M is for Meerut

We moved to Meerut from Ghaziabad in the summer of ’91, when I had just started Class 4. I remember, with alarming clarity, the day we were loading our belongings into a truck, leaving the place that had been home for a little more than 2 years. We had family friends who were seeing us off (The Saxenas if I am not wrong), whose kids we were friends with. Except that their son bit me on my hand one time in the midst of a fight (which was more name calling than anything) because I called him an ‘Ullu ka pattha‘. While he had called me a lot of bad things before, apparently this warranted a bit because I was calling his Dad an owl. Fair enough.

Anyway, this family was also  moving to another house in a colony called ‘Govindpuram’ and they thought the name of the colony we were moving to (Pallavpuram), was so so funny, they couldn’t stop laughing. And I also remember trying to say their colony’s name was as funny, but it didn’t work at all, because it was not. Anyhow, we left the city in that very truck and reached the city which would be pretty much my entire childhood.

I remember only happy times in Meerut. You can attribute to childhood, because it all seems very rosy and shiny when I look back. The typical town with glimpses of the city, just because it was close to the capital; but a town nevertheless. The row houses, the big park with the Peepal tree that were apparently 80 years old, the shared autos we called ‘tempos’ or ‘Vikrams’, everything on hindsight seems as quaint as it can get. While I did move away in 9 years, the parents stayed on. That ensured there were visits, that started with a frequency of ‘whenever you have some time off’ to ‘college vacations’ to ‘festivals’ to annual visits during Diwali.

Fortunately for me, I ensured that every time I visited, I did the ritual of things I associated Meerut with. The walk down Sadar Bazaar, the pit stop at the chaat waala we always frequented, the shopping for ‘dress material’ in the shops of Abulane, then going to ‘Punjab tailors’ for getting them stitched, and picking up the coconut macaroons from King Bakers. I even ensured that The Dude visited an old favorite, Dilli Chole Bhature, and savored the amazing chole bhature in the place just like we did when younger. During Diwali, we ensured we visited the market areas to see the ‘lighting’ and listen to the speakers blare the deals of the day. I would bump into classmates, make plans to meet friends, and neighbors who had known us forever would drop by.

When the parents decided to move closer to us 2 years, while a part of me rejoiced at the thought of being able to see them whenever possible, a part of me was sad, because that would severe the last few ties I had with the place I grown up at. Our home was sold off just around Zo was born, so I made one visit with her to the place, so that she could experience it too, so what if she was a month and half old? And I am glad she did, because I would have hated for her to have never stepped into the place I associated my entire childhood with.

Which is why M is for Meerut. My hometown. That’s how I like to think of it, and though it’s no longer the city I have lived for the longest in, it’s still the place I have the most beautiful memories of.

M

Peace out

I am a staunch believer in revenge. As in, I think it absolutely makes sense to return the malice or hatred someone doles out to you intentionally. I also believe in Karma, but for an impatient soul like me, waiting for her to strike back at morons who do bad to me, doesn’t cut it. Also, the poor thing has so many people to get back at, I believe in lending her a helping hand and doing the dirty work myself.

I am also very particular about giving back the exact same portions of ‘love’ to the one you’ve received it from. For me, ‘an eye for an eye’ is the concept that rules my actions. And to the additional piece of wisdom doled out by Mahatma Gandhi (or as Sonam Kapoor said – Robert De Niro), I would just say that I would obviously prefer a blind world to one where I am sitting moping in a dark room, while the evil guy who poked my eye is watching a movie and thinking – Thank God for Gandhi. Erm, thanks, but I don’t think so?

Fortunately, for the recipients, life hasn’t given me enough opportunities of physical reciprocation and most of my getting back has been bitter (albeit classy, ok, sometimes not so classy) remarks in response to personal comments that I do not appreciate. Words I wouldn’t utter otherwise, things I wouldn’t say. Things I believe are true but too nasty to mention. Things I do not believe at all but saying them seems right because the person who hurt me deserves them. Sometimes immediately, mostly as an afterthought, because God hasn’t granted me a quick retort system.

But there have been a few cases where I have actually gotten back in action.

One such situation I remember very clearly, more so because my mother does, and quotes it every time she thinks I have rage issues, which I don’t, is from when I was back in the B-school. So our hostel being in Kerala had those sloping, tiled roofs, and on the highest level of each hostel building was the washing area. By which I mean 3 fully automatic front load washing machines were placed in this area (very posh and smart investment I think) and also several clothes lines to dry the almost dry clothes that came out. These 3 machines were to be used by the 40+ students residing in said building.

Anyway, the process we followed was, take your clothes and detergents to the top, load the available washing machine, start it, and then place the empty bucket next to it before leaving. Reason being, the cycle would go on for about 90 minutes, and most of us would put the clothes in before leaving for class. In the meantime, if someone else comes up and the run has completed, by default, they would put the clothes out in the bucket and load theirs. You could dry your set when you were back. All fair.

Back to said day, I had put my clothes for a run first thing in the morning, when all the machines were empty and there were only day old dry clothes on the clothes line and left for class. I returned probably around 4 hours later. Now on a regular day this would mean that assuming someone else walked in to wash their clothes after mine were done, my damp clothes would be in the bucket. But no.

My clothes were on the floor. And they were not damp, they were soaking wet. Which was weird, because as far as I knew you could not unlock the door, until the cycle was complete, till the drying bit. But someone had managed to open the door midway through my wash. Not only that, they had unceremoniously dumped my clothes on the ground instead of in the bucket.

I swear I saw red. I say this because the next few minutes passed quite fast. So I did a quick survey to see that at the moment, the other two machines were occupied and running. Also, the machine I had used was empty. Which meant that the person who emptied the machine had used it (most probably) and had also removed their clothes. Probably.

Which meant said clothes would actually be on the clothes line now. I did not wait to analyse any further, but blindly pulled down all the clothes in a semi dry state off the clothes line and dumped them on the floor which was quite wet. I then took additional pains to crumple them, stomp on them, and only when I felt a bit relieved did I stop to put my clothes back in the machine for a second wash. This time of course I kept time.

I really didn’t bother to find out who did it, or whose clothes I screwed up, or if I was right in my half-baked theories to assume the attacked clothes were actually the right ones. It was more for satisfaction for the moment and it worked amazingly well.

Moral of the story is there is no moral of the story. The thing is, I still think what I did was right. The thing is that if the same thing happened again today, I would do exactly the same thing, perhaps a little better because now I know the situation. The thing is when Zo comes back and tells me someone hit her at school, my first reaction is to ask her if she hit the kid back because God forbid she gets bullied, but I bite it back and ask her if she told the teacher. And when she says she did but the teacher did not say anything (which could be true, or not), I ask her if she hit the kid back anyway.

I wonder if that makes me a bad parent, but honestly, I don’t care if it does. I know, one might think that is wrong, this is what is wrong with the world. But no, as long as we are venting out at the person who caused us pain in the first place, it is justified in my case. Because how much ever Zen you are, what goes in, will somehow come out. Better hit the person it is intended for, than a random by passer. And yes, while I understand that stooping to low levels just because someone else did doesn’t make sense to many, if it hurts me personally, I would rather get it out of my system than bottle it up hoping and wishing that in some manner the universe will fix things for me. It’s just so much faster, and more convenient.

And it’s also the only way I can sleep peacefully at night.

Tales of the road

My dad bought me my first two-wheeler when I was in Class 9. Motorized. While this might classify me as a spoilt brat in most opinions, truth is I needed it mainly to propel my geek-dom further, because the whole point behind the bike was this way I could attend after-school maths classes in 10th and get amazing marks. Which was difficult if I missed my school bus back home, the only alternate mode of transport being a ‘tempo’ also known as shared auto, and a 2 km walk each way. This would also eat into, yes, you’re right, study time and I couldn’t have that, so I got my two-wheeler. And also, amazing marks in Maths.

Anyway, when my Dad offered to buy me the vehicle, I by default chose a Luna Super. Yes, the trusty old moped which would not cross 40 kmph if you set fire to it. My Dad offered to buy me a ‘Kinetic Pride’ at that time, relatively more expensive, and definitely better looking but I turned it down because another friend in school had a Luna (Class 8 onwards, I know I am not helping my bratty case here). I however did not accept this reasoning in my head until yet another friend, who bought a Kinetic Pride very pointedly (and rather rudely) said that I just followed whatever friend number one did. I was pretty pissed at the allegation and did not retort because I knew she was right.

So Class 10 came and I started taking the moped to school which was a good 8 kms away. I even started taking my little sister, then in Class 7 along. It was well and good until one eventful morning in April, just about 15 odd days into all this awesomeness, I rode full on into this stationary ‘tempo’ while humming ‘ Gaate the pehle akele’ from the film Khamoshi. I do not hum that song while on a bike since then.

I fell, and so did my sister, and our bags and stuff and a group of people gathered around us and for a few minutes I was too dazed and then I saw this huge gash on my knee and panicked. Before I  proceed I need to tell you that panic is my favorite form of reaction and my first choice for any situation. And most often for reasons other than what technically would be priority for others.

This case was no different and while my primary reason for stressing should have been ‘Oh My God, is my sister ok? Have I broken any bones, followed by ‘Oh My God look at that gash, it’s going to need stitches!’, it actually was ‘Oh My God my dad is not going to let me ride this to school anymore!’ So when one of the people in crowd asked me my phone number, I gave it pretty reluctantly, adding vehemently that he was NOT supposed to call my parents. No, I did not pause to think what else he would use my number for. And no, I did not think if the by-standers were worried if I had hurt my head.

So I tied a handkerchief (or the cleaning cloth for the tempo, I swear I couldn’t care), and wait for this, rode to school. I had fallen mid-way between school and home. And I chose to ride to school where from I thought, I would call home and calmly inform them of a slight fall that had happened and I don’t know, wish for them to never notice that 2 inch deep wound on my knee where I swear I could see my bone.

I reached school and called them back, only to have my grandmom pick the call and tell me that they were on their way to school. I cursed the well-wisher dude and sat back and waited. They came over, calmly inspected the situation (not the wound thankfully), and took me to a doctor The doctor had a look at it and pronounced that I needed stitches. And thanks to anesthesia (whose concept I seem to have been alien to apparently, cos I kept asking him if it would hurt, to which he kept saying ofcourse it would, moron) I never knew when it got done.

Long story short, (ok, not so short I guess) I live to tell the tale with the scar still apparent on knee. Three stitches which could have changed the course of my life. Ok, that’s way too much exaggeration, but it could definitely have changed my mode of transportation, which sucked cos hello, I wasn’t taking a tempo everyday! But somewhere during the summer vacations (which started soon), I re-convinced my Dad to let me go to school on the moped and he agreed much to the annoyance of my mom.

Between then and now I have changed 3 two-wheelers. The Luna, followed by a Scooty in college to an Aviator I ride to work today. I have fallen multiple times, maintaining an average of a fall per year, minor scratches that hurt for an hour, to scars that still show. Lived through skids that happened just because they hadn’t in a while, to falls that happened because a stupid dog ran behind the vehicle barking his guts out, only to give a look and walk away when I finally fell while taking a turn without reducing speed (no, I don’t wish he had fulfilled his karma and bitten me, but I hate purposeless noise). Ridden on narrow lanes in Meerut and big roads in Hyderabad and broken ones in Pune. So the road is no alien to me thanks to my mighty scooter.

But looks it was the mighty scooter doing all the work all this while because last week I finally joined car driving classes and it is not the same. Not even close. Firstly, there aren’t 400 things to manage like in this case. Just because we have two hands and two feet and two eyes doesn’t mean you have a job defined for all of them simultaneously. Also, 7:30 AM for some people really means 7:30 AM for some people, and 20 minutes does not mean 5 minutes and these seem to be difficult to digest concepts for my driving instructors. In any case I am trying, and it has just been 6 days so I am hoping things improve soon. So if you see an out-of-control red i10 around Magarpatta City in Pune anytime, and a frowning (albeit very cool if you ignore her disheveled look) 31 year old at the wheel who seems to be trying hard to not whack the guy sitting next to her, come say hi.

Or don’t. I might just knock you over.

 

Nostalgia and all that Jazz

Friday night is here people.

What do we talk about today? I realized that I haven’t been checking out the prompts at all. Do you suggest I do that? Ok, give me a sec.

Ok, that took more than a sec. And also, I couldn’t decide. So I am back to where I was, the state of cluelessness. What do we write about? What do we write about?

While I think about that, I will tell you all that I can see around me right now. I am sitting on a bed, which is covered with toys and dolls and little Zo. These toys are actually mine. Mine and the lil sister’s. My mom has chosen to store it all, and my daughter is actually playing with them right now. That’s something I wouldn’t have really thought about when I was younger, but right now, it feels quite nice to see her play with the stuff I played with at some point of time. Some of the toys, in fact, I had forgotten ever existed.

To my right is an old, rusted bookshelf. Now this has stuff I always wanted my mom to keep safely. Books from my past, my childhood. A huge collection of Enid Blyton’s, of which Malory Towers and St. Clare’s were perhaps my favorite reads of all times. Somehow, I always wanted to keep these safe, and also ensure they were kept at my parents’ because that’s how, when I had a daughter (if I had a daughter, or even a son, though he might have preferred my sister’s collection of Famous Fives. Stereotyping much, but well, it’s up to me right?), she would get to read them during her vacations when she would spend hours here. Yep, I planned all that a long time ago.

Anyway, while I was typing this, and running out of material, I decided to do something that I don’t commonly do. Put up a couple of pics. So I clicked the pile of old toys on my bed. And then I went to the bookshelf, but guess what, NO Enid Blyton’s! Blasphemy! Apparently they were all under the bed. So I asked Amma to pick the mattress and the lid up, and clicked a pic for you. Nice of me yes? Also, it reminded me that another guilt reading love I had in the past was Archies comics. I was a huge fan! Betty, Veronica, Archies and Jughead. I loved them all. Also, I was never the Tinkle kind. Comics meant Archies in my case. Ooh, ofcourse, this was when I was slightly older. I started with Chacha Chaudhary, Billoo, and Pinky, which by the way, I still think were hilarious!

Ok, here are the pics.

20140110_213856 20140110_214004

Anyhoo, all this nostalgic posting made me realize that I have one another treasure I can paw through. Photographs! Wheee! I love doing that and giving judgmental comments regarding how weirdly my mom would tie my hair back then. And how it was so unfair that my tiny eyes were always over smeared with Kajal. It’s fun. And annoys her immensely.

So I will proceeding to do just that. And before I leave, I will leave you with yet another awesome pic.

Little DI

No, not Zo’s. Mine. Bah. This is my favorite baby picture of myself by the way. My dad says that he pretty much fought with mom and did not allow her to put kajal in this pic. Which is something I am glad about by the way. Because all the rest of my baby pics are fully kohl eyes, and ‘drishti bottu-ed‘. Safe maybe, but cute, absolutely not.

Also, I still intend to keep the no pics of Zo policy out here, but I just broke the no personal pics policy, so you never know. Keep watching the space. You don’t know what frustration can make one do. And there’s no frustration like a Writer’s block, and we have another 21 days to survive.

That was a lot right? Do we need a real post now? What? What did you say? This itself is a real post? Oh, you are so nice. And I completely agree. So that’s all it is for today.

Have a fun weekend folks,  You will, I know, afterall you’re allowed to not read my weekend posts until Monday.

Monsoon Wedding

The day of my Wedding, it rained. It did not rain the day before, or the day after. But on the day of the wedding, it rained like that was the purpose for which this world came into existence in the first place. It started raining in the wee hours of morning, when I struggled to ensure that my freshly washed hair dried enough by itself for it to be twisted into a French plait in time, because a hair dryer would only make it frizzier. It rained as I got into my pattu saree and fretted about how awful the drape was and almost burst into tears that nothing was working fine. It rained as the huge melee of relatives in the house took turns to have a bath and hogged the only mirror, while I was left glowering that no one cared if the bride got ready or not and hello, no bride meant no wedding, so what were they all in a hurry to get ready for themselves?

It rained as we quickly piled into the cars that would take us to the venue. It rained the whole way, while I worried that we would be late for the muhurat, forgetting that we had decided the muhurat to be ‘when the Bride and Groom would be around and ready’. It rained when I got off the car and started walking towards the mandap, and the photographer chose to protect his equipment from the rain so there are no pictures of that.

It continued raining as my aunt fixed my hair and the drape and I was secretly happy that the groom got delayed, but made up my mind to give him a talking to when he arrived. It rained as we sat through the 2 hour ritual, most of which had me grinning madly, or giggling away at The Dude’s incoherent rendition of the shlokas the priest was reciting. As the smoke from the agni got into my eyes, and the groom escaped the tears thanks to his glasses, I looked out of the window to our right, and it was still raining.

Once we were done the official wedding, all that remained was getting decked up for the Reception in the evening, something I had really planned to do, but the rain hadn’t stopped. The lady from the parlor I paid quite a bit for arrived late, because of the traffic jams in the city, thanks to the rain. The beautiful garden setting we had decided upon had to be hurriedly moved into halls because it wouldn’t stop raining. And since everyone else decided to delay their arrival to the venue until it stopped raining, the groom was running around doing all the work as it rained. The lady finally arrived and started her work, only to announce that my hair wouldn’t settle down because the rain and humidity had made it too frizzy to style.

It rained as I went through the whole make up ritual only to realise I hated it. It rained as we walked around the hall, and even across the wet gardens to meet the guests because the groom wanted an atypical reception. It rained as my heels dug into wet earth, and my frigging expensive lehenga was dampened on the edges. It was still raining when I took one glance at one of the photographs in the camera and immediately went to wash the goop off my face. It rained as we posed for photographs, the groom bright and happy, the bride glum, make-up less, plain and frizzy haired.

It wasn’t raining as much as we wrapped it for the day, and the guests were leaving. It had completely stopped raining by the time the family left for home loaded with the gifts and the bouquets, the groom settled the bills, and I finally sat down to remove the heeled shoes which had blistered my feet.

Ever since that day, every year I would look out to see if it rained on the day of our Wedding. It never did. Anniversaries came and anniversaries went, and however much we were in the midst of monsoons, on that particular day, there would never be a drop, not one single drop.

Until yesterday. 6 years since that day in June, yesterday,  it rained. Continuously, heavily, the whole time. Just like that day. And it was beautiful.

Just like that day.

Then we came to the end

Ahem, so how did I bring in the New Year? Just when we finally decided to remove all details of our identity from our blog page, finally change our url and move to a new blog host, they go ahead and publish this, something I took part in when blogger interviews were the ‘in’ thing! What maketh a blog post? Guess who played hooky from the blogosphere for more than two weeks? Saturday afternoon. Every day, I feel sorry for myself. So once again it is the Fundamentally Fantastic Friday (Ok, don’t kill me), and so I decide to pay the new post section of my blog a visit. I have nothing to write about. I always feel that my posts are too much of a ramble to actually give any sort of information or insights, which will actually help mankind, or in other words, the kind who read this blog. Good examples of optimism. Fantastic Friday is here, and of course it is a holiday for all of us in India. Nobody liked my last post.

Hey! Wait, wait. Don’t go away already! That was not the post, come on! Am I not allowed some reminiscing? No, I am not high, this is 3:00 PM on a Wednesday afternoon! Jeez! Ok, so that was in short 2010 in the blogosphere. Yeah, yeah, I went the not-so-original way and plucked sentences off my first post each month and made it into the mash above. So sue me. Though it does make some sort of weird sense to me, the whole paragraph? Does it to you?

Ok, don’t answer that. I am back from a much fun, short vacation to Pondicherry. That place has the makings of a mini-Goa, they really should try. It’s got everything, the beaches, the alcohol, and the yummilicious food. Seriously, I think every place with a beach has the ingredients to make it big as a holiday spot. That being said, I think that was a good thing to do, the holiday, it marks the perfect end to a pretty good year. Now going by how I started, I think I had a smooth sailing time. 2010 was the year of growing up. I mean, we bought the house, and then the lil Sis got married. That’s pretty grown-up stuff right? Eh, who am I kidding.

And for the blog, 2010 was the year it arrived. I think it proved it’s purpose of existence this year. This is my 55th post this year, and that is way above average considering the 280 odd posts I managed to put up in 6 and a half years! And this, considering the one liner updates regarding placements, summers, K  (and ‘A’s in Supply chain, like someone helpfully pointed out. Hmph. ) which flooded my blog when it had started. By that standard, this was a hyper-active year. That, and the number of people I came to know (and even met one of them!) through this. I really could not have asked for more. And of course, the blog couldn’t have asked for more either.

2010 was ok. And now it’s almost over. And I like that. Because I always look forward to new beginnings with a lot of hope, and excitement. It’s the same happiness that I used to feel when I would carry my brand new notebooks, covered with crisp brown paper, and with the bright labels,  on the first day of school. And I would use my best, most awesome handwriting in each class, because that’s how I would want the books to be through the year. Awesome.  As time would pass by, there would be doodles in the margins, smudged inky portions thanks to the sweaty individual after an hour of running around in the games hour, and rounds of Hollywood, and Naughts and crosses on the last page. But the beginning was always perfect. Fresh. And that’s how I begin each year. That’s how I would want to begin 2011. Start afresh. Clean slate. New calendars, new diaries, new resolutions, if you must.

So fingers crossed (and toes too), I am all set to step into the next year (which sadly is not a cool year in itself – no new decade, no new last single digit year of the century, no nothing, like my boring birthday), gingerly, to begin with, but with a  hope that I can hop and skip across to the other side, wiser, happier and content.

See you all on the other side!

PS My Macbook (aka Macky, I cannot get  more original than this) is here! That is one HUGE thing off my wish-list!

PS2 No, I am not writing this post on it.  I wish I was though. I miss Macky

PS3 I wish I had one. Or a Nintendo Wii.  Or an XBox. Anything will do. (Ok, that was flicked from the The Dude, who wrote this in one of his mails to me, and I found it super-funny)

Ok, now seriously, see you in 2011! Adios!

Hup. Two. Three. Four.

Every day, I feel sorry for myself. Sorry for the fact that I am as unfit as I am. And every day, I resolve, or at least say to myself that I would be starting some sort of a fitness regime to put things right. Soon. Only, soon never comes. Or in the few cases it does, it ends even sooner.

It would be incorrect to say that I have never made an attempt at losing weight getting fitter. From burning a hole in my pocket for a gym membership to endangering my taste-buds by going on weird-ass diets, I have done it all. If I revisit my earlier encounters with ‘good health’, I would have the following cases to highlight

Circa 2004. K campus. With all the classes, extremely haphazard schedules, amazing breakfasts that were always missed, and dinners which were better off being missed, one would think losing weight was an obvious outcome. But no. Turns out that the 2 AM Maggies, the super-rich chocolate shakes, and the self-made samosa chats, along with the hot chocolates after each class from the ‘Fresh n Honest’ lady, would not only balance the effect out, but would in fact tip it to the other side. The year saw majority guys making trips to the newly upgraded gym, and the girls taking daily walks up and down the hill. That prompted me to try it too. Only, I lasted all of 3 days, and now I think I should not have quoted this as an attempt in the first place.

Circa 2005. The first year of work, and of realizing that I in fact had no life on weekdays. With both the other roomies joining gyms at work, I was all enthusiastic about doing the same too. Only, the gym near my office was much more expensive than the in-house gym that the other two enjoyed. But armed with a will like never before, I still went ahead and enrolled myself, for a 3 month package, because that was 20% cheaper. The first month was pretty good, and I managed to go 4 days a week, and control my diet too, mainly because I would never wake up in time for a breakfast. But as soon as the second month arrived, well, as usual, I gave up. To some extent, the roomies were to blame, because they stopped too.

Circa 2007. The arrival of the Mom. Ma stayed with me for the 3 months after Pure-veg ex roomie left to B’lore (ditcher!) and before I was to get hitched to The Dude. And everybody in this world knows that the advent of the mom in the household which has till date survived on Maggi and curd rice, can only mean spoilt, pampered taste-buds and an ever expanding waistline. Again, not a good thing for someone who intends to fit in to the wedding clothes chosen and handed over for stitching in the somewhat slimmer days. So The Dude and I took it upon ourselves to go for early morning walks every day. Those were the days when 6 AM meant midnight for me, so that was a tough task alright, but I managed. For almost a month. Before work took me to London, and The Dude to Amreeka, and Bam! That was the end of the morning walks.

Circa 2007 again. The happily married couple decided that gymming together would be so romantic. And of course, would help them use the existing clothes for a longer time. So a gym was joined, and this time, despite historical evidence, the super-enthusiastic couple went ahead and took a year long membership! Explanation being, ‘Baby, we would never miss a single day when we knew how much money we were wasting by doing so’. Yeah. Right. The encounter with the gym and Disgusted face lasted a month and half, and then it was goodbye health. And money. Sob.

Circa 2008. Ok. So we are unfit. And we are incapable of indulging anything that remotely resembles physical activity. So let’s diet! The thing is, I have never ever stopped myself from eating what I like. And just like every lucky individual, my basic criteria for liking anything requires it to be deep fried, or chocolatey, or deep fried. Except for Subway sandwiches. Which by the way, I only like with cheese and mayonnaise. Heh, you get the drift. Anyway, so I go on this week long GM diet after having read so much about it, and after all the struggle with the icky amount of fruits to be consumed, and the compulsory 8 glasses of water per day, I actually managed to ‘flush out’ a couple of extra kilos and inches off me. But of course, I swore never to put myself through it again.

And obviously, I was wrong. Circa 2009, I had consciously managed hour long Yoga session everyday for almost 2 months. And all was well, until I changed jobs. And then again, it was back to the zero physical activity regime. That made me go on the GM diet again, and this time, I was pathetic. Not that I didn’t stick to the menu, but I guess the fact that I abhorred the whole concept so much now, probably ensured that it was not as effective this time around. And of course the fact that I ate an ice-cream on day 6.
Anyway, the whole point to this post is simple. I feel unfit. I feel lethargic. I have a back ache, and a neck pain and all sorts of ailments. I don’t drink water. And all this is making me very cranky. I need to do something about it, only I don’t know what. Or rather, I don’t know how. And I know that writing about it won’t really solve the issue, but then when do we write for resolutions huh? So all I can do is wish and hope and pray that we resort to some kind of a healthy lifestyle.
Soon.