Fast and furious

The author talks about a day he spent without having any food

For someone who has never skipped a meal, leave alone kept a fast, being without a morsel the whole day was painful. My wife and I had a fight on the breakfast table, serious enough to warrant the pushing away of cereals and wielding of toasts like frisbees. If only we had waited till mind and body were nourished, better sense might have prevailed. Funny, when you think about it, that it all started because I teased my wife for helping herself to dessert the previous evening. Hell hath no fury like a woman caught cheating on her calories. 

Having banished breakfast from the table, I could not swallow my pride and leave with a packed tiffin. “Don’t bother with it,” I instructed the driver, marking my second mistake of the day. Office mornings are hectic, so I was able to ignore any hunger pangs, but around lunch I feared I would pass out for lack of nourishment. 

That’s when I realised I had forgotten to carry my wallet. Not only could I not step out for a meal, I couldn’t order anything in either. Famished, and weak, I pondered over what to do, when the driver came in with the tiffin which my wife had regrettably (thoughtfully, she argued later) organised for the driver to carry back from a sneaked trip back home. Sensing I might snap his head off for dereliction of duty without my permission, he placed the lunch on the sideboard and hastily left.

To eat or not to eat, that was now the question. If I had my lunch, I would have to secede any superior moral ground to my wife — which is clearly what she was counting on. If I didn’t, would I be able to take the afternoon training session for my colleagues, which I knew from experience could prove exhausting. More to the point, would I survive till the evening? What if I had just a bit of the salad — would my wife notice? Perhaps a piece of chicken, or vegetable? Knowing her, I could count on her having kept a photographic record to gloat over. The conflict demanded sacrifice, and I felt foolishly up to it. So, but not without regret, I decided against lunch, girding myself against the temptation to open the box for a peek inside every few minutes. 

Hopefully, she would notice I had not eaten lunch and be full of remorse when I got home in the evening, when I went straight to bed in a sulk. Unfortunately, she didn’t offer amends — or dinner — and I waived the cook’s appeals to come to the dining table impatiently away. (My wife, just so readers who are judging me as they read this, ate all her meals. Just thought you should know.)

Oh, well, there was always the chance I could sneak out of the bedroom for a banana, or a sandwich, after the household had gone to bed. When I headed for the kitchen one time, the cook was still clearing up, so I helped myself to a glass of water instead. My wife, instead of going to sleep, kept up a late night vigil, sitting in the dining room, first, and then reading in bed. By morning, I was so numb from hunger, my stomach had ceased to hurt. I was ready to leave for office — still unfed — when my wife called a truce. I’m feeling quite full now, but as to who won, or lost, the bout — the jury’s out on that.