Skinny me - chubby me

Growing up in Allahabad as a scrawny thirteen-year-old was, in a word, tragic. I was thin—so thin that whenever we had visitors I was one of the topics discussed and that too in my presence - “Michael - Your arms like knitting needles, look at those shoulders – they’re like hangers. Your legs are so skinny” were the delightful descriptions showered upon me. It was humiliating and infuriating in equal measure. My mother and my aunt then decided that my skeletal existence was a problem they could solve. The plan? Gallons of milk and entire tins of ‘Bournvita’. When ‘Bournvita’ failed to work its magic, my aunt suggested ‘Horlicks’. Unfortunately, Horlicks tasted like chalk dissolved in misery. I protested, but my pleas fell on deaf ears. So, I did the next best thing—I began secretly disposing of my Horlicks. Some went down the drain, some got flung out of the window in teaspoon-sized projectiles. My cousins often reported me, but I fought them off manfully! Eventually, my mother and aunt realized I was a hopeless case and abandoned the mission. In hindsight, I now know why the milky diet failed—it was a well-documented fact that every milkman in Allahabad diluted their milk with water, so I was essentially drinking flavored liquid with a vague memory of milk. To add to my suffering, I was also force-fed spinach, vegetable stew, vegetable soup, and vegetables in all forms. I detested them. They were disposed of in the same way as the Bournvita—one minute on my plate, the next among the canna plants in the garden. We often ate dinner outside, which made my vegetable disposal tactics far easier and more effective. We had a dog as well- so that was extra help with unwanted food. But I was still desperate to grow—if not in width, then at least in height. Friends assured me that cycling with the seat raised to its highest position would make me taller. It seemed ridiculous, but I gave it a shot, wobbling dangerously around the neighborhood on an old ladies cycle with a raised seat. I was skinny as hell but intent and confident that I was looking good. And I wasn’t alone—there were many like me, gliding around on our absurdly high-seated cycles, convinced that every pedal stroke was adding inches to our height. Surprisingly, I did grow a bit. Not a towering giant, but at least I wasn’t a certified dwarf anymore. Then came the muscle obsession. Like most boys, I was convinced that bulging biceps and triceps and a thick neck were essential for impressing, well, everyone, especially the girls. Muscular seniors in school were living proof. When I saw ‘Bullworker’ ads featuring men with necks like oxen, I was sold. My neighbor, David Shepherd, had one lying around. I borrowed it, studied the manual like holy scripture, and embarked on an intense regimen. Early mornings saw me straining against the ‘Bullworker’, pulling and pushing its unforgiving resistance bands, convinced that pain equaled gain. I jogged with a neighbor, did push-ups, sit-ups, and everything else people advised. The muscles didn’t appear to be interested in making an appearance. Eating jaggery was supposed to help, so I chewed on it religiously. Rice and bananas? I stuffed myself. And yet, the weight stubbornly refused to appear. By the time I got married, I was still only 49 kg. Now, decades later, I find myself about 30 kg heavier, looking at fitness programs and diet plans, wondering how to shed the excess. Ironically, the same boy who once did everything to gain weight is now doing everything to lose it. Perhaps that’s just life—a cycle of wanting what we don’t have, chasing it endlessly, only to realize later that we may not have needed it after all.