Working and Sulking from Home - Shivani Mohan (LIFE) / Khaleej Times 1 June 2011

I work from home. I have a virtual office and 35 colleagues located all over the world forming a highly competitive and aggressive sales team of an International enterprise, constantly in touch through the internet, providing real time communication solutions to our clients’ queries on any regular 8-10 hour work day. I have had different jobs in the past including some very demanding, high pressure ones with gruelling, long hours. But ever since my daughter was born I wanted to be around to see her grow while also being fruitfully employed and, therefore, went for the work-from-home option. But the experience is not devoid of downsides. It all started around six years back when I started writing content for websites. A friend advised early on, “The only way you can do this is to get ready first thing in the morning as if you’re actually going off to work and completely detach yourself from the rest of the house for your working hours.” Ha! If only it was that easy. I designed my office space with care, getting officious grey curtains, bullying my husband into gifting me one of those power chairs. I trained the cook to prepare the family favourites almost unsupervised. I would type out a weekly food-chart, print out and stick it on the refrigerator for him to refer to. Yes, after years I could finally say ‘Life’s Good!’ But sitting for hours in front of a computer alone? Any regular Indian family resists this type of reclusive behaviour tooth and nail. I remember once mom came visiting and like moms all over the world, my mom has a truckload full of free, unsolicited advice. She saw my routine and soon everything that was not perfect in our house right from my weight gain to my daughter who at two had still not started speaking, to any untidy spots were blamed on my sitting for long on the computer. One day she even asked, “Is everything alright? It worries me that you keep sitting alone in that room with that computer.” I said emphatically, “But that is what writers are supposed to do, mom, sit alone in rooms and brainstorm and confabulate and conceptualise!” “But your daughter is almost two and a half and still on diapers. I had you both toilet-trained at one!” “Mom, just leave me alone, will you? Please keep yourself busy and concentrate on something other than me, puhlease. Go read ‘A Room of Her Own’ by Virginia Woolf. Good read for you, yeah!” Now that I am doing substantially more than writing little articles in my free time I still face the music of being a work-from-home wonder. At social dos when groups of friends are being introduced I often go through the grind. “Oh! Meet Kalpana, she is a doctor. This is Rita, she is a lecturer; Sheila, a hip shaker at large and this is Shivani, she…err works from home,” they invariably mumble the last bit. I can see them conjuring images of me as an ailing housewife from the B&W era of Hindi movies toiling away at a Singer sewing machine, stitching sad little frocks to make both ends meet with some intermittent coughing thrown in. There are phases when nothing can keep you away from the domestic tedium. Days when the cook’s absconding, we’re expecting people over for dinner, the power is down, the net is intermittent and the kid’s running fever. I feel like a split personality, forever walking the tight rope between professional demands and domestic chores. I begin to understand why some mythical Indian Goddesses had eight set of arms flailing behind them. Wish I could borrow a few desperately. I huff to the kitchen grumbling something about my deadlines and targets. But there are win-win days too. There are days when I take my laptop into bed propping it on one of those cute, bed tables wearing a comfy, old T-shirt and track pants. There’s soft music playing in the background, the aroma of a heavenly curry wafting in from the kitchen as I caress my little angel sleeping peacefully next to me-no traffic snarls, no grease paint required, no office politics, no fuss. Yes, I may miss the water cooler gossip at times but heck, what are facebook and twitter for anyway! Shivani Mohan is an India- based writer.  For comments, write to  opinion@khaleejtimes.com

Reality Bites - Shivani Mohan (LIFE) / Khaleej Times 11 December 2010

Slam bam dial a scam. This topsy turvy year of uncertainties and scandals is slowly veering towards a teetering end. It has surely left many of us exhausted with the sheer stress of waking up each morning and wondering what the news would have in store for us. Even if you are not a newshound in the true sense of the word but vaguely follow current affairs, there is a chance that you end up feeling like a Sherlock style sleuth or at least a shady undercover agent, forever unearthing the contrasting pieces of a jigsaw puzzle called India. Till some time ago we could conveniently blame everything that was wrong around us on the infamous politicians, if not on unsuspecting spouses. In fact even till three months ago I could pin down displeasure or discontent of all kinds to the triumvirate of kismet, karma and Kalmadi. Not any more. The haloed list of horrendous howlers is getting longer and longer. Picture this. I have this magical, golden hued hour in the evening when after a long day of work I sit with my daughter to share some quality time watching TV. Now she is seven and totally in love with Mr. Bean while I can’t really stand the sight of his rubber faced expressions and oddities. I often berate him claiming he does not offer anything to learn or emulate. “Mom, he is sweet and really makes me laugh.” “But he is such a nit wit, duh!”  When I have had enough of the exaggerated eye-rolling and mumbling, I snatch the remote from her to watch the news. As she protests, I give her the argument “Let me at least see what’s happening in the real world?” To ensure I quit fast enough, she pretends to take absorbed interest in what I am watching and asks pointed questions “Mom, tell me what’s happening in the world?” I know a volley of questions is going to smother me. And she is a very perceptive child. She closely watches my expressions and asks, “Why are you looking sad now? Is there something wrong happening in the world?” Till a few days ago I could tell her, it’s a bad man, it’s a thief or it’s a terrorist. But these days I am at a loss. This is how our TV viewing ends up on most days. “Mom, who is this guy in orange coloured clothes with the long hair?” “It’s a Godman.”  “What are Godmen supposed to do.” “Err they claim to take us closer to God.” “Then why is he being taken away by the police?” “Maybe he was a little confused like you!” I jest. She rolls in laughter. That was easy. Phew! I change the channel. “Mom, who are these uncles in uniform with the chest full of medals?” “They are very senior defence officials.” “Mom are they brave? Are they even braver than Dad because they have so many medals?” “Sure they were brave enough to erect a tall tower on no man’s land and divide the houses amongst themselves thinking no one will notice in a bustling city like Mumbai.” Change channel. “Ok now what is this big hall, Mom?” “This is our parliament.” “What happens in a parliament?” “In a parliament all the leaders of our country get together and discuss and make all the big plans for our country.” “Why are they shouting and jumping so much, Mom?” “Errr… they must be a little upset today. Maybe because the parliament has been adjourned.” “What is the meaning of adjourned?” “When they have to suddenly declare holidays like it happens in your school sometimes, because of some problem.” “Oh, but see these few people here could not finish their class work. They are still writing in this big book.” “They are just signing the register to make sure they get paid the allowance for the day. Anyway let’s watch something else.” “Ok now who is he?“He is an IAS officer.” “Oh! You told me that we have to study a lot to become that, isn’t it? Why is he too being taken away by the police?” “Well, he actually turned out to be a mole.” “So are moles clever, Mom? You once told me there is a good clever and a bad clever. What kind of clever is a mole?” I switch yet again “Who is she now?” “She is a well known PR person.” “What do PR persons do, Mom?” “(Gulp) I guess they maintain good relations with everyone around and get things done.” “Who are these? “These are some bankers?”  “Cool. Why are they on news today?” “(Sigh) Let me not even go there….” By this time I start wishing for a censored version of news that could be specially aired for mothers of inquisitive seven-year-olds. I wish I could show my daughter something nice and redeeming and sweet and harmless and innocent. These reality bites are freaking me out. But I admonish her instead. “Can you just keep quiet? Your questions are freaking me out!” “So mom, can I put on Mr. Bean?” Yeah, back to Mr. Bean pronto! Everyone’s happy. Shivani Mohan is an India- based  writer. For comments, write to  opinion@khaleejtimes.com

Of Colours, Birds and Poetry in the Spring - Shivani Mohan (INDIA) / Khaleej Times 25 March 2010

It is spring time, when colour and radiance sneak through a bleak grey winter, bringing sunshine and abundance all around. The gardens are awash with a riot of colours. While the season sets many onto other worldly pursuits, it brings out the poet in some. All around woollens and quilts are being spread out in the sun before they can be mothballed and packed in boxes till the advent of next winter. Housewives are busy drying spring vegetables such as carrots, turnip and cauliflower to create a stunning sweet and sour pickle that would perk up an insipid meal in the coming months. Over the centuries, spring season has held its special effect on people’s senses. Poets have gone into raptures over the beauty and mystique of this season.  It is almost as if each bloom is an evidence of life in progression. Each bumble bee sucking nectar from a flower reminds you of the interplay of nature to keep the world alive. Each plaintive cry of the cuckoo is a reminder to value your loved ones. There was a movement called the Romantic movement in English literature that dominated most of 19th century English literature highlighting strong emotion as an authentic source of aesthetic experience. Some of the leading exponents of this movement were poets such as William Wordsworth, William Blake, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Lord Byron and John Keats. Common themes in their work include the reconciliation between man and nature characterised by an emotional response to beauty, as opposed to pure logic and reason. Robert Browning so aptly summed up the magic of this season in: The year’s at the spring, And day’s at the morn; Morning’s at seven; The hill-side’s dew-pearled; The lark’s on the wing; The snail’s on the thorn; God’s in his Heaven - All’s right with the world! Spring means optimism, progress and new beginnings. It is a season when it is almost unthinkable to be away from your loved ones, as Shakespeare said eloquently in Sonnet 98: From you have I been absent in the spring When proud-pied April, dress’d in all  his trim, Hath put a spirit of youth in everything, That heavy Saturn laugh’d and leap’d  with him. Eastern sensibilities too spoke of enjoying the bounties of spring with a loved one. Who can forget the beautiful ghazal by Faiz Ahmed Faiz: Gulon mein rang bhare, baad- e  naubahaar chale, Chale bhi aao ke gulshan ka kar obaar chale. (The flowers are bursting with colours while a cool spring  breeze flows, Oh! Beloved come soon, so that the garden can commence its  business today.) Such is the romantic allure of this season that while the footloose and fancy free go about their business of wooing loved ones, the jaded and much married take solace in some distant memory. It is almost as if Shakespeare mocks this yearning to be in love that accompanies this season in ‘Love’s Labour Lost’: When daisies pied, and violets blue, And lady-smocks all silver-white, And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men, for thus sings he: “Cuckoo! Cuckoo, cuckoo!” O word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear. Seeing so much beauty around sometimes puts you in a philosophical mood. Wordsworth pointed out in his ‘Lines Written in Early Spring’: Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And ‘tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. As we pursue our worldly goals of acquiring that next big car, that penthouse, that promotion, these lines certainly bring out the bigger picture. There is a higher meaning, a greater force that guides the universe.  He then adds: If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature’s holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man? There’s so much to know and learn from nature. It is difficult to stay indoors when there’s so much  happening outside. My enthusiasm about spring is a bit lower the next week as I am caught with a strange coughing problem that seems to have no cure. After several rounds of antibiotics and antihistamines I setup an appointment with the best ENT specialist in town. After thoroughly examining my case the doctor dispels the mystery, “It’s all that pollen in the air. Maybe you have an allergy to flowers!” So now I stay indoors waiting for spring to get over and shudder at the sight of flowers. In this largely cynical and sterile world, the last of the innocent pleasures of life are fast disappearing. Shivani Mohan is an India- based writer. For comments,  write to opinion@khaleejtimes.com

Man Can Cook - Shivani Mohan / Khaleej Times 4 March 2010

I was 17 when I packed my bags and set forth to join a catering college. A glamorous and promising career in hotels beckoned. Life would never be the same again. Though it was a different matter that I was just going about 275 km away from Chandigarh to Delhi but my family huddled together to give me some gyaan, gifts and goodies besides a tearful farewell as if I was crossing the seven seas, never to return. Like a typical teenager I was itching to forsake the comfortable cocoon of my home and take wings to explore  a new world. As I merrily put the haversack of adventure and freedom on my shoulders, my full blooded Punjabi grandmother told me, “Puttar, listen you are old enough to know these things. You may fall in love but be sure to marry a Punjabi, a Brahmin, preferably a Sharma (our family name).” My mother, closer to my generation and a little more open to cross cultural marriages, took me aside to a different room and said, “It is okay if you start liking someone from your profession and decide to marry someone from a different community. Just marry a man who truly loves you but, but please don’t marry a chef.” She did not mean it as an insult to any profession but was simply airing her heart felt views. Back in those days Indians were still quite fixated with the doctor-engineer-lawyer bit. Sanjeev Kapoor had barely risen on the celebrity chef horizon. Pampered sons were not expected to do mundane female stuff like cooking. To my mother’s mind, a son-in-law who would enter the kitchen, don a funny cap and cook was as an alarming proposition. Meanwhile my father, who is a person not given to expressing too much emotion wryly said, “Ladies, I think she is going away for higher studies. And here you are advising her on marriage and love. Are you in your senses?” My father, of course, loved me dearly and felt his daughter could do no wrong. If he had his way, his daughter would have nothing to do with the opposite sex, ever, and I mean it in the best possible way. Catering college was exciting. Besides many other management related subjects we had practical classes in cooking called ‘food production’ and ‘patisserie’ twice a week. Dressed in crisp white chef coats and caps, we learnt the intricacies of various cuisines of the world. We roughed it out, peeling piles of onions teary eyed, chopping potatoes, beating eggs till stiff and white. Apart from the fact that we had to be on our toes for prolonged hours-we were getting ready for the industry, no chairs were provided to sit anywhere-those practicals were sheer fun. If a recipe entailed use of just egg whites, someone at the back would collect all the egg yolks and make a massive cheese omelette for a snack. A simple task of rolling out perfect round chapattis with someone we fancied was like the ultimate  dream date. I remember that the entire process of getting down messy and sweating out in those kitchens changed the way in which we interacted with the opposite sex. For one the girls couldn’t look very lady-like in that garb. Devoid of any make-up and typical feminine trappings, we secured friendships based on a common ground and a comfortable camaraderie. The paradox was heightened by the fact that even though cooking at domestic fronts was a female activity, for some strange reason, it was men who excelled in those classes and later as chefs in hotels. Also my generation of Indian women grew up watching those all American sitcoms where men would plan elaborate meals for their lady love and even offer to do the dishes. Imagine a hunk who opens the door to his house and heart with an apron on- an irresistible scene indeed for any woman. But most Indian men do not want to comply on this front. They have been pampered all their lives by indulging mothers and, therefore, they feel they can’t be seen doing mundane things such as rustling up a meal. I am talking about the average Indian male. So even though I never planned it that way, it so happened that many years later I ended up marrying a Punjabi, a Brahmin, a man who loved me truly and a non-cook. Early on in our marriage, someday when I would be really tired or bored of cooking alone, I would broach this topic gingerly. “You know it was always my dream that my man should cook something for me once in a while and pamper me.” His reply would be, “I have never ever cooked. I have never seen my father do it. So how can I?” “Surely you have moved on to many things your father didn’t do. Going for regular pedicures to begin with. Having more skincare products on your shelf than me. If you are ready to experiment and try new things in other aspects of life, why not this?” “Listen don’t expect me to cook. I can employ as many people to cook for you as you want but don’t expect me.” This is where the waters would start getting a bit troubled. “I went to a college where every guy there knew how to cook. In fact, many of them are world class chefs today. And then I had to marry you.” “Well, I seriously doubt if they actually get down to cooking for their wives.” At this point I would walk out of the room in a huff and sulkily cook an extra elaborate meal just to make him feel guilty. He would nonchalantly gulp down all of it without the slightest bit of remorse. I have made some headway since. It so happened that a couple who are our good friends, Raj and Rhea invited us for dinner once. Rhea was a picture of cool relaxedness as Raj had donned the chef’s cap that day. He had set up a smouldering barbecue in his lawn that he handled adeptly. Women circled him, cooing and swooning over his produce and asking him for the marinade recipes. The expression on most men’s faces that day clearly spelt ‘what does he have that I don’t?’ In between Raj asked me whether I would like some chicken or lamb. I just fluttered my eyelashes, smiling at his wife and said, “I’ll have whatever Rhea has!” My husband soon learnt how to make a good barbecue. So men, get over this hang up, and let the woman in your life feel special. Cook her a nice intimate meal. Even a cold coffee and sandwich would do. That would be the beginning of an interesting new dimension to your relationship. Better still, cook together or do anything fun and creative together. More than anything it is the pleasure of laboriously creating something unique and exclusive together and sharing some quality time. Shivani Mohan is an India- based writer. For comments,  write to opinion@khaleejtimes.com

Au Revoir and Not Goodbye, Dubai - Shivani Mohan / Khaleej Times 12 February 2010

The French may have lost it on many counts recently but have got it so right when it comes to saying goodbyes. They never call it the end. Each parting is a beginning in itself. Au revoir literally means ‘until we meet again.’ My recent trip to Dubai had me brimming with the same sentiment. I came to Dubai looking for a crisis. The last time I was here two years ago, the global financial crisis had not even set in. This time I anticipated stark reverberations of this phenomenon. There were no visible signs at first. The malls were bustling as the DSF was on. Stores were packed as a lot of discounts were being offered. The city was as vibrant as ever-children busy ice skating, skiing, candy shopping in the malls, restaurants alive with the crackle of spices and tinkle of wine glasses, people all welcoming and warm. Scratch the surface and the stresses of retaining jobs and meeting both ends meet were more palpable.   When I spoke to people across different strata of society, things were not all that hunky dory. There is a visible guardedness about spending this time that I did not notice last time. It is almost as if they have discovered a prudence that was alien to Dubai earlier. People are moving into more sensible-sized houses, buying smaller cars. And it may be a good thing after all. The current financial crisis has forced people out of that extravagant excess characteristic of Dubai and get a more realistic approach to life and livelihood. The Burj Khalifa however stood tall and proud like a citadel of hope. It commanded attention from every possible corner of the city’s landscape. No doubt, I waited anxiously to get to the top. But Dubai is not all about magnificent malls and skyscrapers. It is a city that offers a lot of hope. It showcases such a wonderful, tolerant face of Islam. Cultures blend and coexist in an unassuming way. Here I was, a lone female traveller in a city new to me. I could wear anything from a skirt to a saree depending on the occasion and mood and this freedom made me appreciate the mysterious grace and fluidity of the burqa. In Dubai, not even for a moment did I miss India.  I heard many other people from different nationalities say the same thing about their countries. Now how beautiful is that! I went to the top of Burj Khalifa with a noted American journalist who was visiting the city and whose work I have admired for a long time. There was a memento picture being taken of all visitors that was later framed attractively and given to us at a price that was high end, but I bought both of them nevertheless as keepsakes.  Global village was my next stop, a feast of exotica from various countries of the world. I picked up an eclectic mix of curios from Africa to Indonesia at this colourful fete which is an annual event on the outskirts of Dubai. But on my way back I realised one bag was missing from my booty of buys. And it was the one with the Khalifa pictures and other knick knacks. I told the taxi driver, Bashir— a Pathan from Pakistan—that I was in a fix. My next meeting was scheduled at 6 pm in the centre of Dubai and it was already 5.40 pm. I had to somehow go back looking for my bag. “Don’t worry. You will find your bag. No one loses anything in Dubai. People even return lost credit cards,” he said in Urdu judging from my appearance that I must be Indian. I too slipped to my Hindi-Urdu dialect, feeling comfortable discussing the problem I was in. Can you imagine how complicated things would have been if I had to explain all of that to him in Arabic, or Marathi as some of our Maharashtrian think tanks in Mumbai would have us do? I told him I couldn’t postpone my appointment as it had already been postponed many times. Bashir said, “You have your meeting. And then I’ll take you back to global village. You look for your packet and then I’ll get you back to your hotel.” I called a friend who has been living in Dubai for some time and checked with her. “It’s getting dark. I don’t know whether I should go back into a fair on the outskirts of the city at this time.” She said that women could take a taxi at any time of the day or night in Dubai and be completely safe. Now that is something I still cannot do with full confidence even in Delhi. I went back to global village and everyone guided me to the police lost and found section. The person on duty took down the details of my bag, my telephone number and the date till which I was in Dubai. He reassured me that there was no chance I would not get my bag. I was still a little sceptical as, if you happen to lose a small bag at a fair in India, you pretty much bid adieu to it. Sure enough, two days later I got a call from the policeman at global village saying that my bag had been found and I could go there and collect it. There is a lot that truly cosmopolitan cities in the world do to nurture the will in tourists and visitors to keep coming back. Often it is by creating an atmosphere conducive to free intermingling of ideas, ethos and cultures from different parts of the world. Sometimes it is by building the tallest skyscrapers and magnificent structures. And sometimes it is simply by ensuring that if a lone female traveller happens to foolishly lose her Burj Khalifa pictures at a burgeoning fair in the city, there are systems in place that help her get around looking for them and the confidence that she will get them back without any doubt! Dubai is a city one wants to believe in. I want to come back to see its original buoyant spirit back. It will bounce back, for it has generated tremendous goodwill amongst expatriates from all over the world. So it is definitely not goodbye Dubai, literally and figuratively. Rather, au revoir Dubai, until we meet again. Shivani Mohan is an India-based writer. For comments, write to opinion@khaleejtimes.com

My Dieting Dilemmas and a Diary to Die For - Shivani Mohan (LIFE) / Khaleej Times 28 January 2010

I lamented in my column last week about how I was stuck with a six month long membership to my gym with little inclination to exercise anymore. Well, some more drama has been added to my dilemma. You see, I had been going through the motions. Doing my daily gym routine with probably as much motivation as a circus lion has to dance. I would head home tired and famished. I felt I had earned my daily bread after all and gorge on a regular healthy Punjabi diet. As a result the weight was refusing to budge. Initially of course, all trainers give you that whole theory about how exercise makes your fat turn into muscle and muscle happens to be heavier than fat. Therefore you weigh the same even though you’re getting slimmer. But seriously, how long can you thrive on that bit of information? I needed to see a dwindling needle. The missing link in my fitness pursuit was definitely the diet. Once a week we have the privilege of engaging with a dietician and discussing our food related queries, a ritual I had been quietly bypassing as there is no damn diet theory in the world I don’t know about. I devour health and fitness articles with a voracious appetite. I watch every possible fitness show on TV, preferably lying prostate on a couch, with a pack of chips at arm’s length. I know my HDLs and LDLs and essential amino acids. In fact, I could give a tip or two to the dietician. Atkins, General Motors, High Protein, Vegan, Low Carbs — I know them all. It is only when it comes to implementing these diets that I say ‘pass.’ The dietician gave me the usual humbug, advising me to maintain a food diary. I did not understand the point initially. “If I eat gobhi parathas with butter for breakfast followed by chicken curry and rice for lunch and an extensive Thai dinner with liberal doses of chocolates, sweets and snacks in between-and write all of that down, how is it going to make me lose weight?” “It will at least make you aware of how much you eat and when and why.” The prescribed format she chalked out for me had columns such as time, food, quantity eaten and mood when eaten. So now not only was I going to be mapping my erratic eating habits but even tightening the noose around my moods. I did not know what I was more scared of, the former or the latter. Would a chocolate chip cookie eaten in a ‘dour’ mood be more lethal than a chocolate chip cookie eaten in a ‘perky’ mood? I tried one last ditch effort to wiggle out of this. “It seems too cumbersome a process. I mean, I struggle through the month chasing that utopia where all my cupboards are neat, my child performing well at school, my family well fed, my bills paid on time, my feet pedicured, my dog walked, my garden watered, my in-laws appeased, and my Facebook status updated. And here there is another addition to the endless ‘to-do’ list, when I virtually hate to-do lists!” “Don’t worry. This format is a breeze. Otherwise there are more complex formats such as emotional eating food diary; sugar, salt and fat food diary; fibre, calcium and omega-3 food diary; potassium and magnesium diary.” I wondered at the kind of person who maintains a ‘Potassium and Magnesium’ diary. Wow! He must be a study in self-absorption! It would look so silly to people around me, I told her. But she was all professional and in control, a picture of gentle persuasion. “You don’t have to tell anybody about it. Let it be private, a conversation between you and your eating habits. You have to self-correct yourself. You should also give positive affirmations like a compliment to yourself at the end of a good disciplined day.” She gave me a basic guideline about an ideal menu plan. I went and stacked my kitchen with granola bars, oats, porridge, sprouts, roasted snacks and what have you. I changed my screen saver to the famous quote by Kate Moss: ‘Nothing tastes better than feeling skinny does.’ “Okay folks, I am on a diet”, I announced valiantly at home that day. I’ll have meals separately so that I don’t get tempted. Life turned into a well planned, organised and tabulated routine. It was all going fine. And then at the end of one such day, the wholesome vegetable soup over at 7.30 pm, I settled down to write the things I write—I am a late night person-and at 12.30 in the dead of the night, the sad gruel-like meal turns into a growl. In fact, the growl slowly turns into a chorus, singing for supper, orchestrating hungry hosannas. Papaya, I wanna say byea; Lauki, you’re too low-key; More oats could make me slit throats; Salad, doesn’t tease my palate...wicked thoughts...rice is nice; meat is neat. Rumblings in the tummy overpower any will to look slim. And I remember that most supermodels end up in rehabs anyway. There are those two, luscious, brown gulab jamuns lying in the refrigerator that hover over my head. I tip toe to the kitchen and heat them in the microwave for just those 20 seconds that unleash the glorious, latent flavours trapped within. What better positive affirmation could there be in this world! As for the diary? Well, it has all those entries- God knows I am honest- Chocolate cake, 2.30 am; Lays tomato salsa chips, 11.30 pm; Bikaneri Bhujia 1.30 am. As of now, no one knows about it. I zealously guard the diary, almost as if there were some long forgotten love letters in there, or some erotic poetry maybe. I keep it under lock and key. This diary shall go to the grave with me. I am sure my husband thinks I am up to no good while I continue my midnight dates with desserts and sinful dark chocolates. Just the other night, I sat updating it when my husband walked into the study. I immediately shut the diary with a start and snuck it under the pile of books on my table. And he asked, “Everything alright?” giving me a knowing smile. “You’ve been acting strange lately,” he said and went on to buy me diamonds the next week! Shivani Mohan is an India-based writer. For comments, write to opinion@khaleejtimes.com

Gym Hopping in the Age of Clever Marketing - Shivani Mohan (Weighty Issues) / Khaleej Times 17 January 2010

Gym Hopping in the Age of Clever Marketing Shivani Mohan (Weighty Issues) / 17 January 2010 It all started when I decided to join a local gym to shed a few pounds. I had tried other ways to achieve that goal. A friend and hundreds of sexy models and movie stars had recommended yoga saying that it would calm me. All I needed to practise it were a yoga mat and a quiet room. The physical pace of yoga was a bit uninspiring for me, even though I felt much more agile mentally. And I agree that yoga did calm me a lot. The weight was adamant and I was bored. Besides gazing at a hirsute Baba Ramdev first thing in the morning was not my idea of a perfect start to the day. I decided that I had to join a gym to feel that energising, fit vibe of years ago. Lively interiors, pumping music, no postmen and salesmen to disturb you, no phone calls-just what I wanted on my way to that six pack nirvana. This was me-time. I quickly went and bought myself some bright track suits and gym gear. Gosh, I was feeling lighter already, in the pocket at least. Now the first time I had ever joined a gym years ago, the fees were barely Rs 300 per month and in that you could do everything there was. So I would warm up and do cardio for 40 minutes, followed by a strenuous aerobics session. Then I would do some weights and cool down with breathing and floor exercises. There was no hurry to head back home. This time round things have changed. The same gym has now slotted all services in neat little segments. Aerobics Rs 1000, Cardio Rs 800, Weight Training Rs 700, Power Yoga Rs 900, Diet Planning Rs 500. Not wanting to spend too much initially, I enrolled only for aerobics. I was bound to enjoy the rhythm and tempo. I had a spring in my step. I waited every morning to get ready for the gym. One of the best things about going to a gym is meeting and getting to see more fat people. Remember the old lesson that middle class parents in the Eighties talked about. When you feel you have less, look at someone who has lesser than you, and you’ll feel thankful. You can just reverse that theory in a gym. Just when you are in one of your ‘feeling overweight’ moods, look at someone more endowed than you. See the warmth of gratitude towards God that fills up in your body. So what if I have a paunch, at least I don’t have jelly hips like that exhibit A. So what if  I have spare tyre. At least I don’t have a double chin like that exhibit B over there. And gosh! Look at those gunny sack arms! At least my arms are still toned. And so  are my ankles. One month of this, and obviously the enthusiasm began to wear thin. Ah, it was a chore getting up early. See there are people who love to exercise. They are the ones who wake up at the crack of dawn to rush to their Tabata class. They miss gourmet dinners because they’re running a marathon the next day. They go horse riding for two hours and then swim 20 laps in the pool to cool down. And then there are people like me, who would be very happy doing nothing all day, if given a choice. I have no qualms about accepting that I am a true hedonist at heart. Give me a pizza over pilates, give me a burgundy over a bench press, give me a rock concert or a rom-com over a Reebok-athon any day. Then around Diwali, which is when a four month long festive season begins in India and all fitness attempts go for a toss, the gym had a ‘Bumper Diwali Offer’. Enroll for six months and pay in advance and get Aerobics + Cardio+ Weight Training at Rs 1500 per month. Individually these services add up to Rs 2500 per month. It sounded like a good deal. After one particular day of mind numbing eating, I fell for the bait. Besides I also needed a change from my aerobics routine. The foot thumping numbers in the cardio section surely get your heart and imagination running. One look around you and one can almost read what’s going on in everybody’s mind. There is the 20 something cutie effortlessly running her 21st lap on the treadmill to ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.’ You know she’s just a block away from size zero and she is in it for some ‘lipos(ed)uction.’ Being a 35+ married, mother of one, the dictum of ‘No pain no gain’ is sadly lost on me. The music goads me on. No harm in getting some techno music supported stamina. Now the thing with exercising to a remix version of ‘I will survive’ is that you tend to forget your physical limitations and transcend into superwoman stratosphere, huffing and puffing your way to ‘svelteland’ in a day.  Well, the reality bites the next day when your head is whizzing and your legs are aching and badly in need of six packs, ice packs I mean. I shun the gym for one complete week. I know I’ll never use the services for which I have paid 6 months in advance. Then one morning I get this sms- ‘Planet Fitness misses you! May we know the reason for your absence? Do we need to remind you benefits of exercising? Please rejoin soon.’ As of now the weighing scale needle is where it was. The only song I identify with these days is Meatloaf’s ‘Life is a lemon and I want my money back’. I don’t know whether I want six pack abs anymore. I’ll be happy to just get my ten grand back. And hey, good gym wear makes for excellent lounge wear! Shivani Mohan is an India-based writer. For comments, write to opinion@khaleejtimes.com