Alright, let me confess it – I am a foodaholic. Not a foodie or a gourmet or an epicure, but a savage glutton. I am the guy who returns from a buffet with his stomach bloated to the bursting point. I am the guy who contemplates snatching Dairy Milks from lone kids on the streets. I am the guy who fancies getting accidentally locked inside a confectionary or winning a life-time free coupon to a restaurant. Food pleases me so much that sometimes I wonder if my taste buds are composed entirely of G spots.
Anyway, let me tell you about something that happened yesterday. My faith in miracles was restored when yesterday evening, my mother bought me a chocolate-rich, pricey Cornetto accompanied with a Luxuria pack of Sunfeast Dark Fantasy Choco Fills. I almost fell on her feet. She told me I could eat the ice cream right away, however, I shall have to earn the Dark Fantasy Choco Fills. Maybe it’s because my mother said it, the idea of earning Choco Fills somehow didn’t sound beautiful. It seemed like a decoy. I should have weighed the possible consequences of agreeing to the terms and conditions set by my mother, but since the Cornetto was melting, I said okay, I’ll earn it. And as it turned out, it was a trap.
I have been eating beans since yesterday night. It was a bean special with gravy for dinner, fried beans for breakfast and fried beans with balsam pear chops for lunch. Despite being a foodaholic, I wouldn’t say I’m quite fond of balsam pears and beans. These materials do not belong to the category called food, they belong to a category called Ayurvedic medicines. I am quite sure that nobody on this planet, not even those who grow it, would list bean as their all time favorite. So yeah, I kind of HATE MY LIFE RIGHT NOW. I want to transform into Parshuram and rid this world of beans. Why my mother keeps feeding me beans has to do with my consistent weight gain and unhealthy food habits, which is not as horrible a thing as you suppose. I am a bit fat, but I certainly do not look like a round potato. And moreover, if there’s somebody who needs beans more than me, it’s my dear mother. But well, she’d rather have pickles and roti all the time, which, ironically, is something people eat when they have absolutely no idea of a term called ‘healthy diet’. My mother says she’s lived her life and ablazed the world with her charm and set new parameters and everything, and also produced two diametrically opposite progenies – one who is matchless and special in every way (my brother) and the other one who is, well, round – so it doesn’t matter if she is a savage glutton. She believes she has reached the stage that relates to the peak of Maslow’s pyramid – self-actualization. And self-actualization, according to her, couldn’t be anything else from pigging out on suger free ice creams and Paapdi chat at roadside stalls. I’m not allowed to fulfill the self-actualization need because my lower level needs that consist of a job and a wife have not yet been met. And that’s why I get to eat beans. And balsam pears.
The Choco Fills await my arrival with thumping hearts, and here I am, chewing green substances and wondering why life’s such a ruthless bitch.