Ok, so the other day I went through one of those Executive Health Checks. I don’t know whether it was a mistake. I suspect it may have been because the day started badly enough. No coffee, no breakfast and then a bit of a struggle trying to get various body unmentionables into little sterile plastic bottles. Eventually, I managed to get myself and my discreetly brown paper-wrapped, aforementioned no-longer-sterile plastic bottles to the hotel, I mean, hospital. Actually come to think of it, have you noticed how the newer hospitals these days look like five-star hotels?

Anyway, so I land at the Health Check Desk and I’m asked politely with a smile even, to “please wait in the lounge”. The “lounge” turns out to be just that. Nice, plush sofas, coffee table with non-threatening reading matter and a bit of a cyber café though frankly where was the time to surf?

Within minutes, a form was thrust in front of me and then it was a whirlwind of blood tests, X Rays, Ultrasound, Stress Test, Pulmonary Function Test and a whole host of consultations with just about every kind of doctor I could think of.

Fortunately they also managed to squeeze in breakfast and lunch. And at the end of it all, the final doctor put the final nail gently into place.

“Everything else is fine. But you are fat.” Now why did I get the feeling that this was something I could have discovered at home with a quick glance at a full-length mirror?

I think the doc sensed my disappointment at his considered opinion. “Yes. Definitely. You are overweight.”

Then almost as an afterthought, he decided to throw in some technical terms: “And cholesterol is high.”

I tried some nifty negotiation: “You know doc, I exercise every day, 30 minutes of Tai Chi, then 5BX Canadian Air Force exercises, and then full 3 kilometre run. So what you’re saying is: I’m a little chunky, right?”

He didn’t even blink.

“Right. As I said: You are fat. So no fried food. No fast food. No fat food. No sweet food.” I had to interrupt even though my mother says it’s bad manners: “But doc, what do I eat?” I wailed in heart-felt protest.

“Do you like salad?” “Salad?” “But without dressing.” “Naked salad?”

“And you can have boiled vegetables. And anything without oil, butter, fat or sweet. You like mung, you know, sprouts?”

I walked out of the hospital shattered. Like someone had died. Or at any rate left for a very long trip.

Goodbye pau bhaji, farewell vada pau, see ya never butter chicken, ta ta mutton biryani, cheerio masala dosa, pip pip gulab jamun. I could open a whole new restaurant with the menu card of things I wasn’t allowed to eat.

The first day of my new life was quite terrible. “Achcha bai, abhi hamare liye jo kuch bhi banayegi, please bina tel ka banao, okay?”

My bai looked at me with a “these seth people are all completely yeda” look appropriately translated into Marathi. To her credit she tried to test the limits of these new instructions.

“Andaa chalega? Main ek ekdum chaka-chak omelet bana sakti hoon, bina tel ka.” Drat, I’d forgotten, no eggs either.