She was brought into the world all right.
She was not privileged enough to be the billionth baby introduced to the human-o-sphere (a tag which by the way, only reemphasises of the homo sapiens’ puny helplessness in one of those prejudicially cultivated circumstances). Okay, so she is a millennial child. However, she was neither thrust with a silver spoon in her mouth, nor was she abandoned on the streets amidst the absence of Maslow’s basic hierarchical needs.
She was brought into the world just all right.
Born to a set of parents who selflessly dedicated their world to her as she grew up. Their countlessly unaccounted for time and efforts, while leaving no leaf unturned in her upbringing. In her growing years, she saw the world through their eyes. And now, she was on her way to having her own. Turning into an individual that shaped her oncoming years. Transpiring an identity that defined her. Made of a selfhood that today, demarcates who she is, of her skin-deep tissues and cells, of her tastes, of her character and traits.
As she sat on the table relishing the seven-layered, rainbow cake – all to herself – a guiltless sense of sin consumed her. She pinched the four-pronged fork through the bursting flavours, and layers of fresh cream and sponge, sliced apart a reasonably sized piece, and scooped it into her mouth with moaning noises for company. It tasted as enticing as it visually appealed. Now, that was some faith restored. For there still existed signs of materialistic mortality where after all, looks didn’t deceive! Derived forms of dark chocolate were her getaway, as were very selective fresh cream cakes. But then, she was ill-advisedly obese. Or so, was the notion imbibed into her. For as long and far as she could remember. Since times she was capable of silhouetting the first of her own memories. Since she first checked herself out in the mirror. Since she bought her first piece of dress labelled ‘L’. And therein began her tug of war with daily workouts. The weighing scales tipped often, sometimes in her favour, while at others, against. Nevertheless, she continued to battle on, with her resilience often put forth to test her patience.
Toning, shaping, cuts and flats were now terms that became her dailies. She was not the type to indulge often. Her cravings gave way as frequently as Christmas made an appearance in a calendar year. But then, Christmas has always meant a week worth of ceremonious festivities in the name of snow and Santa. Why should these cravings be any different? Cravings that pumped the beat up. Cravings that gave way to adventures. Cravings that let off of inhibitions and premonitions. Cravings that let you be. Cravings that screamed out loud – screw the world.
The junk that typically lists in highly calorific items. Those bouts of crispy, crackling, and hot-from-the-pan savouries. The thrill of those adventurous rides in theme parks. The rollercoaster of moods and its swings. This moment’s laughter paving way to the next instant of salty sobs. The joy of taking a solo trip and of being unquestionably, a wanderlust. That uncontrollable heartbeat on seeing a private message beep from your special someone. The adrenaline rush gushing to the head, while you think to yourself – now this is the best sex I have ever had. That pounding in your ears of eerie silence after your first-ever scuba diving experience.
Of emotions, extreme and subtle. Of sadness. Of laughter. Of wonder. Of amusement. Of lust. Of care.
It was a fine summer evening. The balmy breeze of dried dews engulfed the air as the sun was on its way to draw its last for the day. The skies were streaked ad hoc with moody yellows, melancholic oranges and scenic blues. She wanted to hit the gym. Off with her gear, sportswear and attire, she plugged in her bass-heavy headphones and switched her playlist to progressive house. As she warmed up on the treadmill, she DJ’ed with the player’s equaliser setting it to a preference that appealed to the eardrums. A favourite played, and she sped up. She focused on the music, as she started sprinting. Diversions as this always helped her case. Especially when she was in her workouts. Thirty-five seconds later, she gasped. The headphones were on, and she was still sprinting. She gasped for air once more. Something was amiss. Her breaths drew short. The music was fading away. The pounding vacuum in her ears was closing in on her. She was not able to keep up with her co-jogger’s speed. As she decelerated, the display on the machine indicating Heart Rate went blank. She tried to breathe quickly, except that she couldn’t draw in oxygen. There was a constriction. There was an obstruction. Her eyesight wheezed out, and all beckoned in slow motion. Another forty-five seconds later, her heart thumped wildly as it geared back into action. A trickle of water had revived and revved back the stream’s course. That yellow, digital display marked Heart Rate was back on.
And herein lay her trial to moderation. For, there was no room for error.
The moderation to overdoing cardiological workouts. The moderation to losing even a sliver of that easy fat. The moderation to burning two hundred calories in ten minutes. The moderation to consuming cholesterol. The moderation to binging on alcohol. The moderation to keeping herself stress free. The moderation to restrain from oscillating between moods and its swings. The moderation to enjoying adrenalised rides. The moderation to relishing the drugged junk – of food and otherwise. The moderation to many more of those exciting firsts – in bed and otherwise. The moderation to prohibit the blood magnetising away from her heart.
For, here was her heart, with all due diligence. Except, with insufficient air to pump into her lungs. That fetish of another seven-layered cake all to herself, that anticipatory thrill of yet another three hundred and sixty degree ride, that digressing need to burn her fat – all was snatched away. Just like that. If it isn’t for moderation.
For she is now prone to a respiratory condition. For she is now at the mercy of an inhaler.