“Mein aur mera wazan
Phool se bhi nazuk badan”
These lines were etched in stone and carved out on my forehead when I was in school. It was a sure shot way to get the girls in my class laughing and showing the smart arse guys that I could laugh on myself which gave them very little advantage in ridiculing me. These lines usually followed with a few jokes about myself like…
You know, when I’ve to go somewhere, I need to check the direction of the wind coz. I can go only in the direction in which the wind is blowing (girls laughing harder…) and I get late to school whenever the wind is in the opposite direction. I’ve to put extra books in my bag to keep me on course (girls holding their bellys and laughing harder…)
I never, in my life thought that a day would come when I’d have to worry about my waist line. I mean, I always worried but the other way round; especially when I went to buy jeans. Those were the days of skin tight jeans and none of the stores would have my size – a cute 26. I then asked my brother (who was in Dubai) to send me a few good jeans (size 26). And he did send me a few good skin tight jeans. Years later, he’d confess that he didn’t find my size in the men’s section so he had bought these from the girls section, rather than disappoint me. Even I found my jeans, unnaturally narrow at the bottom but heck, that was the best I could get.
Into adulthood, everyone told me, not to worry. Once I’m married, I’ll bloat up like a balloon. I got married and hoped for the best… After a few months… nothing happened, so I waited a bit more… After a few more months… still nothing. I was approaching 30 but looked like a 22 year old. Few more years passed but my weight remained 60 and intermittently touched 58 with every bout of throat infection and fever.
Finally, God showed me the way… literally. Just before the month of Ramadan in 2008, my wife went to India, a month before me. This meant, I was free, free from home… free from work (Ramadan timings are upto 2 pm only) and free to pursue my 30 year old dream. Beef up a little. The added attraction was the Goa holiday that was coming up.
For the first time in my life, I was serious; I downloaded training programs, diet plans and what not and formulated a thrice a week heavy training program. I started following my diet and training regime regularly. So regularly, that I even surprised myself. I never missed the mandatory Carb+Protein meal 2 hours before the gym and stuck to my schedule; logged everything. The time at the gym started stretching from the initial 40 minutes to almost 90 minutes.
Happy with results, I went to India, weighing 66 kgs. For the first time in my life, I was this heavy. Though I was way below my target of a lean and muscled body, almost everyone saw a visible difference. Longer hair, filled in cheeks and feet firmly on the ground with my own weight. Though I was nowhere near the six pack abs I’d imagined before beginning my schedule, I was happy, and content.
But alas, my happiness was short lived. My appetite was enlarged, I think my stomach expanded inside with all the food that I ate. I stopped the gym and thought my appetite would also recede but that didn’t happen. I continued eating like a starved refugee. And since I was no longer on a diet plan, I ate whatever I liked. Mutton biryanis, pastries, ice-creams, beer… I thought, that of all the people in the world, I couldn’t have a weight issue. After all,
“Mein aur mera wazan
Phool se bhi nazuk badan”
These were the lines that I made immortal. This couldn’t happen to me.
But my waist wasn’t listening. It continued its outward journey. My stomach, after years of being stuck to my back, seemed to be enjoying its new found freedom and relishing its journey to reach the outside world. 7 months after the Goa trip and my continued zest for eating, my boss finally noticed pointing to my paunch – What is that???
I was shocked. I mean, never did I think that my stomach, who stuck to me for years like an Afghani wife, would reach out and betray me. I was the original ‘lean machine’. The guy who could fold his legs in the most complicated yoga postures with tremendous ease coz. there was no fat on them. The guy whose gym instructor was scared to let him lie on the bench and press barbells; the guy whose diet plan meant indulgence rather than deprivation; the guy whose biceps would fit into a full grip with the tips of their fingers still touching (and still some space in between as well); the guy who could be used in a Science class to show a human’s bone structure; yes, that guy was now a certified uncle with a potbelly and weighed 70 kgs with the weighing scale seemed to add a kg every few weeks.
I never thought I’d never need to write a post about my increasing weight. C’mmon, I used to be ‘the dude’ but it won’t be long before I turn into a ‘daddu’.
I’ve started the two-hundred situps challenge, have promised to cut down on rice (sadly that also means biryani) and am hoping to get back in shape for my brother-in-law’s wedding. Thankfully, it hasn’t been long so the damage seems to be limited. But I’ve certainly understood the saying ‘Be careful what you wish for!’
Located in Dubai but Heart in India 