Good Carb, Bad Carb

Pooch has instigated a revolution. Her recent turn as a sexy siren (hostel night, slinky sari accompanied by a hot spaghetti-top blouse) has inspired us all to make concerted efforts toward (Angelina) Jolie-fying ourselves.

Alas, we have all come to the painful conclusion that hotness, being necessarily equated with thinness (or alternatively being associated with non-fatness) is a challenging attribute to acquire. Especially for people whose idea of fun is stealing extra bowls of suji halwa at dinner time and who are still reeling from culinary catastrophes such as the discontinuation of jalebi as the Thursday night dessert (ok fine, I admit that’s just me).

We’ve realised that in order to acquire baywatch babe figures, we’re going to have to exercise more than just our tongues. To boldly go where few hostellers have gone before: the final frontier-

The gym.

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There are those of us who prefer the great outdoors. To be fair I was the first of all the copy-catters who decided to follow in Pooch’s footsteps and hit the jogging track. Now of course it has assumed pandemic like proportions. It’s hard to venture out into the lawn without bumping into another aspiring beauty queen.

I came upon Dohee the other day. For some strange reason we decided to run in opposite directions. She clockwise and I counter…

I recall being decidedly dizzy after the experience.

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I remember the first day. I’d been procrastinating about remedying my general sloth like existence for the longest time. And then the day finally came. I recall trying to take a nap only to end up tossing and turning uncomfortably till the last thing that was on my mind was sleep. Jumped out of bed, laced up my sneakers… and ran.

I realised that I have enormous reserves of energy. Must be all the milk I’m drinking… or the sex I’m not having. Either way, despite my laughable track record on the fitness front, barring scary term paper submissions I’ve been at it quite regularly.

I also realised that I have stupendous reserves of spit. I can’t go 60 seconds without ejecting great big gobs of saliva.

And there I was thinking the only thing I had to spare were tyres.

(I have since invented an elaborate spitting game. The key is to wait till the spit gets to just the right consistency and volume and then pick a target. So far I’ve tried flowers and leaves and met with great success. I’m contemplating a move to more challenging prey.

I’m hoping that restricting this disgusting confession to a bracket will make it somewhat less disgusting for conservative audiences. Somewhat more palatable…

…sorry, I couldn’t resist that one)

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V is cruelly perceptive.

“Its all a race against time to lose weight before the farewell isn’t it?”

And so what if it is? Is it such a crime to want to look nice and be ogled at?

I don’t know if you’ve ever worn a sari, but if you have, you’d know that you can’t drape one without feeling at least three months pregnant. Those blasted pleats stick a mile out like a bulging reminder of having gobbled too many mutton dosas.

The ogle-quotient tends to take a serious hit

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I figured I couldn’t give up food. Eating is such a pleasurable experience. My friends in the hostel always marvel at how my every meal is taken so stylishly. Like a carefully choreographed ballet.

But strangely, for someone who puts so much energy into eating, I have surprisingly low standards when it comes to food. I relish the experience- the table, the plate, cutlery etc. And the sentiment too… of pampering yourself. I delineate clear boundaries for roti, dal and subzi (I really hate when things spill into each other). I cut garais in strict hemispheres and budget how much subzi to eat with each mouthful.

(clearly I am insane)

I wish every meal were an event.


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The effects of this fitness drive have extended far beyond the confines of Ambedkar Ganguly Students’ House for Women (which is about the most long winded name for a hostel ever). V has taken to aerobics. Hmphh… not so high and mighty now are we?

I think it may be a last minute attempt to shed some pounds before we lapse into a vegetal state behind desks and in front of computer screens. Fuelled by frothy cappuccinos from obliging push button dispensers. Calories at your finger tips.

I don’t know a single person who has taken to work and increased financial liquidity without an accompanying expansion of girth.

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Not that exercise is an easy remedy for pudginess, but at least you know a remedy exists. What scares me is that my mind will atrophy as well. And I wonder if there are any easy remedies for that. Maybe I’ll take to composing sonnets on the walls of the office loos or making fun of people’s accents in my head or hoarding stationery or eavesdropping on conversations followed by extended psychoanalyses…

Oh and blog… that too…

I have a feeling that I shall spend the better part of my work existence hatching an escape plan and stun the world by relinquishing access to all the luxuries that the corporate world has to offer…

If the plans are in fact ever put into action, I think the person who’d be most stunned would be me.