For various reasons – the seasonal chill included, but also caused by frequent late nights, and guests at home who expect conversation and company with their tea in the morning – I’ve not been as regular at the gym as the trainers who are in the business of building up my biceps and who continue to believe that the gut will yield to not a six-, not even a four- but at least a two-pack. My son brings messages of encouragement from them, “Sir must come.”
Sir is hiding from them because in this season of cheer, two things are in abundance — food and alcohol. Christmas cakes abound in both. Colleagues at the office bring delectable goodies to share that would be churlish to refuse. The cold requires warming food and, fortunately, there are restaurants around that serve from Khasi pork to cheesecake. Those peanuts one buys casually off a cart are fattening, the Irani dates full of calories, and the dal ka halwa at home would be decadent if it wasn’t also delicious.
Mulled wine is like nimbu-paani these days and every home seems to have its own recipe. The fog outside can be easily lifted with a glass, or two – or three – of the finest Glenfiddich, provided you’re not driving. If you’re susceptible to colds, like I am, rum in warm water with a squeeze of lemon is a good antidote — I think. Besides, when the sun is out over a weekend, brunch buffets are more than a little tempting.
Or maybe sir is a little put out. “I think the weighing machine needs adjustment,” I had told the trainer when the digits stacked up to a figure similar to the one at which point I’d started off. He insisted – “rudely”, I cribbed to my son; “firmly”, my son defended him as the only witness to our exchange – that the machine was fine, causing my prolonged – and, I grant, sullen – absence from the gym.
“Hey, Tubby,” said my wife as I was getting ready for a Christmas party, one of too many this season, “your clothes are getting tight.” “They’re not,” I shot back, “I think these new fabrics shrink with every wash.” That tightness is also, perhaps, responsible for the slight breathlessness I feel as I struggle up the stairs to my second floor office. Where – wouldn’t you know it? – someone has left a scrumptious slice of plum cake on the desk.
I’d go on a diet but what’s the point when everyone wants to fix meetings over lunch where it would be pointless to ask for a consommé when the pumpkin soup is so good. Hotel hampers come laden with freshly-baked breads and cheeses that would be silly to waste. Cappuccinos at the neighbourhood café are more fattening than dessert, but a good coffee – or a few – are most enjoyable in this weather.
I might, I concede to my wife, have gained the barest minimal girth that is prescribed for gentlemen of a certain age, but then she’s no Kingfisher calendar girl either. Besides, I tell her, the children are looking a little healthier than usual too. “Quiet,” she tells me, “I’m concentrating on a new recipe for haleem” – which, I know, will require lots of ghee – “here, have a hot gulab jamun and keep quiet.”
Sir, I think, will have to swallow his pride and report back at the gym.