Obesity is on the rise—we have been hearing so for donkey’s years—and yet it continues to be on the rise. The perplexing point is that with all the statistics thrown in the face regarding how this out-of-hand tubbiness can cause all kinds of unmanageable diseases, making day-to-day living miserable, the numbers keep mounting. And we thought addiction pertains solely to drugs and alcohol! Here we’re only going to stay contained to our own geographical precincts—urban India, and mostly to young people in their twenties. Though, with the way matters are going, or rather growing, the little pumpkins, now with families snapping like twigs, should call them ankle-biters, too are joining the obese league.
The junk food market reigns supreme, despite the parallel nutritious organic fare emporiums guaranteeing glowing skin, Rapunzel-thick glossy tresses, beaver-bright eyes, cavity-free teeth and bones that don’t know what brittle is. And I have seen people compulsively diving into these healthy food sites, as if it is a tub of buttery popcorn, devouring these raw salads, freshly squeezed juice, and sumptuous desi snacks, like moong dal chilla, poha, roasted paneer, dhokla, sprouts bhel with a hearty squeeze of lemon topped with a generous helping of onions, mint leaves…these dishes are not only delightful, but surcharge you with energy that one faintly recalls ever possessing. But after a few days of being off fizzy drinks, sugar dense pastries and cakes, fried-to-the-gut pakodas, sausages and what not, we are back on the bandwagon with a bang, assuring ourselves that this is a temporary aberration, momentary, in-passing straying, and the gorger, with the snap of the fingers, will take to healthy eating. Must here insert that for this segment, it’s not about health that drives them to this diet (and some, one must add, follow it with single-minded obsessiveness!) simply, solely because that is how they get that toned body, that sculpted look with chiseled cheekbones completing the modelled appearance. Throw in some basic exercises—if the gym is not in one’s reach—and viola, now the young lady has that insect-thin waist, reed-slim figure.
As for the young man, now the recipient of cat-whistles, having morphed into a super-stud (last heard, beefcake was the going word!) with rippling biceps or are they triceps (?), trimmed, muscular torso with a long, sinewy neck ready to give a giraffe a good run for its money. Then—though one is hooked on Instagram way before having mastered one’s ABCs—now with this ready-to-frame whittled silhouette, every nano-second had to be posted, streaming live stories of which coffee bar one was at for Café au Lait, Frappuccino, Flat White or whatever. Or going as far as simulating oneself at Ambani’s pre-wedding revelry with Mark Zuckerberg at his or her side! Yes, this now the real world; not the reel world. Nor a virtual one, but the real bona fide, certifiable earth, or one should say, universe! Must go off track for a brief moment—toddlers, as referred to, learn to tap on the phone before they, with their fidgety eyes, brought on by tracking every movement on the screen, at last take in that A and B are not Siamese twins! This after the poor, dog-tired parents have managed to make this breakthrough, after bribing, or since it is children here, cross the bribing word out, and let’s say, sweetening the pot with high-street treats that steer their finances to a precipice. Yes, it costs to provide a pup a basic set of skill tools, even if in the process, Mum and Pa started resembling a frayed, dog-eared book.
To go back to where we started off—obesity, and its heights, quite capable of causing vertigo to a seasoned mountain-scaler. So, say there’s this 25-something girl-woman. She’s landed herself a pretty reasonable job in one of the multinationals dotting Gurgaon, and like all of those her age or even might I say, a decade or more later, daydreams of becoming the CEO of this company. (Yes, it’s our dreams that keep us going—why say the mind’s gone wool-gathering?!) Returning to her, stacked in the top drawer of her sterile work-station is a Santa-bounty of munchies, called so, for on auto-pilot munching upon, chomping away with knee-jerk vigour without any fear of a tongue-lashing, a dressing down from the Chief, since as long as one’s hands are flying over the keyboard, and the computer’s screen is reverberating in fluorescent colours, crunching out the right figures, all’s acceptable.
So, in the process of sitting for 9-long hours in a swivel chair, neck hunched and shoulders slumped towards the luminescent video-display, the young lady works her way towards a 10-rupee bag of masala chips (comforted that 10 rupees has little purchasing power, and so the intake is next to nothing!), half a pack of Oreo cookies, half a dozen of desi pops, a handful of nuts packed by Mommy dear—brain-food. A tetra pack of Frooti to wash the mouthfuls down. Lunch, usually is ordered from the 24-hour Convenio store, perched fittingly downstairs, where one gets a case of microwavable momos, a coleslaw sandwich, and a can of Zero Coke for giving you a caffeine-high to stay alert—minus all, or any calories—and for that much-needed sugar rush to continue working, a brownie would do the job. The home-made tiffin, could perhaps, be consumed en route home. Same is the case with her counterpart male colleague, though brands and tastes do differ. One fare, however, has a unanimous thumbs-up—Chinese bites. Wouldn’t be too far-fetched, if China were to bestow us with honorary citizenship! Noodles, spring rolls, dim sums, momos, egg cookie rolls, crunchy rice cakes, white rabbit candy etc. and etc. In a single upscale tree-lined lane or down-market dingy alley, you will find momo stalls hastily, like greased lightening, or to put it more aptly, like a bat out of hell, serving these dumplings. Supply falling short of demand. Want to get into a win-win record-breaking business, then a Momo kiosk it is! No wonder we accost so many youngsters with bulging thighs grazing each other, protruding tummies, bloated faces heavily perspiring, while climbing a few steps of a staircase.
I see it’s time to wrap up, but not without assuming that we close on a note, leaving us much to munch on…