I made rotis today. My Saturday nights just can't get any wilder! It ranks right up there with lying sprawled on the bed, fondly patting my belly and periodically checking my navel for lint. I've been doing that a lot lately too. Although the 'patting my belly' part is more an involuntary tick than any conscious act of titillation on my part. It started because lately I've started hitting the gym with a vengeance, trying to get that elusive 6-pack that graphic designers learn to photoshop on Ajay Devgan in design school. Every time a new Golmaal movie poster is released, they get paid on commission - a tola of weed for every stretch mark removed, I think is the standard payment.
Anyway, unfortunately the ordeal of acquiring a washboard stomach comes as a package deal - the excruciating pain of doing something called 'planks' which is clearly some sort of torture devised during the Spanish Inquisition, the occasional coughing fits, which is basically my lungs' reaction to being forced through a 3 K run ('What are you doing?', they ask one another. 'No, don't do this, we love our lethargy and cancer. Light another cigarette, man. Yessssssss, that's the shiz!') and a fair amount of dejection every time I look in the mirror and find that the conniving love-handle still exists. You'd think 3 days would be enough to get ripped, wouldn't you? I mean come on, how much effort could Salman Khan have possibly put into it before Dabangg? A sit up with every peg of whiskey at the most.
But as I eat the barfis and cadbury eclairs that fortuitously appear in my hand from to time while I subject my brain to IPL, and check my stomach once again to see if the last snack did the trick, I am also affected by this niggling sense of vacuity that's been looming over me of late. It's a manifestation of the kind of self-hate that comes with accomplishing absolutely nothing over a period of 2 months. Don't get me wrong, I am perfectly in my element accomplishing nothing and being quite bumptious about it while I'm at it, but that's always been because there were always things that needed doing before any attempt at self-actualization could be made. For example, consider this conversation I have on a regular basis with my brain..
Brain: "What's the deal with your man boobs? Why can't you do a pull up from time to time?"
Me: "Oh brain! Just go away, I have an HR assignment to do."
Brain: "Yes I get that, you stopped taking my help on assignments long ago."
Me: "Now don't get all senti on me. This way is much more efficient."
Brain: "But must you eat that anda-maggi while you do it?"
Me: "Do I tell you to stop fantasizing about Anushka Sharma in class?"
Brain: "No-"
Me: "Then don't be such a dick man! Go back to thinking about the 101 things you would do with Anushka if you were alone in a room with nothing but Bru"
You see? There were always things that had to be done! Like assignments, group-work, case-studies...which are all basically the same thing with varying amounts of Anushka Sharma fantasies while I do them. I mean, when you're doing a group-work with 5 other classmates, moaning 'Uhhhh ...Yes! Lick that coffee' every 7 seconds is very inappropriate...I'm told.
The point is I would be very content continuing to do the same while at home as well. But Calcutta has this way of sapping your drive, dreams and libido (not necessarily in that order) and leaving you with a sense of trepidation about the days to come when you will not be in your comfy parents' house in Calcutta anymore. So you find yourself coming up with productive solutions to problems that have not arisen yet. For instance, 'How will I get a decent flat when I shift to Mumbai?....I should read A House for Mr. Biswas.', and "What will I eat?...shit, learn to cook!"
And it was thus that I finally threw the gauntlet at the pack of Aashirvaad, got my hands dirty and shocked the kaamwaali by asking for her help on something without using the words, 'laptop screen ektu dust kore dao na'. And if you've never kneaded dough before, I feel it is my moral obligation to give you a real feeling of what it's like. Picture the clay-modeling scene from Ghost. Now replace Demi Moore with Anushka Sharma. Now realize that you don't look like Patrick Swayze. Subsequently, remember that there is a hexagenarian kaamwaali glaring at you for literally taking the rozi roti out of her mouth. Awkward.
The result? They weren't inedible. They turned out like malformed blotchy house-lizards if they were run over by a bulldozer but aside for the mild burnt taste, they were fine. What I really objected to is the potol. Yuck, why is there no end to potol in my life? I will despise them till the day I die. And even then, some smartass will find a way to put 'Potol tuleche' in my obituary.
Anyway, unfortunately the ordeal of acquiring a washboard stomach comes as a package deal - the excruciating pain of doing something called 'planks' which is clearly some sort of torture devised during the Spanish Inquisition, the occasional coughing fits, which is basically my lungs' reaction to being forced through a 3 K run ('What are you doing?', they ask one another. 'No, don't do this, we love our lethargy and cancer. Light another cigarette, man. Yessssssss, that's the shiz!') and a fair amount of dejection every time I look in the mirror and find that the conniving love-handle still exists. You'd think 3 days would be enough to get ripped, wouldn't you? I mean come on, how much effort could Salman Khan have possibly put into it before Dabangg? A sit up with every peg of whiskey at the most.
But as I eat the barfis and cadbury eclairs that fortuitously appear in my hand from to time while I subject my brain to IPL, and check my stomach once again to see if the last snack did the trick, I am also affected by this niggling sense of vacuity that's been looming over me of late. It's a manifestation of the kind of self-hate that comes with accomplishing absolutely nothing over a period of 2 months. Don't get me wrong, I am perfectly in my element accomplishing nothing and being quite bumptious about it while I'm at it, but that's always been because there were always things that needed doing before any attempt at self-actualization could be made. For example, consider this conversation I have on a regular basis with my brain..
Brain: "What's the deal with your man boobs? Why can't you do a pull up from time to time?"
Me: "Oh brain! Just go away, I have an HR assignment to do."
Brain: "Yes I get that, you stopped taking my help on assignments long ago."
Me: "Now don't get all senti on me. This way is much more efficient."
Brain: "But must you eat that anda-maggi while you do it?"
Me: "Do I tell you to stop fantasizing about Anushka Sharma in class?"
Brain: "No-"
Me: "Then don't be such a dick man! Go back to thinking about the 101 things you would do with Anushka if you were alone in a room with nothing but Bru"
You see? There were always things that had to be done! Like assignments, group-work, case-studies...which are all basically the same thing with varying amounts of Anushka Sharma fantasies while I do them. I mean, when you're doing a group-work with 5 other classmates, moaning 'Uhhhh ...Yes! Lick that coffee' every 7 seconds is very inappropriate...I'm told.
The point is I would be very content continuing to do the same while at home as well. But Calcutta has this way of sapping your drive, dreams and libido (not necessarily in that order) and leaving you with a sense of trepidation about the days to come when you will not be in your comfy parents' house in Calcutta anymore. So you find yourself coming up with productive solutions to problems that have not arisen yet. For instance, 'How will I get a decent flat when I shift to Mumbai?....I should read A House for Mr. Biswas.', and "What will I eat?...shit, learn to cook!"
And it was thus that I finally threw the gauntlet at the pack of Aashirvaad, got my hands dirty and shocked the kaamwaali by asking for her help on something without using the words, 'laptop screen ektu dust kore dao na'. And if you've never kneaded dough before, I feel it is my moral obligation to give you a real feeling of what it's like. Picture the clay-modeling scene from Ghost. Now replace Demi Moore with Anushka Sharma. Now realize that you don't look like Patrick Swayze. Subsequently, remember that there is a hexagenarian kaamwaali glaring at you for literally taking the rozi roti out of her mouth. Awkward.
The result? They weren't inedible. They turned out like malformed blotchy house-lizards if they were run over by a bulldozer but aside for the mild burnt taste, they were fine. What I really objected to is the potol. Yuck, why is there no end to potol in my life? I will despise them till the day I die. And even then, some smartass will find a way to put 'Potol tuleche' in my obituary.
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