The Sunday Times of India is flooded with columns. Every Tom, Dick, Harry and their cousins want to adorn the pages of the Sunday Times with one of their prose masterpieces. It’s led me to believe that a columnist's profession is the easiest of them all. Yes, easier even, than the job of one Jeremy Clarkson, who has the top-of-the-line variants of Ferrari's, Porsche's and other choice supercars delivered to his doorstep, so he can thrash them around a track and then pan them in his reviews.

When I was a little kid, (stop laughing there, at the back) I remember being in awe of these columnists. "How do they find something new to write every week?", I used to wonder. I'd then seek the help of my minute gray cells (in scarce number) to answer questions of this nature for me. Alas, they always ended up in magnificent failure. With the passage of the years, and the accumulation of worldly wisdom (and massive amounts of saturated fat around the tummy), I concluded, "Hell its not so difficult anyway!!"

Talking of saturated fat, my father isn't a very happy man. I blew up ten thousand rupees of his hard-earned money on a gymnasium - yes, you heard me right, a bloody "Fitness Center". Think of the endless gallons of super premium high-octane fuel that much money can buy. Think of the limitless thrill and the infinite enjoyment that results from such a purchase. Instead, I got talked into a gym membership by a stupid forward mail that asked me my age, height and weight; pretended to do a few bizarre calculations; and screamed out in bold red (font size 48) "Your body mass index is way above safe levels, it's a miracle you are alive. Get working boy!". I wasn't even married then. The possibility of my life coming to an end without having tasted marital bliss (whatever) sent a chill down my spine (it had to make its way through dense layers of fat) and put bridal beads of sweat on the expanse of my forehead. Off I headed to the nearest gym and readily got conned out of a full ten grand. Sigh! (Interesting tidbit of information - I weighed a colossal ninety eight kilos when I started frequenting the blighted place, now I weigh a humongous hundred and three. Fancy having paid a months salary to slam a century - in the wrong department)

First day at the gym, the instructor mouthed the dreaded four alphabets - D I E T. I wasn't giving up on the sumptuous delicacies the higher Lord had created for mankind. Not for losing a measly few kilos. The body mass index can take a ride in the woods with the saturated fat for company. And marriage doesn't seem so blissful anymore, at least not at the cost of my meals. In the ensuing bitter arguments, there was only one winner, and he ended up gaining five kilos and a few inches around the waist in the bargain. Any guesses?
Long after Indian curries became the flavour of the season in the United Kingdom, the Brits have woken up to the presence of carcinogenic dies in the chilly powder that we sell them. The ensuing brouhaha has culminated in some interesting facts coming to light about the things we in India consume so wholeheartedly. And bringing it all out in the open is the fearless journalism of the Times group. Long live!

Sample the contents of the table that appeared in the Times of India a few days back. By the way, the table was replete with vivaciously vivid colours (shades of green and blue) and wonderfully entertaining graphics. The milk we consume sir, now comes fortified with oxytocin, which is likely to cause abortions and sterility. I can't start to imagine the amount of oxytocin that all of us have so heartily consumed. Everything from coffee to pickles to ladyfingers to brinjal is supposedly adulterated with myriad substances ranging from coal tar dye (ahem...coal tar die) to lead chromate (exotic) to phosphomidone (same to you) to Methyl Parathin (God in the middle). What takes the cake (made with cocoa containing benzyl super aluminate) with the cherry (enriched with Rhodamin B) is the seemingly innocuous Dhania Powder. Hold your horses friends, it is enhanced with nothing less than HORSE DUNG (pun unintended). We all knew that bullshit had certain magical properties; it always took you to the top at any MNC. But HORSE DUNG??? It shall not surprise me if a study were to come to the conclusion that the average Indian middleclass family feasts on more toxic delicacies at each meal than were let out during the infamous Pokhran nuclear tests.

I am pestering those gray cells yet again to tell me if all this is part of a massive international ploy to reduce obesity. Publish news articles like that once in a while, and there you go, half the worlds fat men immediately give up their gourmets (I gave up dhania powder for sure)
Is there nothing untouched by the human urge to make a quick buck? Nothing at all? Forget food for humans for once, even food for our cars isn't untouched. But hey, its not adulterated. Instead, its made better by adding a few exotic chemicals, things that help your car run better. Come to think of it, the car gets better food than the car's owner does. But then, in most cases, the car really is better than the owner, and deserves more. Engine Oil Rotis with Unleaded Fuel Kolhapuri anyone?

Who's having the last laugh then? It’s not the Brits for sure; they're choking over their carcinogenic chillies. It’s not the world's fat men, they're ruing those cursed forced diets. Its not even George W. Bush. Its those oppressed, malnourished horses on Chowpaty; they're beaten to pulp by their owners, mocked by every Chunnu Munnu on a Sunday outing with his family, and yet they selflessly provide those joyrides along the beach, everyday, day after day. They're the ones laughing, and laughing out loud, because we're eating their shit.