Tag: opinion

Life with Diabetics

After an exhausting brainstorming session, my colleague and I decided to take a break and get a cup of coffee. We walked together discussing work, seeming more professional in the pantry than we are in our seats.

My colleague grabbed a cup and filled it with a couple of spoons of sugar. And then she held it under the nozzle of the vending machine which ground roasted seeds and dispensed the magical liquid into her cup. It was my turn next. I grabbed a cup, skipped the sugar, and went straight for the nozzle.

My colleague looked at me surprised. She wasn’t the first one, and I know she wouldn’t be the last. I drink sugarless tea and coffee, I avoid processed sugar five days of the week, and am trying hard to quit the weekend candy crush saga.

Countless people tell me I shouldn’t be as obsessive about sugar as I am.

sugar-cookies

However, none of them know what’s it’s like growing up in a diabetic household. None of them know that my blood line is infested with a line of ants all lining up to get a whiff of our sugary blood. My grandmother was a diabetic. My mother is a diabetic. My aunt is a diabetic. Tell me I’m not paranoid to think I’m next in line.

Living in a sugar-coated family has changed the way I see my life. The last thing I see before going to bed at night and the first thing I see when I wake up is medicines. We have at least five plastic boxes, all colour-coded and named after every diabetic tablet available in the pharmacy. We’ve adopted med-speak as our secondary language; we speak in milligrams and figure out how diabetic someone else is based on how many milligrams they swallow every day.

Our conversations begin with stories about the time someone forgot to take their sugar pills, and our dinner talks involve verifying if there are enough medicines for the whole month.

I’m now accustomed to living in constant fear of self-raising flour and simple carbs. No other food has scared me as much as the soft, white, and deceptively harmless glucose granules. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve looked up the difference between glucose and fructose, without understanding it once. And sometimes, when I think I deserve a piece of candy or cake, I devour it, only to feel terrible about it later. I hate myself that I sometimes eat a sweet treat in front of my glucometer-cradling mother.

Still, every time I handle a spoon full of sugar, I hesitate and wonder how much is too much.

The types of diabetes you can get, the different ages in which you can get it, the symptoms, and preventive measures to keep your blood sugar in check are everyday discussions in the family of a diabetic. And when you’re growing up with these details hammered into your brain, it’s more than enough to suck the enthusiasm out of your life bit by bit.

There’s nothing sweet about living with diabetes. And there’s nothing bitterer than living with a diabetic.

Respecting the Maker

Craft is a wonderful thing. The crinkled eyebrows, the watchful eyes, and the delicate fingers all make a craft what it is: a magnificent and complex piece of art. It demands the maker’s energy and time and unlike any other physical activity. It’s one of those things that drain you just even if you’re just sitting in one place with your head bent low.

To an observer, the craftsman is a scientist; a microbiologist. One who’s got eyes for nothing and no one around them. And that’s the beauty of a handmade object. It’s a part of a human’s life that they give away to someone else.

I saw a craftsman in Pondicherry a while ago. He was a shoe and footwear maker. He, along with the owner of the shop, makes and delivers custom footwear for customers about an hour or two after they place an order. But they also have a gallery of ready-made designs to can choose from.

handmade-footwear

While the owner was busy showing us around his little shop, the craftsman huddled with his tools near the pillar outside the shop. His eyes moved in tandem with his hands that stitched together leather and leather.

While his skin exploded with sweat, inside, the quaint shop exploded with colour. Yellow, red, and green straps crisscrossed with brown, black, and grey soles. I saw straight straps on one shelf and curled straps on the other, plain ones lying about and fancy ones folded up neat. The costs varied, too, from a few hundreds to a few more hundreds.

handmade-footwear-2

My friend raised eyebrows at the prices. It was a sad sight. Because there never is a fair price for the labour of human hands.

It’s human to first look at the product and then flip over the tag to check the price. Whether it’s a shirt or a shoe, we consider the price and weigh its worth.

It’s an instinct, yes. Still, when it comes to handmade crafts, what we think is high is never too high. Though we drool at a craftsman work, every time we roll our eyes at the price, we undermine the maker’s efforts. We need to realise: In this age of our lazy bones and sitting on our asses, it’s taxing to work through hundreds of needles and stitches every day.

craftsman

That’s why we should learn to respect the ones who do, because, in a few years, no one will have the patience to dedicate the scrutiny involved in making handmade pieces.

What’s the Point of News?

big-news

It was Wednesday, the middle of a wet, clammy, and death-filled week. The sun had almost set outside my window at work and I was too bored to continue. I opened a new tab and typed, “F” — the first letter that came to my mind. And trusty Safari pre-filled my most-visited website, Facebook. Scrolling through weather forecasts, sneaky confessions, Netflix trailers, and random acts of kindness, I paused at one peculiar post.

A news item about the chief minister of my home state. She died a couple of days ago, and ever since, people talk about nothing else, whether at work or at dinner. This post, an opinion piece judging by its title, suggested a conspiracy against the dead CM. And it had appeared on my feed, courtesy of my cousin. I stopped to read the headline; the author believed that one of the CM’s closest allies—we’ll call her S—had turned against her and taken over the party’s reins.

It’s absurd, I know. But for years, our media celebrated their friendship. The friend, S, was the CM’s trusted advisor and remained so until, one fine day, a news channel reported that S was corrupt.

The party’s tables turned too soon for their liking, and the CM cut all ties with her friend. The media went crazy and people wrote articles about how the CM’s decision favoured her in the next election. It was all about winning the election. The friend never came into the spotlight until at the CM’s funeral, where she redefined the word, “weepy.” Sound like House of Cards? Welcome to its creepy Indian version.

All these details rushed into my head as I looked at the article’s headline.

I remember thinking we’d never know the truth about the CM and S. Their friendship was a mystery to everyone outside their circle. Nevertheless, we had news pieces and opinions about them, we heard from young college girls who wanted to be BFFs like the CM and S. And now, a few years later, we have wild theories and 12 things we never knew about the CM’s death.

I felt repulsed. I understand the media’s uncontrollable urge to print sensational news, and yet, I can’t accept their proof-less allegations. All these newspapers flew around me hoping I’d buy the one that features the most exciting gossip.

And that’s why I couldn’t digest the article my cousin shared. My cousin doesn’t understand political talks. I know she shared it only because it has an exciting new thing to talk about over dinner. And that only strengthened my waning interest in politics.

I don’t care who killed whom or who’s conspiring against whom. Because at the end of the day, who knows what’s true? We all live in a society that thinks it knows the truth but knows only what others think is the truth. We may guess, but we’ll never know. There are more than 20 television channels in my state that political parties own. Whichever party (or individual) owns the channel has all the power to create, warp, or kill a news item.

And I don’t see the point of revelling in other people’s convoluted version of reality.

Oh, This Is Pizza!

Pizza—that gourmet Italian food that the world goes crazy for.

I never enjoyed pizza.

That’s so because Pizza Hut and Dominos ruined pizza for me. And I realised this only a couple of weeks ago.

When it comes to food, I like mine with a lot of spice. I cherish the steam that the heat invokes in my tongue. I love it when my taste buds tingle and I have to curl my lips and inhale a whiff of air to cool down the heat. However, nothing of that sort happened when I tried pizza for the first time. Instead, a mass of ooey-gooey cheese burst into my mouth, thrusting through my teeth a mesh of coldness, milk that felt like jelly and tasted a bit sour. It was nothing to die for. And a couple of pieces later, I couldn’t get the rubbery, sticky sensation off my teeth.

Not to mention, the cheese sat on half cooked and flaky bread that tried so hard and failed to taste sour. It didn’t help that the bread was called fiery crust while it felt like a feathered crest.

And that’s why I hated pizza.

And then I went to a place called Cafe Xtasi in Pondicherry. The restaurant came with a high recommendation and a higher Zomato reputation. I didn’t feel too keen since it was famous for its wood-fired pizza and I—among myself—am famous for hating all things pizza. It didn’t mean much to me, because, well, it’s just bread and bland cheese. But I decided to give it a try anyway. At least to make a post on Zomato, my rational voice piped.

The first thing that admired me was the menu, not with variety but with creativity. I scrolled through a list of pasta dishes, when one, in particular, caught my eye: Bad Idea. It was the name of the pasta dish and below it read a small description, “Fresh garlic, garlic sauce, feta in white sauce.” Ha, bad idea indeed.

I wanted to try it. But a friend had already advised me against the pasta and told me to go for the pizzas, instead. They are better, he had said. And since it was my first time there, I took the expert’s advice.

cafe-xtasi-pondicherry

The pizza menu boasted names like Chukini, Lambretta, and Harem. I had my eye on Iron Pie, but when our waiter told me Shekchilli would be spicier, I chose that one. “Chicken, capsicum, onion, garlic, and chilli,” the description read. Yum.

The pizza arrived in about 10 minutes taking me by surprise. All the Dominos outlets I’ve been to take at least 20 minutes. And it was steamy, too. It remained warm for about 5 to 10 minutes in that air-conditioned hall—that’s a big deal. However, something else about the pizza caught my hungry eye more than my timekeeping mind: The crust was crusty. It was less than half of the thickness of every other pizza I’d had before, and what’s more, it even had a mild burnt edge to it.

When I picked up a piece and bit into the crust, I bit into a crust and not just a ball of cooked flour. I felt the crunch in my teeth, while spicy sauce seeped into my tongue through the holes in between my teeth. The chicken was tender, sauce splendour, and the cheese just right. The crunch and munch blended, bombing my mouth with tangy, garlicky, and a bunch of pungent flavours.

And that’s when I fell in love with pizza.

Cafe Xtasi Menu, Reviews, Photos, Location and Info - Zomato