Protected: Happy birthday Shanti
Protected: It’s diwali and I have a cold
The great battle of the bulge
No prize for this one but I did get a special mention at the Blogadda contest ‘Good over Bad’.. yay yay yay. Here’s what judge Vidya Sury had to say…
Tulika (yes, I scrolled your blog to find your name) – more power to you! You’ve proved that one of the really ‘good’ qualities of an individual is the ability to laugh at the self. Humorously presented – and fun to read, you’ve waged the battle against that “bad” xxl and emerging victorious on the path to looking “good”. Yes, when you talk about health, good is certainly better than bad. Listen to your body talk to you!
 |
| This is what I think I look like when I exercise |
This is the story of the war I’ve been fighting for as long as I can remember — the battle of the bulge — the biggest battle of my life. There has been no truce for nearly thirty years.
For many many years I had been on a winning streak… till my twins happened. The enemy, finding my attention diverted, attacked with full force. By the time the kids turned four and I took cognizance of the situation, the enemy stood waving its victory flag all over me. My cholesterol was soaring and my knees hurt from carrying the excess weight. My ten chins showed themselves off proudly like the ten heads of Ravana. I needed to take charge. It was gym time.
I took on aerobics six times a week. I loved the music and thought I’d have fun. My mistake. Ten minutes into the session and I was spent. I stood panting by the stepper. “Giving up?” Taunted all of my seventy kgs? “No way,” said I and on I went driven by will power alone.
There were days of kickboxing, which I thought I would enjoy till the instructor told me to do sixty kicks in a row followed by sixty punches…. My shoulders protested, my thigh muscles cramped but on I went kicking and punching away at the enemy.
Then there were Fridays.. bhangra days. Now, I NEVER dance, never ever. Not even a casual step or two. But I was a woman on a mission. Fridays saw a resolute me boogeying to bhangra beats. I thought that was as far as the War would take me.
My mistake again. The instructors introduced Salsa every Monday. Slasa and me??? My friends laughed … but did I back out? No. On I went. “One two three.. five six seven..… move your waist,” exhorted the trainer. I struggled to move my feet, my waist and my hands in time to the music holding on to an imaginary partner. Once I lost my self-consciousness it wasn’t so bad. I began to have fun. And the icing on the cake – it wasn’t hard work like the bhangra.
After a well-rested Sunday I entered the gym thinking of a cool Salsa session. But is a war ever easy? No sir. The gym replaced Salsa with Hip Hop. Gawd I don’t even like watching that. But where was the choice? Shahid’s song boomed out — Dhan tanan.. Half a dozen youngsters shook, moved, jiggled and jogged. I thought I would die before I’d try those jerks. But I didn’t. The second week there I was again, yes all of my 40 years and 70 kgs, trying to keep pace. I never dared to glance at the mirror at my ridiculous self. I hated it.. every bit of it. But I did it… again and again every week.
For two long months the weighing scales refused to budge. Then slowly.. very very slowly.. gram by gram.. they moved. Within four months people were commenting.. my XXLs are now XLs and I’m waiting for the Ls.
I war with fat because I love myself. Oh yes I intend to be around for a long long time.. my kids need me and I like being alive.
Buy Social Causes T-Shirts
online at
Myntra.com and visit the largest community of Indian
Bloggers at BlogAdda.com
The reluctant convert
I’m not really a cellphone person at all.. at least I thought I wasn’t.
Back in the nineties since when mobiles were launched I have doggedly stuck to my landline. Each time we changed homes and the husband suggested we do away with the landline I protested. Each time he offered to get me a mobile I balked. I didn’t need the interference, I proclaimed.
Mobile phone etiquette leaves a lot to be desired … they ring at the oddest hours.. during official meetings, cosy dinners, in theatres even in temples. And people leave mid-sentence, mid-prayer, mid-meal to answer the call of the call.
I dismissed it as a fad, a tashan. It will fizzle out just like the damp squib pager, I said. I waited patiently with my blinkers on. I had a long wait coming.
I moved to Pune and my new editor insisted I carry a cellphone. I cringed, then allowed the husband to get me one. I kept it but vowed not to use it. I’d give people only my office numbers. Each time someone asked, “What’s your mobile number?” I’d reply grandly (and a tad rudely), “I take official calls only at office.”
Then I missed a story because when the girl I was supposed to interview called me I was out on another assignment. Then I missed another one and another. The boss’ sour face made me start handing out my mobile number. It started to ring more and more frequently. “Oh okay,” I agreed, grudgingly. “It’s a bit useful”. Slowly, silently, insidiously it worked its black magic on me. I found myself reaching out for it in times of happiness and stress.
I got a promotion, it let me gloat in private.
The doctor said I was having twins, I couldn’t call my husband fast enough.
My aunt passed away it helped me lighten my grief.
My son fell ill it let me share my worries.
We moved to a different city it lessened the heartache of parting.
My daughter threw up in school it summoned me in a flash.
Yet I refused to acknowledge and accept its significance in my life.
Then two days back it died. I felt like my whole life had come to a standstill. I had to beg my husband to put an alarm on his phone for the next morning. We’ve long since done away with the alarm clock. I went to drop the kids to school and the bus seemed late. I had no way of telling the time. I haven’t used a watch since I got my mobile. “How will I call the driver,” I wondered. Thankfully the bus came and the kids went off to school.
My son had a cough and I worried as I left for the gym, “What if the school calls and I’m not home?” I ran home from the gym because I had no way of telling the maid, “I’m on my way.” Is it anyone’s birthday today, I wondered as I got home. The trustee mobile never fails to remind me. Oops gotto run now… almost forgot, time to pick up the kids.. no alarm today, damn I’m late.
Whew! Got there just as the bus was arriving.
I have a battery of friends who I catch up with every single day. The husband who shells out the bill will vouch for that. Come evening and the landline started to ring. Where are you? Where have you left your phone? Why is your phone switched off? Why aren’t you taking my call? I must have called you 200 times.
Even my friends and family are missing my mobile. When did it become so important? When did it progress from an unwanted accessory to an official necessity and then to a friend and confidant?
It’s supposed to come home today and I’m ready with my welcome song and aarti ki thali. It’s all about My Friends, My Life, My Phone.
By the water cooler contest
While I was working office life meant periods of high action, when the deadline loomed large, to periods of relative inaction, when we waited for the deadline to loom large.
Life was anything but boring back then. To give up a glimpse of what we grapple with in a newspaper office here are a few vignettes from long long ago.
The Lamba Ladki
Once we had a Bengali editor with a penchant for catchy headlines. He loved puns and suchlike. No sooner would a press realise come by with an invitation for an event and he’d be mulling over the headline even before the story was filed. For a piece on Minissha Lamba he took a fancy to the title, ‘Ek Lamba Ladki’. He just wanted it. I was dubious to say the least.
— first the headline was entirely in Hindi, not too good for an English paper
— the grammar was all wrong.. it had to be Lambi ladki, which of course he didn’t appreciate (no offence to my Bengali friends but I’m reporting this as it was).
— lastly, the biggest problem of them all, the petite Minissha Lamba was just not Lamba enough.
Such a tussle that was.
When the sub is too tired
You do know we work night shifts, right? Coming in at 6 and staying on some days till 2.30 or 3 am was the norm. So there was once this sub, editing the last piece for the day, with the editor breathing down his neck, the deadline long dead. He scurried through the copy, a final spell check and he was done. Next day the article appeared, with the spell check having converted the then Prime minister’s name to Atlas Behari Vampire. What a hoo haa followed.
And then we have reporters
However, it’s not nice to blame the sub editors all the times. The kind of copies they get take a lot out of them. A rookie reporter once had to stand in for the sports reporter. Wrote she, “The team struggled for a long time till finally lucky lady smiled at them…,” Lady luck – lucky lady.. what being the difference?
And the Mix Ups
There are of course famous mix ups. The typo that changed the ‘marital’ to ‘martial’ didn’t make much difference, they are perhaps the same thing. However, when the ‘R’ was dropped from friend, it quite altered the equation and when ‘l’ was dropped from ‘public’ there were serious repercussions. Oh and there were others – the sub editor wrote ‘use picture of Zakir Hussain from Library’ and handed over the dummy to the designing team only to find the percussionist sitting in place of the President next morning.
D the driver
Outside office, life was no less exciting. We had a rather temperamental driver, let’s call him D, who took us home every night/morning. He drove like a maniac on those wide empty roads. To make matters interesting he was extremely short tempered and an alcoholic to boot. Imagine how desperate we would have been to get home to entrust our lives to such a person.
So after we finished work we would go in search of him. Waking him up from his alcohol induced stupor was a task in itself. One night after I had managed to wake him, I found him walking away into the bushes that lined the road near our office. So worried was I that he’d find another quiet corner and drop off asleep I followed him calling, ‘Arey kahan ja rahe hain? Itni der ho gayi hai. Gari nikaliye, please’. Without turning around he lifted his little finger at me and disappeared into the bushes.
So embarrassed was I, I vowed never to call him again, ever.
Fortunately I had my own vehicle and on most days didn’t have to depend on him. However when it got exceptionally late D would be instructed to follow me as I drove home, since I lived pretty close by. He had a thing with my building guards. He would honk much before we reached the building expecting the guards to have the barrier open, which they refused to do insisting they had to check who’s in the vehicle before they let him in. This irked D no end. And one day he simply rammed the jeep into the barrier. The windshield came crashing down, filmy style.
And the big adventure
On the way home was a boys’ hostel. Normally things were pretty peaceful. One eventful day I rode on a little ahead of the office jeep. I had barely crossed the hostel when a stream of boys poured out brandishing swords. (Yes they would settle scores with swords and no I’m not joking neither is this a figment of my imagination). I rode on blissfully unaware of what was happening in my wake while my colleagues in the jeep had the scare of their lives. Mercifully it was an inter-hostel war so the boys weren’t interested in any of us at all plus the reporters got to write out an ‘aankhon dekha haal‘.
Life in a newspaper never has a dull moment.
This post is for Parul’s contest, cool momma to Adi and Ragini, the writer of a hilariously funny blog (Radio Parul) and the author of a book (Bringing Up Vasu, That first year). Her new book (By the Water Cooler) is ready to hit the stands and I’m looking for an autographed copy.