Prose before hos

There's a tweet I remember reading, on the perils of the pandemic, this deadly second wave and the emotional toll it took. Apparently, Gwyneth Paltrow started eating bread and it caused her a great deal of unhappiness and turmoil. I can empathise. I started eating breakfast again after four years, most of it was just to ensure there's some form of food I'm ingesting back when I was seriously ill in the hospital. I love bread and despite cutting that out of my diet to remain a size 8, I found myself eating that at the hospital. Don't make mistake, I would throw the lunch and the dinner away, until the Dietitian at the hospital realized, I'd only appreciate bread and therefore, prescribed sandwiches for lunch. Those call for another, separate post as dedication. Long story short, Gwyneth was upset eating bread and I was upset when I was told to get on with breakfast. 

Bread, then, re-entered my life in this second wave, much like it did with Gwyneth. The only notable difference was that I went to a size 14, in a month, after all that bread for breakfast. It's not something I want to know, but Google Photos insist on sending a poignant reminder with comparison shots, day after day and most of them have me without my arms in scars, my hair in place and my lipstick game strong. 

I do, very much, empathize with Gwyneth on her emotional trauma and the re-emergence of bread in her life. I would also have to blame steroids and other drugs I was injected, along with bread and even the near-death experience I faced this year around. A friend's boyfriend joked on a group video call, "At this point, you should ask the hospital to book you a suite, for your regular appearance." If only hospitals worked that way, I'd be way ahead of him to suggest that thought. Life's a battle, a fragile one at that. You can last as long as a China dish or a synthetic shirt. I'm moulded like a ceramic tea pot. Short, stout and almost too fragile, for anyone's care. 

It's been fourteen long years since I started writing, or rather, documented this journey in some form. Most of it is not public accessible anymore, but someday, it may just be, if I live long enough ie. 

Long enough to not care about scars on my arms, looking obese in photographs and not giving a damn about what someone thinks about me on the internet after reading what I wrote on the internet as a 15 yo, ill-tempered, ill-mannered teenager. 

On that note, I'd very much like to devour a whole vanilla rainbow cake with cream cheese frosting to mark this end of a beginning. The kind that involves size 14 garments again, lots of processed carbs to process complex emotions and perhaps, with a side of shamelessness. If the worst problem I had ever had was looking fat in the photographs then I believe I have a lot of shit show coming my way real soon.

Gwyneth- 1, Snobster- 0. 

Sometime in March, I believe, I wrote about the first trimester. I could have fucking waited a month and called it a quarter but the genius that I am, decided to jump at the first instinct. Either way, this is Quarter 2's report. I'm pleased to say everything that was looking up in the last post is now down the dumps.

Also, please stop reading posts from 2008. They exist so I can be grounded about how terribly I used to write. And perhaps, still, do.

For reference, this is the "First Trimester" report. To enjoy *this* piece, highly recommend that you read the last report before you proceed with this.

Taking forward from where I left, I am no longer moping.
Well, I couldn't, in the last quarter, cause I was busy fighting severe anxiety. Cause? People who won the elections were the trigger. Each time, I'd read the news or watch the same, I'd be down being catatonic. Imagine, those guys coming to power in full majority. I mean, you don't have to imagine cause that's exactly what happened.

Anti-depressants are just as bad as Dementors. I think I deserve a round of applause for basically surviving the hell-whole the medication was. I finally understand why they celebrate folks who have fought depression/anxiety/mental illness'. This shit sucks and how.

I'd like to think I got out of the funk, that had taken over me sometime last year, during my trip to Bangkok. This couldn't have happened without P breathing down my neck each day at work, just checking on me whether I'm doing okay. I lucked out there.

Speaking of work, I quit my job. What was the center of attention in my life, and perhaps the only thing working out. I signed out for good, and well, I'm hoping it leads to better things. It was a difficult transition, one that resulted in a big change.

The change, you ask, is that I got a drink.
Fine, I got half a bottle of whiskey with an old friend who may or may not have helped me quit my job. I'm terrified that I might be enabling his narcissism if I give him any more credit on that. But, it was a lot of alcohol for someone who resisted alcohol for a little over half the year.
Following that, I got a bottle of beer and then some more with my old bass teacher, who has blocked memories of me sucking at playing the bass. Thank the lord for that.
I'd like to think there's been no looking back but I can count the total number of occasions during which I've had alcohol. Four. Each and every sip was worth it. Quality over quantity, baby.

I would also not beat myself up for alcohol because I think I needed it the morning after I found out that I got dropped from the book deal I got. Apparently, things didn't work out. Things such as my writing. I'd like to take a moment and acknowledge the WhatsApp I received earlier in the day when I got rejected, "I liked you better when you could write."
Me too, buddy. Me too. I liked myself better when I could.

On the bright side, I have a fantastic new rejection story along with the one where I got rejected from Fulbright Fellowship. My letters of interest from four different universities are a total waste. It's been a delightful month, really.

Lest we forget, credit where credit is due. Gotta thank Cuddle Boy for talking me into trying for Fulbright. He really seemed to believe in me, more than I did at the time. Nobody has ever looked at me with such conviction and asked me to pursue academia. Ofcourse, my friends would like to think it was a way of getting in my pants. Well, about that...

Safe to say, Cuddle Boy and I are a thing of last quarter. We parted ways amicably since he decided to be in a committed relationship with someone else. The fact that he talked it out and gave the notice to withdraw his services is well appreciated, to the point it should be normal but we don't get that normalcy in Delhi. Do we?

On other fronts, I've gained a total of 10 kilos back. My diet is at an all-time fail. I've nothing, nobody to blame for it but me.

It's also my birthday in about two weeks or so and I'm fucking off to Thailand again! Well, hoping to, since my connecting flight is in about an hour and I've to do visa-on-arrival at the first airport so pray for me, my non-refundable hotel bookings, my bank balance (which is really a thing to worry about in the absence of it being employed), my body weight and also my sister who's joining me on a trip after 3 whole years. Could have found a Tinder match and ruined my life for the next two years but oh well. We did that last year. Can't repeat our mistakes in under 365 days.

I no longer know how to write or what to write or what to even write on. Keeping that in mind, I'm doing a report of a sort. Everyone likes reports. Corporates pay dumbfucks all the fucking time and professionals in the creative fields who are hired by these corporates are forced to do the same. Everyone has to report. Well, mostly everyone.

I got published! Double spread byline in a leading national daily on a subject dear to my heart. It got a decent amount of appreciation. I was stoked because why the fuck not. Finally managed to channel my rage of losing someone important into writing.

I also got a publisher. A leading academic publisher in the UK decided to take our collaborative research project on board. If all goes well, or well, according to plan, I'll be published in a book in 2020. This is subject to if I survive to write that paper.

We lost a cat. In a freak road accident, some motherfucker killed our stray and left her kitten orphaned at our door. She's a total doll but isn't fond of me. I try to cuddle the fuck out of her but she won't let me. Consent is kinda real, she wins.

To make up for the lack of cuddling a cat, I found a human who permitted me to cuddle him and vice versa. Our transactional relationship is the stuff of dreams. There is hygiene, respect, consent, and cuddling. If you hear of someone starting subscription package to cuddling people during difficult times and seasons, hit me up. The mofo stole my idea.

I got a raise at work. Which was scheduled to happen last Summer but I won't crib. It happened is all, and I was relieved because the intimation for a meeting seemed ominous. Either that or I was overthinking the fuck about where to stay in Bangkok. A conversation for another day (aka never).

I have been waking up for the most part of days spent in the barsati to a nightmare. Of how I booked myself to go to Thailand (last minute- as always) and how absolutely uncomfortable I am with the idea, that even in my dream I start panicking, trying to cancel, only to find myself in the Baht Bus while the alarm rings. Waking up in a cocktail of drool and sweat is disgusting.

I gained four kilos of weight. It's the only thing weighing me down. I am sorry. 

I survived three months without a drop of alcohol. Instead, I spent those calories on pizza, patties, kachodis. Basically, starting next month, I'm probably going back to alcohol. It was a shit decision. In 2018, I had pizza grand total of 3 times. In this trimester, I had pizza 4 times. I don't even fucking like pizza.

My mum started retailing some of her specialty food. She's down to treating the city with the best of Summer and Winter fermented food. It's been phenomenal with people reaching out placing orders with us doing bare minimum marketing. It's pretty much the only reason I survived January with a straight face.

I lost people close to me because it wasn't working out. For the sake of my mental well being, for the sake of my self-respect, and possibly for the sake of there being no love, respect or admiration from their side to me. It's okay. Shit happens. Worse things have happened and I've gotten out. These are just people, who are like furniture to my existence, just like I am to theirs.

It's easier to cut people out than to get over them. I wish someone had prepared me for that. No amount of resilience and pep talk can withstand the grief of losing people who meant something to you. Every commendable achievement or listing above is a testament of what I did in the face of grief to get out. Every unwritten post and writing here is a sign that I'm not past this and I am down the dumps.

I give myself three more trimesters to get past this funk. If it doesn't happen then we'll know something is wrong with me beyond normal, acceptable level of wrong.

90 days into this year: me.

3rd May | Guy Curious Executive Lesbian

1 KF Ultra = 140
1 plate French Fries = 510
3 piece Pork Wonton = 55 x 3 = 165

Guy Curious Executive Lesbian casually threw shade about my lack of a jaw line. This triggered my 1200 calorie a day regime. It may have been PMS but this guy's shade makes for a better inspiration story. A couple of months later, Guy Curious Executive Lesbian and I were briefly catching up and he expressed instant regret at my weight loss, "Your tits were the best thing about you. Now that they're gone, there's nothing".

Total = 815 calories


June 24th | Guy Butter Chicken

6 small Bacardi Rum x 3 sodas = 65 x 6 = 390
Some insipid chicken starter (I tasted and then a little more)  = 400

Guy Butter Chicken offered to accompany me to McDonald's but I had a flight to catch = - 1700

Total = 790 calories


July 2nd | Guy Cute Filmmaker

2 small Bacardi Rum x 1 soda = 65 x 2 = 130

Guy Cute Filmmaker was surprised that I have dinner at 6:30-7 pm so we both skipped food = -500

Total = 130 calories


July 21st | Guy Cute Filmmaker's birthday

2 small Smirnoff Vodkas x 1 soda and fresh lime juice = 70 x 2 = 140

A friend I met at the party where I was at asked me if I wanted any dinner. I didn't.

Total = 140 calories


August 16th | Guy Strange Stringer

2 large Smirnoff Vodkas x 1 soda and fresh lime juice = 140 x 2 = 280

Total = 280 calories


September 18th | Guy Goofball Polyglot who I'm totally crushing on but he has no fucks to spare unless he gets drunk and purrs my way with a "hi" and I am usually, almost, always asleep

1 KitKat Ice Cream = - 201
1 7-Eleven slurpee = - 65
45 minute long walk culminating to my hotel room = + (-42 burnt)
Cardio (aka cuddle) in bed = + (- 24)

Guy Goofball Polyglot didn't meet me cause he was *cough* busy and I shall live with that regret for the rest of my life (or until I find his replacement to fuss over, whichever happens sooner).

Total = -200 calories


September 30th | Guy Passive Aggresive Hotelier

2 large Smirnoff Vodkas x 1 soda and fresh lime juice = 140 x 2 = -280

I didn't meet Guy Passive Aggresive Hotelier for a few logistical reasons at my end.

Total = -280 calories


October 3rd | Guy Passive Aggresive Hotelier

1 cup Espresso = -5

 I didn't meet Guy Passive Aggressive Hotelier cause I met SSA instead and consumed 480 calories in a healthy protein packed lunch at a healthy café. I kinda ditched. Did feel a tad bit guilty.

Calories = 480


October 4th | Guy Blind Dog Date

1 small Smirnoff Vodka x 1 glass water and fresh lime juice = 70

Total = 70 calories


October 12th | Guy Ridiculously Witty and Fun

2 small Smirnoff Vodka x 1 glass water and fresh lime juice = 70 x 2 = 140

Total = 140 calories



October 27th | Guy Rustic Filmmaker 

3 Mutton Seekh Kebabs = 112 x 3 = 336
2 pieces Chicken Tikka = 190
Salad = 60
Slow paced walk for 120 minutes = + (-100 calories)
Tea = 60

Total = 546 calories


October 28th | Guy Rustic Filmmaker 

Yellow Chicken Curry (with sweet potato) = 850
Sticky Rice = 97
Summer Spring Roll = 120 x 4 = 480

That explains why I wanted to throw up through rest of the date. That was more calories in one meal than I have in a day

Total = 1427 calories


October 30th | Guy Rustic Filmmaker 

Tea = 60

Total = 60 calories

I find former fat kids an intriguing place to look for answers. Answers to questions, their being, the outlook and their outwardly appearance of things which are often covered up by the elephant in the room- the weight loss-that made them who they are.

Confession- I fantasize about being one. Perhaps someday, I too shall be one. I may get to be one and live that life.

Love them or hate their luck, they're quite the rhinoceros who made the cut off to be unicorns. I know so many of them; some very close to me and the others, I want to get close to. They're elusive. I have seen them talk with their eyes, better than the communication post graduates who got a fucking degree in expressing themselves through different media.

Former fat kids is that coveted club, a Gymkhana of sorts, where one in a thousand makes it through. When they do, all eyes are on them. Sure, they have their own grievances to deal with. Their shortcomings that could not be fixed by working out or eating clean or doing weights, but god, they're so fucking attractive.

I know this because I've crushed on a few such. They're creatures who were just as regular as us, but made it to the other side. They're demigods, for they worked on their body and made it their own. It's something no normal person can understand. You have to be a fat kid to know the premise of making it to the other side. It's a lot like new money getting new money. Generations of rich kids won't ever know what's it like for having made it for the first time, on your own. Imagine, that effect but on your body. That's when you truly own them and the world around you.

The world talks money and understands attraction. You have them around your fingers, curled. Just because you worked hard and made it. A friend who's in that club reminded me, "But the fact is, the same 3 people who liked me when I was fat are the ones who truly like me. The rest are only turning their head to the changes my body made. Not at the person I am. The people who liked me, liked me when I was 150 kilos fat."

To be honest, I'd have liked my bunch, just the way they were- with or without the effort. But, effort always counts. Especially if it's your crush who's put that in.

This is another fact confirmed by so many people I've spoken to over the years. Former fat kids grown out to be hotter and more in demand than those who's consistently been 'healthy', 'skinny', 'regular', 'medium', 'average'. Not only do former fat kids get noticed for their sculpted new bodies, their chiselled face yells a lethal combination of confidence and arrogance. It's like a pass to life, you made it through your time as a former fat kid, now you have an all access card to fucking anyone's happiness. Go on, live it. You completely earned it after years of having people look down at you. Here's your card to do it now. For the record, I completely and wholeheartedly support them in this motion.

My new motto to life is- "Don't be afraid to hate" and it coincides just right with these fellas.

One thing, that always baffled me about them former fat kids is their closet. What do these people do with wardrobe full of clothes they sourced over the years, painstrikingly, for their size? Again, I know this because even though I love to shop, finding things that coincide your style, your pocket and your body together is a hellish experience. Half my trips abroad are spent lurking from store to store, finding things that can last me through the soirees thrown by my former fat kid friends. I love them to death but god, I can't match their sass.

I have had this question repeat itself, each time it saw a transformation. A girl from class who got married, another who's chilling on a yacht, yet another friend who's been there with me. This man, who I swore to myself I'd do at the backseat of his car (spoiler- didn't happen there)- him- and another crush amongst other people; this question remained in my head. I could never bring it up. Ofcourse half the time in my head I felt bad for the outfit and how it would be chucked out for snug, snooty fitted outfit to match the lethal personality of the person wearing it.

It's as if you shed the person you are, along with the weight you lose. You have a reincarnation over night, with the fat you dispose. There's no other explanation to this.

This morning, after my shower, I was attempting to wear my outfit. My new lingerie, picked out from my last vacation after having hunted it for over a week hung loose despite wearing it on the tightest clamp. A tshirt, which used to be body hugging, now hung loose over the ill-fitted bra.

I came out of the shower to stare at myself. I find myself doing it a lot more these days. The flab from my sides hasn't shown itself in a week, the tyres re-appear only after the dinner and I see the appearance of a waist line. The boobs have shrunk, but I can't say the same with surety. It's almost as if I don't want to jinx it.

This morning is when I learnt my answer. You don't fuss about the clothes. Instead, you constantly worry about putting something in your mouth and that thing translating back on your body. On the sides, in your tits, on your back, in your tyres- everywhere. Former fat kids don't give a fuck about the outfits. They only care about one thing- they don't ever want to go back from where they've come and how far they've worked to reach where they are. They'd rather spend their life making money to buy new outfit than to go back to the mediocrity that a "normal" body brings.

Morning after my blog anniversary party, I was high as a kite. After weeks, I found myself up on a Sunday morning, naturally, I decided to spend the time with my favourite person. My grandfather was catching up on his morning news, over a banana as he normally does. I sat on the chair, next to his bed and found myself staring at the wall. Twenty minutes into that pointless non-interactive hang, I heard him talk.

"You'll die if you eat a banana and egg."

Jack Johnson's Banana Pancakes started playing in my head as I imagined myself swimming into a pile of hash browns and pancakes. I'd booked a cab earlier in the day to head to McDonald's for breakfast, despite the wretched cleanse. Take it as a hint from the universe or bad karma or just pure luck, it didn't show up. Exasperated, I stepped back in the house after what seemed like an hour and a half of negotiating with the cab driver. "To hell with the diet, it's not working anyway", was my vibe after the party. I'd survived the last two days without eating any kind of fat, let alone good or bad and it was horrible. I was low on metabolism and high on substance. The song continued playing in my head as I stared fondly at the wall, only knowing I'd imagined him saying that. Five minutes later, he repeated again.

"See what does this say, if you eat eggs and banana you'll die. Does it say that?"

I tried to re-focus. I stared hard at the television screen and my brain was blank. Blank as a sheet of Word Document waiting for my crap before every MPhil assignment. Still craving pancakes and maple syrup with salted butter I attempted to look at the television screen. More than half the screen was occupied by Baba Ramdev trying to do Surya Namaskar or some such and some product placement for his brand on the side. There was a tiny screen showing how Pakistan has something to do with nefarious things going on in India. I tried to look for the headline that my grandfather had said out loud but couldn't find it.

"Huh?", with a dry mouth I tried asking. I was convinced, it was my brain talking and not my sober grandfather.

"It was on TV."

At the point I was sure, he'd passive smoked with the rest of us and that got him high. There was no way such a bizarre thing would play on a Sunday morning. I mean for fuck's sake, Sunday's the day of brunch and champagne and eggs with banana are the most harmless things you can do together.

Then it happened.



I stared at the screen in disbelief and let different bulletins roll three times before taking this shot. Ended up eating a greasy plate of Chole Bhature that I needed to fight the hangover with. Been avoiding Bananas and Eggs together since.



Epilogue (Blog Party)

(During the course of Taboo)

AJ- "Where did Abéy go?"
Me - "JAIL."
AJ- "What is he then?"
Me- "Convict? Arrested?"
AJ- "YES THAT!"
Me- "Arrested? Arrest?"
AJ- "The last one."
Me- "Arrest?"
AJ- "YEAH. (softly) do you think he heard it?"
Me- "Nah, he doesn't care. He's barely interested."

Four hours later

Abéy- "So when I was in jail..."
Remaining guests including AJ- "Oh you went to jail?"
Abéy- "Can you all not pretend that you don't know? I heard your Taboo clue you know."
Mia Khalifa- "Oh."
AJ- "Oh."

A disclaimer before you begin reading this- I'm at an all time high. Endorphins are fucking amazing; you know what they say, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Channelizing my inner Kelly Clarkson just this minute.