I do not like broccoli. And I haven’t liked it since I was a little kid and my mother made me eat it. And I’m President of the United States and I’m not going to eat any more broccoli...”
— George Bush
I’m no President. I’m not even Bush. Only my eyebrows look like a bush. And the above quote is my primary reason for detesting George, secondary being the invasion of Iraq.
I think there’s a problem with me. I’m always hungry! I like every kind of food item. Lauki, karela, tinda, gobi. I love these not-so kid-friendly vegetables. And home-grown veggies are the best. Shipping is a despicable thing for the vegetables. They get jet-lagged. That’s why exotic vegetables don’t taste perfect in India. I feel for them, bro. I feel for them.
A diet expert may ask you to have five light meals a day. I go for five heavy meals. Thankfully, I’m blessed with a fast metabolism. It’s faster than Usain Bolt. I get a lot of happiness in good food. There have been times when I have fantasised about food. Just dreaming about food. My taste is very desi. I like everything Indian, from Kashmir to Kanyakumari. From Gujarat to Gangtok. My taste-buds are so Indian that I’m sure my digestive enzymes make a tricolour inside my stomach.
The indecisive me gets more confused if I’m on an empty stomach. As long as there’s food in my mouth, I can solve even rocket-science questions. In our country, cooking is a serious talent and a national sport. Feeding 20 paani puris or gol gappas with just two hands requires skill. Or eating the entire amalgam of curd, rice, daal, sabzi (bhaji in Mumbai) with hands is a talent. And trust me, I love it.
My Punjabi father may disown me for doing that. But I love eating with my hands. I recently went to Chennai and had food at a local restaurant on a banana leaf. Mixed everything and ate with my hands. I may never eat daal chawal. But remove the cutlery and I metamorphose into a i slayer/enthusiast. If you eat with your hands, the food directly connects with the soul. There’s a certain honesty in that connection between your clean limb and food, which reflects in your eyes and satiated belly. It’s like a crazy mix of masturbation and sex. Where you’re touching yourself, yet experiencing an outside touch. It’s unexplainable.
Staying in a city like Chandigarh, the city with the highest per capita income, where people judge you if you don’t behave classily, it was difficult to imbibe the eating-with-your-hands habit. At times, I looked down upon my hostel friend from Bihar. He told me what I was missing. So in my late-teens, I discovered this lovely experience in the hostel mess of DAV college, Chandigarh. It must’ve been 2pm during one buzzing spring afternoon in the mess that I attained nirvana for the first time. That was the time I realised what my hands were truly capable of, apart from aimlessly strumming the guitar.
Philosophers may say, ‘What about food for the soul?’. That craving makes you different from a beast. But guys, your soul would be empty sans palatable food. After all, according to Arthur Pendenys, “A good meal makes a man feel more charitable towards the whole world than any sermon.”
