“Delicious, superb, I don’t have the words to express,” he said, eyes gleaming. “As if each individual nut is handpicked and selected. And the Namkeen—no oil on the fingers, just the right amount for that perfect crispness.”

“You can get any product you want easily from Patanjali Stores,” I interjected, “they’re mushrooming like mistletoes after rain.”

He looked at me, confused. And before he could respond, I realized my folly—mistaking Haldi Ram for Baba Ramdev. I corrected myself quickly, mumbling something about how even Patanjali produces health products of decent quality, though in truth, I have no idea what they even sell.

But he hadn’t registered my blunder. He was back in his reverie, dreamily savoring the taste of roasted almonds. He is one of those rare people who must always be either eating or thinking about eating. A colleague once said there are only two kinds of people in the world: those who live to eat, and those who eat to live. He was clearly the former. I am most certainly the latter.

After momentarily returning from his almond-laced dreams, he declared:
“I take a big glass of milk in the morning.”

I paused. He had earlier mentioned having two glasses of Lassi in the morning. Surely, one cannot have both? Unless, of course, his morning stretches from dawn to noon, which, given his food schedule, might very well be the case.

“At night I soak some almonds and Gond Katira in water,” he added.

“Do you know what Gond Katira is?” he asked, testing my knowledge.

My Google search tells me it’s called Tragacanth Gum.

My habit of stretching stories until the reader begins to groan hasn’t changed—though times certainly have. Even here on Sulekha, things are not what they used to be. Blogging is practically extinct. People don’t even read long WhatsApp messages anymore. Twitter is now the trend, but as the saying goes: old habits die hard. I would modify it to: old people die, with their old habits still intact.

I believe we all live our lives within a time slot assigned to us. We may adapt to changing times, learn the new rules, maybe even play by them, but we still feel most at home when we slip back into our old groove. Give me a pen and a scrap of paper even today, and I promise the two lines I scribble there will feel more beautiful than the entire paragraph I type here—despite the aid of a Google dictionary and an entire digital literary world at my disposal.

Kishore Kumar once sang it best:

“Koi lauta de mere beete hue din,
Beete hue din woh mere, pyaare pal chin.”
(If only someone could return my lost days, those cherished moments of the past…)

While I listened with vague interest to his magical health potions and miracle routines, I refrained from mentioning my own misadventures—like the time I came dangerously close to discovering an alleged “herbal Viagra.” But now, the glow in his eyes was fading. The trays on the buffet table ahead looked ominously empty. He was showing the first signs of panic, as if his culinary dreams were slipping away, one missing samosa at a time.

He stepped out of the queue for a quick reconnaissance mission. After confirming that the caterers were dutifully refilling the emptied pans, he returned—reassured and crunching a samosa he’d snatched during his patrol.

Once reinstated in line, he resumed his monologue about the elaborate preparations and rituals involved in his daily diet. I listened with growing awe at the variety and intricacy of his food knowledge. But the nagging question in my mind remained: who on earth was doing all this for him? He certainly didn’t seem like the sort to be toiling over a stove himself. He must have an excellent wife. Or an extraordinary maid. Or, most likely, both.

How lucky some people are, I sighed inwardly, as jealousy slowly roasted my heart on a spit. I imagined my own lean frame beside his well-nourished bulk, my tongue rolling over parched lips. To soothe my pride, I offered myself a philosophical morsel: most ailments come from excess, I told my heart. Starvation, in small doses, is character building.

But then, he dropped a line that upended my smugness.

“Compared to what Pakistanis eat, we’re starving,” he said dramatically, diving back into daydream mode. Apparently, he’d recently been to Pakistan and was still spiritually digesting the parathas he’d eaten there.

“My host treated me to these huge parathas,” he said, stretching out his arms to demonstrate size. Given that he’s proportioned like a midsize SUV, the paratha he indicated could’ve doubled as a truck tyre. Or an XL rumali roti. He claimed it was a paratha, but I found it hard to digest—figuratively, if not literally.

“Wah!” he exclaimed, lost in the reverie. “Saag, gosht, and daal—all still cooked on traditional chullahs.” Meals were enjoyed on charpayees under the open sky, stars above, heritage below.

“Yes, yes,” I nodded, affirming his nostalgia. There was something admirable in how Pakistanis had preserved these culinary traditions—cooking the way our grandmothers did, without pressure cookers, microwave shortcuts, or calorie-counting apps. While we have health fads and Westernized icons dictating what’s good for us, they still embrace the full-fat, slow-cooked, soul-warming meals of yore.

Our ancestors, with little scientific input, still knew how to eat well. Tandoori rotis, parathas, daal, saag—all lovingly crowned with homemade butter. No fancy diagnostics. No ICUs. And yet, they lived fuller lives—if not longer ones.

Though I smiled politely throughout his account, some expression must have twisted on my face. Perhaps he read it as a sneer.

He suddenly snapped out of his trance, like a dog sensing an unfamiliar footstep.

“Do you doubt what I say?” he challenged.

“Oh no, no!” I quickly assured him. “On the contrary, I completely agree. In fact, I’ve been to Pakistan and seen those simple ways firsthand.”

He seemed partly satisfied. Though his eyes still darted between suspicion and pride, I had spoken the truth—or at least enough of it to protect my ear. Because in truth, I had agreed more out of fondness for my childhood than a celebration of gluttony. And partly, let’s be honest, out of fear. The man was twisting his kada and flexing his arm like he was about to deliver a well-aimed thwack.

The audiologist had once told me my left ear was more useless than my right. But even so, I didn’t want it rendered unfit for even a hearing aid. I turned my head to the right and studied a painting on the wall.

He didn’t like me turning away. He wanted my rapt attention. But as a former Merchant Navy man, I’m trained in strategic retreat when danger looms. I saw his hand playing with his steel bracelet again. Flex. Rotate. Crack.

“Jai Shri Ram,” I whispered in my head, while slipping my little finger into my ear and shaking it as if scratching an itch.

I tried to tell him again—“Actually, I’ve been to Pakistan…”—but what I really wanted to say was: Cut the hyperbole, my man. Or at least trim it enough to leave room for facts. But I held back. There’s only so long you can keep a finger in your ear while trying to look fascinated.

Meanwhile, the buffet queue had evaporated. At the table, the pans offered the usual suspects: sandwiches (bread triangles with cheese, cabbage, and mystery chicken), soggy fries, noodles, pakodas, sweet-and-sour veggie balls, and—thankfully—gulab jamuns.

I picked up a few items cautiously. It’s not for nothing that I had brought Smart Sulekhika and her sister along—if nothing else, they’re excellent judges of catering.

Just then, someone beside me, possibly a rival gourmand, looked at the gulab jamuns and asked, “Oh, ye bhi saath mein hi?”

Since this was a high tea and not a full-course dinner, there were no separate plates for dessert. A true dilemma for connoisseurs: placing gulab jamuns atop salty snacks could ruin the taste. But leaving them behind meant risking their extinction.

I noticed his overflowing plate and smiled with studied warmth.
“Abhi hi le lo,” I advised gently. “Baad mein shayad na milein.”

Because in life—and especially in buffet lines—timing is everything.