Food is life. And life is food.

Food! How soothing is this word, to hear? Every time someone says it, my heart starts to flutter. Yes, I am a food addict, and ‘I love food’ is an understatement. This is my religion; no bias, no judgment, no discrimination. OK, now! Keeping the drama aside. It didn’t quite start like this. There was a time when I used to hate food. Yes, I said it!

Quick background:

Those who know me know that I am ever so thin. Those who ‘really’ know me know that I have high BMR, yadda, yadda, yadda, or what I call the Jughead syndrome, were putting on weight was a constant struggle, even though I eat loads. Not getting into the science of it. But in a nutshell, I was a skeletal kid.

Now, to the story:

Let me introduce you to Mom, aka the mother – My mom is a true Indian mother, the epitome of it I should say. So, by nature, she did and still does everything humanly possible to get me to put on weight. So, back when I was 12 something, in one of her attempts, mommy dear used to serve me large plates filled with food as a daily routine—no exaggeration, here. Now, me being the super-smart human I am, I schemed a tactic to deceive her.

The game-plan:

  1. Food is served on a plate, by Mom. It was rice always. I am a South Indian 🙂
  2. Mom leaves the room.
  3. I quickly make rice balls and shoot them out of the balcony. If the consistency of food does not allow me to do it. I place it in a plastic bag, knot it tightly, and throw it out.
  4. Mom returns
  5. I pretend to be seriously eating and about to complete the meal.

At that time, we stayed on the 2nd floor of an apartment, and the balcony leads to an open yard. So, this plan worked perfectly and was well executed in discreet for a few months. Fortunately, my sibling acted as a silent spectator and didn’t rat me out.

Then came THE day when fate became my nemesis, gravity defied me, and karma came in a freaking Bugatti. That day, a series of events unfolded like this:

  1. Food is served on a plate, by Mom. (Rice, again. No surprise)
  2. Mom leaves the room.
  3. I weigh the consistency of food and reach out for a plastic bag. I realize I am out of plastic bags and quickly make rice balls and shoot them out.
  4. Mom returns
  5. I pretend to be seriously eating and about to complete the meal.
  6. Doorbell rings
  7. Mom answers the door.
  8. Watchman asks my mom to step out, tells her something, and leaves.
  9. Mom closes the door behind and gives me the nastiest ‘mom stare’ I ever saw.
  10. Let us just say it got interesting from there. Details not disclosed for readers’ discretion.

The finale:

Apparently, the uncle from downstairs complained that something fell into his teacup, and it looked like particles of rice. A perfect plan ruined by someone who decided that sipping hot tea in his balcony at NOON, was a great idea. What was he even thinking?

In a nutshell, that day on, I always ate my food. Always! Or I would strategically put it on my siblings’ plate. 🙂

PS: If anyone empathizes with my story and wants to help, please DM me. I am yet to find that man and would appreciate any help.


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