My hunger strike is into its 3rd day now. Since that Ham-and-Omlette Sub with Parth on Monday evening, I've shut down my faculties of taste, bar the sensation of a lone cup of tea now and then, 2 apples, and 1 pear in total. Yesterday evening saw me at my vegetable best - out from office, straight to bed, and up again really late in the morning only to be leaving again for the office; no sneaky morsels or even ethically-permissible cups of tea consumed in all that while.
What great cause have I suddenly found, to be so staunchly against? Myself. Yes, I'm on a hunger strike against myself. Explaining it is the hard part: it was after the events of the weekend which saw my immoderate eating reach new levels, that some pissed-off neuron fired this thought all over my head. My head was soon filled with elaborate ideas of making things right, or making things hard in case nothing was going right... all this being on subconscious levels. So it was decided that this specimen of flesh and bones were to wake up early the coming morning, and be found sweating out on the tarmac - which, of course, didn't happen under the circumstance of having too much of cinema in my stock to feast my senses on. Ooh I saw a Hindi, a Bangla, a Romanian... but I shouldn't digress here. It was livid to my subconscious that I would shirk from compensating for the weekend's excess, and to further complement it with multimedia-l excess. The six ugly priests inside my head sat in a circle, and it was decided as the punishment that the body shun its routine of the meal for the entire week and survive solely on fruits. Some bargaining (this is India, after all) reduced the sentence to the time until I shed some sweat.
Don't get me wrong here. This isn't me who cares about what I eat or how little I exercise. The priests inside my head are not even bothered about my food. They have more things - sedentary in nature - to worry about. "We have bloody Carl Sagan going on here now, please don't bother us," is what they have to say. The only organ you see complaining about my food is the stomach, which often runs out of those healthy bacteria and fiber that help my food collect into a cohesive mass before making its way down to the colon. But the stomach, too, is more worried about the quality than the quantity. The quantity, you see, has never been an issue. The cause could probably be attributed to some viral manifestation that has affected my thinking.
My revolt against the malpractices of myself has been the highlight of this week. Indeed, it has been consuming to the extent of distraction. My organs like their 24x7 autonomy, and hate it when somebody deprives or tries to discipline them. When that happens, they make a big biological ruckus. Even the sad experience donating/bribing money to the this state's Policemen - who had earlier made their appearance asking for it in the name of our country's independence - couldn't take my thoughts in another direction.
Will the hunger strike see its end today? Time would tell...
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