A few days back, I went out for dinner with an enthusiastic group of Generation Z students. It was a late dinner by my usual standard. The standard order comprised a chocolate shake, sizzler, butter naan, dal makhani, malai kofta, and brownie with ice cream and jalebi for dessert. I was devastated! It was not because I was paying the bill, but because I was the only one at the table softly requesting the manager if they served tava chapati. When was the last time I could digest an Oreo shake, noodles, and butter naan simultaneously? I don't think even my taste buds retain any memory of such a sort. My relationship with food, like all my other relationships, has evolved. We have come a long way. I thought of reflecting on this relationship, hoping that many of you would relate to my experience. One of the major purposes of writing, after all—or for that matter any form of art—is to express not just for yourself, but for those around you, too.

Childhood Dream

My most grounded memory of a ridiculously strong appetite is from when I was 10 years old. In those days, my best friend and I had a dream. Our favorite discussion was to visualize ourselves as baddies, strong, single, old women on our own. We would often visualize ourselves as oldies dressed in pyjamas in a room with a huge projector for movies, and food. Can you imagine the food we dreamt of? Our dream platter was an unlimited supply of Kurkure and Coca-Cola. Never ever in our wildest imagination did we think that we would one day lose the appetite and also the desire to consume an unlimited supply of colas and chips. Kurkure was a rage in our school time—the spices suited our palate, and the quantity was sufficient when compared to a bag full of air with some chips. A pizza from a nearby store is also a strong core memory. It was priced at INR 35. We used to collect coins and reach the nearby store. Nothing brought more satisfaction than food with friends.

Teenage House Parties

Our house parties and family gatherings were also about food. On Saturdays, our family had neighbors come over for dinner. There were starters, drinks, chakna, a lot of main courses, and a forced dessert, even if no one was hungry, because apparently, a celebration equals food. In Punjabi households, if one hasn't overeaten at a party, it means either the host wasn't warm enough or the celebration was very cold. I distinctly remember a phrase that I heard a lot during my childhood—"let's enjoy today," which translated into a buffet of food in our house, and filling our food pipes to the brim.

Hostel Food

With a loaded tummy, as I moved on in life and went to a hostel for further studies, I remember a phase that distinctly changed my relationship with food forever. The hostel food was bearable at the beginning, but eventually going to the mess started feeling like a punishment. That's when mom's food became a matter of longing and regret. Even the homemade toris, tindas, and karelas—all the food that I had once despised—seemed exotic and out of reach. The hostel was my first sneak peek into the blood-sucking adult life—where you eat what you get, do all your work on your own, cry yourself to sleep with no one hearing, and pop paracetamol and cetirizine as soon as you sniff, because who will take care of your weak, feverish body.

Chapati Rebellion

Ma ke haath ka khana holds a special place for me. She is an amazing cook; she brings magic to the food. My entire family agrees to it. But the irony is that I am a mother too. But I am nowhere close to her in culinary skills. When I got married, my relationship with food from my ma's nostalgic taste changed into one of anxiety, angst, and rebellion. Food was a significant topic of discussion, and a round chapati of desirable thickness was a major issue of contemplation among all the family members. One evening, I kneaded 2 kilograms of flour and made several boxes of chapatis, irritated with the uneven shapes that I was rolling. The event changed something forever in our house. Once I had overpowered the skill, I stopped cooking as I gathered the courage to say it, and outsourced the work since that day. A lot of pressure was based on my own conditioning rather than somebody from outside creating the pressure. Once the pressure burst, there was liberation. I am not a great cook; I am great when I choose to do it, sometimes on special occasions when I put my heart into it. This also made me understand why the food cooked by underpaid, underappreciated, and overexhausted mess workers does not taste like ma ke haath ka khana, while the langar in Golden Temple made by people with the faith and intention to serve God always tasted amazing.

My Evolving Relationship with Food

In my 30s, food has become like a very high-profile client in my life. It just doesn't listen to me. It behaves the way it feels. My relationship with food has become very formal. There is no love, only transactional motives. With a truckload of information thrown at me, and I somehow managing to show my head out of the piles of information dumped on me through social media, applications, news reports, YouTube videos, and podcasts, I have become very, very suspicious about my food. Is white bread okay, or should I eat only brown bread? Is the brown in brown bread color or husk? Is the color organic or inorganic? What is worse—cola or diet cola? Would I want to lose my liver first or my kidneys? If samosa is bad for me, as it has refined flour, is yogurt okay when it also has refined flour? The only thing that I feel is allowed is if I go to my kitchen garden and eat leaves directly from my pots. That, as of now, has not been disallowed by any influencer. Why bring farm to fork, when you can go to the farm? It also helps burn extra calories and saves money on hiring cooks, cleaning utensils, and all the extra work that comes along with it.

The Never Ending Loop

These days, an extra bite of chapati has the potential to change the pH level of my stomach. The moment I mix a cold and hot food item, I can hear my epiglottis crumble, and my food pipe shriek. I hate buffets. I hate buffets, especially when they come free with breakfast. I hate when my middle-class character doesn't let me leave free food even when I don't feel like eating anything immediately after getting up at 7 a.m. on a holiday. Free breakfast buffets on holidays are a scam; the originator must be banned for life. I still love the aromas and the visuals of food, but my digestive system has turned hostile to my happiness. It wants me to eat clean. When I work out, with the pain I feel, I promise myself that I will eat clean. When I am supposed to eat clean, I take an oath to burn all the calories in the next day's workout. This has put me in a never-ending loop. I hate people with a good metabolism. They must have fed people in their past lives. But the way my appetite is saying to me, I feel I snatched people and ran away with their food in my past lives.

I wrote this article to share your pain if you are in my boat. If you are younger than me, I urge you to enjoy more while your great metabolism phase lasts. If you cannot relate to this article, I hate you. I want to tell you that there is more to life than food, like mountains, rivers, and valleys. I will one day throw all your food in one such valley. Bon appétit!