Mr. Batra stood on the weighing scale. The number stared back at him, mocking him. He decided that enough was enough. He announced to his family, "From today, I am on a strict diet. No sugar, no fried food."
Day one went well. He ate boiled vegetables. He felt virtuous.
Day
two, the doorbell rang. It was his neighbor, Mrs. Gill. She had just
returned from her hometown. She held a box of homemade sweets.
"Bhai Sahab," she beamed. "These are made with pure ghee and my grandmother's secret recipe. You must have one."
Mr. Batra looked at the sweet. It glistened. "I am on a diet," he said weakly.
"Diet?" Mrs. Gill looked offended. "This is love! Are you rejecting my love?"
Mr. Batra crumbled. He couldn't be rude. He ate the sweet. It was delicious.
Day three, his colleague got promoted. He brought samosas. "Batra, you have to celebrate with me!" the colleague insisted. Emotional blackmail. Mr. Batra ate two samosas.
Day four, he went to a wedding. He planned to eat only salad. But the host, an old uncle, stood by the buffet. "If you don't eat the Butter Chicken, I will think you didn't like the arrangement," the uncle said.
Mr. Batra realized he was trapped. In his culture, food was not just nutrition; it was a language. Refusing food was seen as rejecting a relationship.
By the end of the week, Mr. Batra had gained another kilo. He sat on his sofa, eating a paratha his wife made.
"What happened to the diet?" she asked, amused.
"I
realized something," Mr. Batra said, wiping butter from his chin. "I am
fat because I am loved. If I lose weight, I might lose friends."
He took another bite, accepting his destiny.