store because all the very essentials have to be bought in small sizes.And of course, the city I am going to will never have a decent drug store in its city limits for me to be able to pick anything worth using when I land. Never mind if even the stretch of Baga beach gives me much better cosmetic and skin care options than a hypermarket in Mumbai does. I dont really feel confident about travelling if I havent got my Liss control shampoo and conditioner. In travel packs. Or my foaming Neutrogena face wash. And such like. This is a very important list. I’ve packed according to a list, and then spent an agonised evening trying to get to a drugstore from a South Goa Five Star Resort, because I forgot to put in sanitary napkins in the danged list. Im very optimistic that way.

Why this random post on lists? Because, I’ve realised, in the making of all these random lists in the course of my life, I’ve forgotten to make the most important list. The list of the things I really want to do before I die. And thats a list I need to start working on right now.

Of Yoga, and classes to teach one how to live artfully…

Yesterday I meandered down to the society park in the evening for my daily constitutional when I came across a throng of women filling out forms in triplicate and fighting through the above mentioned throng, handing back filled forms, and all flushed with the excitement that led me to believe that diamond jewellery was being handed out in exchange for the filling out of said forms. Naturally, being a best friend of said stones, I rushed to gather and fill mine own form. “Join quick,” said a lady of my acquaintance, all flushed and happy, in a strange and elated manner which had me sniff her breath suspiciously, “There are a few seats.” Anything that required me to join, and offered few seats has me immediately backing off pronto. I held my hands above my head and backed away gently from the scene.

The women in charge chased me waving a form wildly in my face. “Its a yoga class, and a class to teach you the art of how to live *.” I backed away even more determined not to have any truck with this. Yoga, I tried, for exactly three months and then I gave it up cold turkey. I am extremely proud of myself for being able to quit good and bad habits with equal impunity. I gave up tea and coffee and alcohol in the same cold turkey, no looking back manner.  I also gave up eating fruits and salads in much the same manner. I am a woman who makes no distinctions. I am a woman who knows her mind. And sticks to it for as long as it takes not to get bored and need a change of palate or scenery or whatever it is I was missing out on. (Having said that, I’ve stuck to the no alcohol for around four years now, and the no tea and coffee and colas for four months now. Never felt better. Let me get that halo out and scrub it clean and bung it on now.) I did try to give up animal protein, that lasted all of two months before I went screaming into a restaurant and downed butter chicken with naan singlehandedly without a pause or a burp to break the proceedings. It was either that, or being certified and institutionalised thanks to the visions of tandoori chickens doing the chorus line in front of my hallucinating eyeballs.

Therefore, I knew that no way was I going to stick long and hard to yoga classes at six am, in the garden, on winter mornings. I set the alarm for 5.30 am every night with a shaky hand. At five thirty when the alarm goes off I open one eye, shut it and sleep on till six, then I bound up and run down and having reached, realise it is with unwashed face, and slept in PJs and stare goggle eyed at the rest of the class all sleek in coordinated yoga ensembles and colour matched yoga mats, and slink to the back of the class, where I wait for shavaasana. Sometimes my snores reach the head of the class, and the instructors ears and she is compelled to make a trip to the back to gently bring me back to the land of the wakeful, where I jump up, sputtering, “Wha…wha…what…”

I am a girl who needs her eight hours of deep undisturbed sleep. I have been known to bite little heads off when woken up in the middle of the night for serious discussions on whether ghouls are holding a party in our balcony. The offspring has decided that it is safer to watch the ghouls in the balcony than awake the sleeping mother.

Therefore, I resisted valiantly, all the concerted attempts to enrol me into yet another early morning yoga class. “No, no, ” I staved off the form with the same kind of pluckiness that early gladiators used to keep out of biting distance of the lions. “I’m not going to join up. I’m sticking to my walks. Theyre working for me and I like walking.” The determined ladies were not going to take no for an answer. “Walking doesnt work out the entire body. And we teach you a lot more than just yoga, we also give spiritual talks on how to cope with life and how to deal with people….”  If this was a sales pitch, she just lost a potential customer right there. Spiritual talks at six am will surely send me into deep REM. And as for coping with life and dealing with people, I think I do okay without needing to attend a class on it. I havent killed anyone yet. Nor has anyone killed me. I have a simple formula that has worked for me thus far. Be polite. Be honest. And say no. And so I did. I said no. Firmly. And politely. I was honest. But the lady taking the class was not able to cope with my politeness and honesty and spent the next fifteen minutes pinning me to the bonnet of a car while she expounded the higher glories my soul would reach through concerted yoga training and mind control. I took it as a sign from God that I was not meant to reach such lofty realms when the driver of said car honked, wanting to get out of the parking lot.

I am sticking to my daily evening walks. There is something soothing about the evening, with the sun setting gently on the horizon, the sky turning from orange to red and then a deep royal purply black. The birdsong gradually fading out (though it is a sharp ear that can catch any birdsong in our potted plant landscape), and the squeals of excited children drawing blood in sandpit wars. My early mornings are meant to be clutching a mug of hot chocolate grimly, while sitting in the balcony, watching the sky change colour, and willing the eyes to open to their fullest. I take time to thaw out.

Ask for directions, dammit!!!

It is a well-documented fact that guys will not ask for directions. This is a biological thing. This is why it takes several million sperm cells… to locate a female egg, despite the fact that the egg is, relative to them, the size of Wisconsin.
Dave Barry

The man has no sense of direction. He rather compensates by being a good driver, so he is forgiven the total lack of navigational skills. He also compensates by his stamina to drive, which allows him to do a single driver Mumbai to Bangalore in a single day. And be up at the crack of dawn the next morning to do Bangalore to Chennai. Of course, these were days when we were young and reckless and didnt have the child to pack for or cart along, when all we had to do was to chuck a duffel bag of a week’s clothes into the boot, and trust our stomachs to handle highway dhaba food without going projectile in protest.

I’ve normally overlooked the evident unease the man has about asking for directions. As long as we get from Point A to Point B, I dont kick up a fuss. Unless, of course, we happen to go so far off course, that we land up in a wildlife sanctuary, instead of hitting the beaches of Goa. As is evident from the metaphorical sneer in the tone that this last sentence was written with, this is a true incident. Involving a missed turn off from the expressway, the reluctance to stop and ask for directions, and driving through mountain and jungle and the Ponda forest sanctuary, in a car with petrol on blink blink empty, one very car sick person, two boys under five going ape shit with boredom and hunger, and a steaming at the ears mad as hell yours truly. The joy with which we greeted the pump attendant at the first petrol pump we encountered when we emerged from the untarred winding forest roads would have convinced anyone we had been lost for days in the wilderness and had survived on tree roots and bugs. It was a scary prospect. Darkness falling. Petrol on zilch. No mobile network signal. And two small children and one sick adult with us. And around 165kms off route. I was already trying to think up what of our luggage we could use to burn up to send smoke signals up into the air for help.

Considering we have done a lot of cross country drives (and India is a big country), I have enough anecdotes about going off track on deserted highways to fill a book. Whenever I get down to writing it. And it always, always boils down to me saying, “Are we on the right route? Should we stop and ask?” and the man grunting something unintelligible which translates into “Stopping and asking for directions is for wusses. I am a macho man. I have Google earth scanned into my brain. I do not ask for directions.” This coinciding with the road in front of us morphing into a dirt track like a Stephen King horror movie. And some minutes later, the trees getting alive and slowly crawling onto the dirt track and eating us up with the car. Arrrggggh. Anyway. You get my point. This would inevitably be the point where the man will look slightly puzzled and say in great surprise, “Look how bad the highway is on this stretch.” At which point I will be frothing at the mouth and unable to give a coherent answer except for occasional shrieks as tree branches slapped at the windshield. A second later, he would look at me with wisdom having dawned, “Do you think we left the highway somewhere behind?” “Turn, turn quick,” I would yell, before the trees morph into the Tree from The Evil Dead and attack us with vile intentions. And so we turn around and flee, with the forest laughing eeriely behind us, and with me mouthing the Hanuman Chalisa, the little I remember of it. This one took us 180 kms off course. This happened on NH4 once. During the days when Veerapan roamed at large, smuggling wood and killing random folk and had three states set their police forces behind him. My eyes shut on their own and I took a little nap. We were on our way from Mumbai to Bangalore. We had crossed Hubli and were still with plenty of time to make it to Bangalore before nightfall. I woke from the nap to find us  off the highway, in dense forest land, with the sun setting with unseemly haste somewhere beyond the canopy of trees, with evil noises emerging from the forest cover designed precisely to cause involuntary bowel movements. Lets just say, we got the hell out there by just driving on and on and on, and not knowing if we were ever going to see our loved ones again, and wondering when they would discover our bodies, and whether it would be a good idea to write a good bye note the mother could hang onto for solace while there was still some light. And no, the thought of falling into the hands of Sandalwood smugglers was not helping the rumbling in the intestines at all. The husband is cool and soigne through it all, almost as though he designed this diversion into the jungles to point out wildlife to me. “The road will be somewhere ahead,” he says calmly, while I’m hopping around in my seat as much as a seat belt will allow me to, while my head rotates on a 360 degree axis in a frantic bid to notice road signs and milestones in the fading light.  When we finally hit the highway, after going some 180 kms off route, I stepped out and kissed the asphalt.

On most long drives, I am now the officially designated navigator. I take my job very very seriously. I google maps and routes and take printouts before we leave. I then pack them maps and routes and directions in some bag so I can never remember which one has them and rely on what every navigator down from the time early man wandered around checking out the scenery from the caves has used to mark directions, namely the position of the sun and the moon. Are we supposed to be going north or south, I ask myself. And start the route from that very valid benchmark. We’ve normally reached in one piece when I’ve done my job as a navigator, aka yell at the man to stop and ask for directions. Even then, the man will squirm in his driving seat, put the window on my side of the car down, and ask me to do the asking. Its a man thing. I ask with the complete lack of shame and embarassment that comes from being a non driver. And insist on stopping every five minutes once I have the initial directions to ensure we are on the right track. Which also involves a bit of a debate, with much macho hotheadedness happening, because, stopping and checking is for wusses.

On long drives now, the elderly relative insists I sit up front with the man, because I know routes in a subliminal way and I never forget a road. I call it reading up on the route before hand (thank you Google baba) and memorising the names of places enroute, and keeping a sharp eye out for landmarks. Its saves us time and petrol. Not to mention stress. I’m so getting the man one of those navigational GPS devices the next time we decide to go on our long cross country drives. I’d so like to take the occasional nap.

Do you buy your man’s undies?

According to a Reuters news report, a poll conducted by UK retailer Debenhams, men only buy their underwear if they are still trying to entice new partners into a relationship. Most men leave underwear buying to their mothers until their are 19 and then buy for themselves until they get into a stable relationship, and then on expect the women in their lives to buy their underwear. The report says if your man leaves his underwear buying to you, it is a clear signal that you are the one.

I agree. But I did not get into underwear buying territory until post marriage. I think I was already The One for a few years before I got married. But those were the days of my youth, and more innocent times, and if it was even suggested I go underwear shopping for the man, I was quite capable of getting an attack of the vapours. I am ashamed to say I was quite the typical vapid innocent. Time has sure changed a lot of things. Including vapidity.

I was also informed by the elderly relative once I was married, that along with the metaphoric ‘tijori ki chavi’ I was also handed over the honorable task of underwear buying for the man, because, quote, “left to him, he will never buy himself a pair and wear torn and tattered undies, that are an embarassment to hang out on the clothesline.”

What does this say about men?

Off the bat, they’re lazy. They will spend hours investigating various mobile phone models and comparing features but not spend a couple of minutes in the underwear section of the same departmental store to pick up a pack of four.

Secondly, they couldnt care less if the pairs they have in their drawers are peppered with cheeseholes, with the elastic falling off, or are some indeterminate hue after years of being washed with the colours.

And yes, I think, we wives can safely add socks and handkerchiefs to underwear in the list of things to be bought for the male which indicate you are the one. Ever wonder at the mystery of the disappearing socks and handkerchiefs? It is a mystery that requires the services of Fox and Mulder for sure. One day the drawer will be overflowing with socks and handkerchiefs and underwear and the next morning, the man will be standing in front of same said open drawer and hopping on both feet because he cannot find a single matching pair of socks, and all the handkerchiefs are not ones that can be taken out in a public situation, all my handkerchiefs having invaded his space, and his handkerchiefs having fled in horror to the land where they cannot be compelled by embroidered female kerchiefs to mate and produce embroidered offspring. It is a male thing. The same thing happens to the child’s socks and handkerchiefs. One morning the drawer is overflowing with enough socks to create a mini football league. The next, I’m scrounging around in the deep dark recesses of the cupboard to find any which might have fallen out of said drawer and reached unreachable places to ensure they can never be found without the entire contents of the wardrobe being dumped on the bed, with five minutes to eight on the clock, eight am being the run out as you are time needed if said spawn of womb is to make it into the school gates before the bell.  

The next time I do my duty shopping to validate my status as ‘The One’ I am so buying yellow and black argyle socks and cherry printed undies.

Edited to add: Let me sign off with this very very valid quote from the feature. 

“This is the one issue that feminism has never addressed,” Faucherand (Debenhams Head of Men’s Accessories Buying, Rob Faucherand) said. “It’s not who wears the pants in each household – it’s who has to buy them that counts.”

Post the weekend

I’m back at work, I should say happy for the chance to get out of the home. The weekend has been the kind of horror that makes me want to throw some clothes into a duffel bag and run towards the Himalayas, grabbing my squawking reluctant son by his collar, and compelling him to adopt a life of retirement in the mountains. But, lets talk about more cheerful things.

Like this news report. It tells me that eating dark chocolate can help my skin fight sundamage and ageing. I could turn cartwheels. I now have a legitimate reason to scarf down at least a bar of dark chocolate every single day of my life. It is for my skin. Anti-ageing therapy. Prevents sundamage. I need to check the flavanol on said dark chocolates before I injest it. What more could a girl need to make her life complete? Maybe doctors prescribing shopping excursions to help her cope with stress and psychosomatic ailments? Yes?

 

 

Would you be able to live in the Bigg Boss house?

I for one wouldnt. Think about it rationally. I got to pluck out chin hair. It is not something that can be done on national television. Seriously though, I happened to catch part of an episode the other day, occasioned by the child wanting to eat a meal while seated in the drawing room, where the elderly relative had ursurped complete viewing rights and control to the remote control. This is why middle aged men have that crisis. The men folk wander around the homes feeling totally useless and emasculated since the women are hanging on grimly to remote controls to all the television sets in the house, all set to different weepy serials and aren’t concerned if the men folk are falling around having heart attacks and dying, as long as they catch the end to each episode. The men, they need some outlet for all that aggression which bottles up within them since they cant get to watch the 20/20 final since it coincides with Balika Vadhu, or Oprah or Desperate Housewives, and so they say to themselves in the mirror, hey, I have to prove I exist, I have to do something big and dramatic to prove my existence and get a rise out of my wife. So they go out and buy red convertible two seater sports cars with all their combined joint account plus loan amount life savings, and come back, smirking, look what I got myself baby. And now I’m going to pick me some hot arm candy. You dont worry, you just sit right there in front of your television set. Not that the women are registering these cries for attention. They’re too busy weeping that Anandi has been chucked out of the house by Dadisa, which undoubtedly according to me, she had been asking for with her infernal oversmartness and over efficiency. Not to mention the constant whiney voice.

Anyway, I digress. What I caught was Vindoo Dara Singh with a hair piece. Rohit Verma with a hair piece. And the rest of the folk looked like they had regular hair. Of the folk I recognised Poonam Dhillon seemed to be the sanest one in. God save her sanity. And I think she was doing her eyebrows. On national television. Maybe I could still get in there and pluck out chin hair. But first I have to be infamous. I wouldnt qualify. I lead a squeaky clean life. I need some scandal first. The height of my scandalous life is the days I bunked college lectures to hang out at the canteen and make sheep’s eyes at assorted fellow underage male eye candy, who promptly fled the premises shivering in horror of the thought of being accosted by me in a dark alley and being forced at knifepoint to committing themselves to being my date for the next college social.

The folks have to sleep in a dorm situation. Which means I will never be able to sleep at peace in deep REM given my propensity to snore like a propeller. It wouldnt do to be the cause of deprived sleep in a home of folks already deprived of food. I might just open my eyes in the dark of the night and find folks standing around my bed with cricket bats poised to knock me cold. And yes, I cant cook to save my life. Nor clean. Which means I need to be waited on hand and foot. I’m guessing the inmates will truss me up and dump me into a deep dank wardrobe before the first day is done.

Then is the politics. And the absolute horror of living with folk you wouldnt acknowledge with a nod when you pass them on the street. Ah well, I do so now too, so that might not be too difficult to do. The gossiping. I am a nose in the book girl. I tune out when gossip is happening. Therefore any gossip to me goes much like the alien invader’s story of how his planet was destroyed in Monsters V/s Aliens, with me being Ginormica, with the fab figure and the height of course. Which might make me the fall guy everytime. The good folks on the show would gossip gossip gossip. And I would smile placidly nose buried in Dave Barry turns 50, snorting occasionally in inelegant manner, and then get up and saunter across and do the very same thing they had just bitched out another house inmate for.

Also, constantly being surrounded by folk is very very disorienting. I need some privacy.  What do I do if I need to dig my nose? Or have an itch down my back just needs to be scratched? Or suddenly regret the overingestion of gassy items of food? I cant always find a soft sofa handy to plonk myself down on for muffle the sound purposes. Knowing my luck, I will get myself stuck in an echo chamber when such moments come on me.  Reminds me of the husband watching CNBC TV 18 when an analyst was seriously discussing something earthshatteringly relevant to Nifty when a sudden unmistakeable sound ripped the audio. Unruffled he sailed right on. The spouse and I looked at each other, “Did you hear that?” “Yes, was it what I thought it is?” “Yes, Yes, yes,” I squealed excitedly. As you might have guessed, I never grew out of my five year old potty humour phase.  I can even do slanging of scatalogical insults with the six year old at the best of times. That skill might come in handy in the Bigg Boss house. And I must take to throwing water bottles randomly at folk. And practise doing this while wearing a badly made wig. I must also learn to spin tall tales about how wealthy I am even though a casual look at me proves that at best I’m vermin droppings. With a badly placed wig.

Maybe I might just be able to live in the Bigg Boss house. If all the inmates practise Vipassana. That would make for sky rocketing TRPs.

 

 

 

Back to hair oil

Given the current state of the mane, which has depleted itself from leonine to horse’s tail in the span of the past few months, I have been in a state of deep dank depression so severe that I have often been tempted to hang around at hair salons and cellotape cut  and fallen strands to my scalp.

Every morning by the bathroom basin, I tremble to run the comb through my hair (always wide toothed, always after applying hair serum to avoid breakages), then I gather my fallen glory gently and consign them to the dustbin with almost full state honours. Of course, I draw the line at the gun salute, given that the child on premises would love to be in charge of said 21 guns, and create an infernal racket while he gets the chance. And probably kill some action figure in the process.

Now, after indiscriminate shedding which I would have welcomed had it been hair from other extremities of the body, the scalp peers cheekily at me from random spots. Therefore the mater has pressed on me the urgent need to use a special hair oil, not the vanilla coconut oil I normally stick with. Yes, I oil my hair almost every other night. And wash it off the next day. I also believe in alien abductions and ghosts.

I was given a bottle of an ayurvedic concoction by the elderly relative, who felt my pain or more likely, was anguished by the trail of shedding hair I left through the house. It was a sweet thoughtful gesture. I did the decent thing, and put a clothes clip on my nose and applied said oil. Diligently. All over the scalp. And tied my hair up. And wandered out into the drawing room. The speed at which the room cleared up of its regular inmates namely the elderly relative and the child, convinced me that this could be patented for use for those who want clear access to the doors of suburban local trains in Mumbai. I had, for a rare hour, complete undisputed access to the television and the remote at prime viewing time. This in itself was cause enough to keep the bottle of said hair oil in the locker for preciousness. 

The husband looked at me strangely when I meandered into the bedroom, with my book du jour in hand, hoping for a nice quiet, winding down bed time read. “Whats that smell?” The man would never have made the cut as a diplomat. He would be sent to negotiate with terrorists and he would say, “You need to be shot dead right now.”

“Hair oil.” I replied. “How do you expect me to sleep in the same room?” he squawked in pure anguish. I think this here said hair oil could also be roped into the National Family Planning Programme. I saw the husband slowly edging around the bed where he had been lolling around carefree until a moment ago, ensuring he carefully positioned himself windward.

I ignored such undignified behaviour from a grown man and read my book unperturbed. And drifted off to sleep, no doubt aided by the cooling and calming herbal constituents of said hair oil. The husband tossed and turned through the night, muttering to himself at regular intervals and was sternly ignored by me, and finally at around 3 am, I was vaguely aware of him storming off, pillow under the arm to sleep on the sofa, muttering stuff about how a hardworking man is not allowed to sleep in peace in his own home. By morning, I was undergoing the fisherfolk syndrome, I couldnt figure out why noses wrinkled when I drew near and why folks turned purple in the face trying to hold their breath. And the child pushed me away with a violence he reserves for best friend he loves to hate, when they are in their enemies for life mode.

And then I went in for a bath. And found that the numbers of hair shuddering violently and giving up the ghost in dramatic Hindi film fashion was no less than what it was the previous day. But I did see the advantages of said hair oil. Guess what I’m slathering on my head, the next time I need some me unwinding time. I can even do the Germanic accent for the “I just vant to be alone.” If my family is smart, they will stock up on clothes clips.

Re-examining life…

Sometimes life decides to do funny things to you. There you are, sitting peacefully on your sunbed, straw hat in place, sunglasses with double UV protection on your eyes, having applied appropriate amounts on sunblock on all extremities and adjusted your umbrella for maximum shelter and just about settling back with a nice banal chicklit, when voila a kind of wave that would make Hawaiin surfers orgasmic, rushes in and picks you and sunbed up and deposits you, gobsmacked in the midst of the shrubbery at the far end of the beach. With a mouthfull of sand so you cant even yell at said retreating wave with some choice words of endearment. Which of course, said wave wouldnt understand. It would be out there, chuckling quietly, zeroing in on its next victim. Yes, you with the Gucci beach tote and the matching Pucci print bikini and sarong, it could be you, so stop sneering at my flea market bag.

You then wonder about sunbed placement, and such like. Whether you should have consulted an almanac to check Rahu Kalam before settling self onto sunbed. And whether you should have actually sat inside a shack and downed beer on beer, than put yourself out there, at the mercy of the waves. Who knows, the shark that Richard Dreyfuss or whats his face threw back in Jaws could have been wandering around for a stray morsel. Or maybe, it could have brought in its friends for a buffet.

You wonder whether you should have, when the coin was being tossed on the matter of holiday destinations, queered the toss, and yells heads I win, Tails you lose and chosen the mountains. You start doubting every single decision wrt your life you have taken so far, given that you have ended up, you have ended up tossed up at the far end of the beach, along with stray bottles, assorted cans and such like debris, of such condition that even the raddi wallah would chuck them right into the sea. You wonder if you should learnt swimming and reached some nice deserted island with two palm trees placed strategically to allow for hammock stringing (though lord knows how one was to make a hammock from on deserted island, given one’s total lack of life skills, the maximum level of which is sticking hand out into traffic to hail taxi or auto). You wonder if you can sue the wave. You wonder if you can claim insurance for hurt ego and wounded self esteem. You wonder if you have an invisibility cloak on. You look around to see how folks have noticed and are collapsing around on the ground in various stages of mirth induced convulsions. None have. People around are too engrossed in baking their bodies to burnt wood texture. You have the last laugh. You pick yourself up quietly and move back to the hotel, where you lounge with said chicklit book on a sunbed by the poolside, where the max that can happen is the drinks trolley can run out of control, bang into your sunbed which can then get pushed right into the pool, which will then cause a minor crisis because the many children who are in the pool with their parents will all knock each other out of the way to clamber onto the sinking sunbed, and leave you to sink like the stone you are to the bottom of the pool where you will found bloated and peeling when they decide to drain the pool.

Maybe I should have just sat in my room and read by the window. Maybe I should have just stayed in the womb.