Review and Experiment: Rujuta Diwekar’s Dont Lose your Mind, Lose your Weight

I never thought I’d be doing this – reviewing a diet book or discussing weight loss on my blog. But here I am. I read RD’s book in January – I had read great reviews on websites and the Indian media. It also helped that one of my BFF’s shares a very close albeit professional relationship with Kareena Kapoor. RD is Kareena’s nutritionist and is the reason for her new super-slim frame. My BFF gave the miracle lady rave reviews as well. Since I never aspired to be an actress or model in record time, I purchased the book and read it at leisure. It’s an interesting read – those of us from Bombay will relate to her language and thoroughly enjoy her lively examples. I was amused, in particular, by her Gujju client – Jayesh Bhai!

Anyway I decided to put her tips to the test. Its not really a diet plan – just a good and healthy eating plan to boost one’s immune system and increase energy. Weight loss is just an added bonus!

Today is week 5 since I’ve been “eating right” and I must say I notice a great difference in my energy levels. I never feel bloated or lethargic. I also dont feel like stuffing myself beyond 6 pm, honest!! I haven’t been exercising regularly but I still feel a great difference in my body and my skin. The hardest part was to give up my 3 cups of hot water and lime I’ve been drinking first thing every morning for over 15 years but I’m so over it!

Kabul Adventures…Workplace, leaving Qala-e-Vakil for Karte Seh

“Mummy, get up. No sleeping. Get up.” Please let me sleep. Why can’t he sleep longer like regular kids? His baby hands push into my belly, he buries his head hard into my chest. I gasp for air. “Mikhail, please stop this. It hurts Mummy.” The pain of childbirth continues.  I look at my watch – its only 7:40 am.  What is wrong with him? Why isn’t he tired? “Mummy, where is my excavator?” Oh no, not now. I hear a knock on my door. I frantically look for a head scarf, dupatta, anything – the first thing I have access to is a bed sheet. I wrap it quickly around my head. I straighten my nightdress, it is never long enough, why does it always ride so bloody high?

“Raza.” It is Ahmad. He’s got nerve, coming into my room unaccompanied by a woman. He gives me a once over. He looks at my legs, not completely hidden, Afghan style. He smiles. I am sure he finds the bed sheet on my head entertaining. “Pisho, I am leaving for work. You don’t have to cover yourself in front of me.” Yes, I do. “Did you sleep well? What time will they come and pick you up? Good morning Mikhail.” He kisses Mikhail. He is so tender and gentle with Mikhail, even his own kids. I was not familiar with this side of him. “Look, this is an excavator.” Mikhail is so pompous. “He likes me, Pisho.” He is just a kid; he likes everyone. Ahmad looks hurt. I pretend not to notice. Attachment is not good – if I choose this nomadic life then I should not encourage attachment.

Mikhail is playing with his excavator and dumper truck. Ahmad is ready to leave. He looks at me for what seems like eternity. What is it? Isn’t he afraid of doing all this? Pashtun women know the many uses of hatchets, I am sure. “Pisho, they will ask you to move into their guesthouse. But I hope you will stay here with us. Mikhail needs company. Naveed and Haseena like him.” Yes, but people will talk. All those staring eyes. A foreign woman living in his home. His wife might hate me. “No one will touch you Pisho; no one can do anything to you or Mikhail as long as I am here. My family, my brothers, relatives, they will not speak in front of me. Do you trust me?” I do but I say I am not sure who or what to trust. He looks hurt again but I pretend not to notice. I am his guest. I should stop this. But I need to be tough, hard-hearted.

“Ok then. I will leave. I will call you.” He leaves quickly, he doesn’t look back. Soon I hear the clanging of blue metal. He is gone. I throw my head back on the pillow and look up at the wooden ceiling. All those plans I made since November. All came to naught, pissed upon. Life is truly what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans. Was it John Lennon, wonder where he stole those lines from? And now, I am here, all alone with Mikhail. Can I make it? A single mother in Afghanistan.

Kabul adventures…Qala-e-Vakil

Ahmad is here. Mikhail is calm. We walk back towards Adam and the car park. People stop and stare but my  thoughts are filled with my friend . He still looks good to me – warm and intense, calm and soft spoken – but I can see life has been tough. He looks older, wearier, thinner than when I last saw him. “You’ve lost weight Ahmad.” He smiles. “It’s because I don’t eat your food,” he says. I don’t respond. He always says it – I know he isn’t flattering me, he means it – but every time I hear it, I am flattered. I see Adam now – he is toying with his phone, a worried expression on his face, probably wondering if his superiors have made the right decision, hiring this footloose Indian or American woman for such a serious position.

His face lights up as he sees us walking towards him. Ahmad speaks to him in Dari. I tune off, as I do when I know my active participation is unneeded. Ahmad is now here to manage it all. Some would say its just plain lazy to give up one’s responsibilities so easily, other would say it was selfish to dump everything on someone and expect him or her to take care of everything. And there are some who definitely say its impractical and risky to trust someone so much. But I do trust Ahmad, somehow I just know I don’t need to speak or act or listen or react much to my environment when I am around him. I feel safer, calmer, freer. My son and I are in good hands.

A voice breaks into my thoughts, bringing me back to the present. It is Ahmad. “Pisho, I have told him that you are staying with my family in Qala-e-Vakil and that he should transfer all your bags into my car.” I look at Adam – so young, so confused, his cheeks getting redder and redder in the heat. He looks at me, hoping for some reassurance, expecting me to tell this new person to go to hell,  just sit in his van and peacefully go to the ABCD guesthouse. I smile at him , I long to pull his cheeks – he is a plumper version of Sushil. “I will speak to Zee, dont worry about it, Adam. I am so sorry you came all this way. Thank you for your patience. I’ll see you tomorrow at work.”

“You are coming to office tomorrow? I will send you the car tomorrow?” Yes, please. Ahmad describes the location of his home. “Okay, I will go. See you. Thank you.” We shake hands and he motions his driver to move my bags into Ahmad’s Corolla. The driver, so far a silent spectator, shakes his head vigorously as if to say the bags won’t fit in. Ahmad uses all his energies to prove them wrong, he is irritated, I can sense it – the bags fit into the car quite easily and soon, we are on our way. In a minute, I hear Ahmad cursing.”See how stupid they are. They are following us.” I laughed. “Let them, they’re probably  making sure I am safe and that you’re what you say you are.” But Ahmad is still cursing. “If I was a foreigner, would they have cared?”. I don’t comment.

Kabul adventures…the beginning, a salute to Mikhail’s endurance and spirit

“Mummy, Kabul le mountains inde!”, Mikhail observes earnestly in Malayalam. I look out to where his tiny forefinger points and see the brooding, provocative mountain ranges that encircle Kabul . We are close, very close to land in Kabul’s international airport. I try to appear calm but I am excited and my heart is beating fast. I glance at Mikhail and ruffle his hair – he is tired, so bloody tired and yet his eyes are as sharp as ever. So curious, so young, so full of life. Three continents in four months – thats a lot for a soon to be 3-year old boy. He has been brilliant throughout this twenty-hour journey but I fear the breaking point is near. He’s only napped for 3 hours and consumed nothing but orange juice since we left Dubai for Kabul, three hours ago.

He does not disappoint. As soon as the stewardess makes an announcement that we are about to land in Kabul, he says, “Mummy No, I don’t want to go. I want to sit in plane.” Oh dear, I brace  myself for the inevitable tantrum and tears. As we ascend, he seems excited once again – his face lights up and he squeals with excitement as the aircrafts wheels skid on Kabul’s earth. But as soon as the passengers get ready to alight, he starts protesting once again, hitting his back to the seat and screaming. “Mummy no, Mummy no…”

The aircraft is full of white faces – all stiff and stone cold. A crying child does not soften those features, they harden them all the more. Then, one of the passengers – a smiling, young man, an American soothes Mikhail, “Come on buddy, we have to go. Its alright. Lets go.” As if by magic, Mikhail gets up and smiles at his countryman and comes out into the aisle. The white faces scowl at the delay but Mikhail is now walking out of the aircraft and I am relieved. Screw the poker faces !

An Afternoon at the Malcolm Shabazz Market

The smell of incense and traditional perfume pervade my senses and I feel light-headed and relaxed as I stroll through the market. There is color everywhere – not loud but perfectly co-coordinated, seamless shades of color that seems to incorporate people and objects alike, making them vibrant and pleasing to the eye. Men and women are dressed in African clothing, speak to each other in their native tongues and call out to foreigners like me to come into their shops and purchase their wares.

There are Ghanaian Kente fabrics, handmade rugs, wall hangings, beads and jewelry, painted masks, elaborately carved wooden and metal figurines, painted leather stools and handmade wicker baskets. One seller dressed in Ashanti attire of elegantly wrapped Kente cloth over a white shirt and pants, points out to his huge collection of African shea and cocoa butter and another, offers me a seat in his store, while he displays his huge collection of beautiful hand-woven fabrics. It smells and feels like the markets in Ghana where men and women from all over Africa sell their wares. But this is not Ghana, nor am I in Africa. I am in Malcolm Shabazz Market, commonly known as the Harlem Market, in New York City at 52 West, 116th Street near Malcolm X Boulevard, where African immigrant sellers display their arts and crafts and help locals and tourists to bring a part of their culture home.