Don't blame it on me

My weight gain is a result of the cook's calorific regime, says the author

First, my tailor said I now had a “relaxed” girth. He was measuring me up for new trousers, and when I suggested he stick with the old measurements because I’d walk off the difference, he sniggered. And, at any rate, he processed the order providing a more comfortable fit around the waist, thus robbing me of the incentive of losing those inches to fit into my old clothes. I blame him for not reining in those love handles.

Earlier this week, out at a friend’s for dinner, an acquaintance sized me up critically and announced to the whole room — why? — that I’d gained weight. There was the tut-tutting you’d expect following such announ­cement, so I abstained from a third drink, or snacks, and barely had any dinner at all, sticking to salads. “You won’t lose weight this way,” the acquaintance — a couple of stones heavier than me — chortled. I blame him for robbing me of the motivation to stay on a diet.

 Then, last night, I went to meet a friend ahead of a family dinner, and he accused me of putting on weight. I demurred, saying I was puffy from lack of sleep, to which he said, “You have a belly.” I was so upset I ate more than I ought over a lavishly ordered meal. I blame him for making me feel miserable because of which I over-ate. How’s a person to stay slim with friends like this?

 Over the years, my wife and I had arrived at an arrangement about leaving at the crack of dawn to go on a walk along a selected periphery of a few kilometers till, one day, my wife opted out. It’s been many months that she won’t wake up early, leaving me to read the papers alone, and eat biscuits from nervousness. Nor will she summon the yoga instructor. Or accompany me to a gym. By some strange alchemy, she’s losing weight doing nothing at all, while I’ve, well, piled it on. Naturally, she’s to blame.

 I’ve told the cook not to give me toast for breakfast, or cereals for meals, to which he’s acquiesced while grumbling about the dining habits and demands of the household. And cleverly changed his cooking to include pastas, or pao with bhaji, or kulchas, which I’m asked not to fuss over since they’re “fermented”. That the accompaniments are loaded with carbs, or fried, is not discussed. My weight gain is a result of the cook’s calorific regime.

You’d think escaping to the farm for detox would feature on one’s weight-loss primer, but the maali there tends to operate in the traditional mould. He’ll ply you with jugloads of frothy lassi, or various sugary inducements, bringing armloads of fattening stuff from neighbouring farms, and leave it about. You can hardly lose weight when your own staff is hell-bent on force-feeding you.

So I thought I’d turn teetotaler for a bit, but wouldn’t you know it, that’s when the kids would ask you to join them to toast a promotion, or because they were opening a bottle of something special at home — and what’s the point of joining in if you have to restrict your intake to a thimbleful or two. They’re as much to blame for my obese figure as those others who’re mocking me for it.