The Protein Paratha
I entered the gym. The air smelled of iron and sweat. The men were large. Their shirts were tight.
A desi boy knows strength. We carry water pots on heads. We push stalled scooters. We wrestle cousins at weddings. I picked up the dumbbell. Five kilos.
I curled it. Easy.
The trainer watched. "Bro, too light. Go heavy. Progressive overload." He put twenty kilos on the bar. "Three sets of ten."
I lay down. The bar crushed my chest. My arms shook. The trainer shouted: "Push! One more! Beast mode!"
I pushed. The bar went up. My vision blurred. I heard my mother's voice: Beta, eat almonds. Drink milk. Where is your protein?
I dropped the bar. The trainer caught it. "Good failure, bro. Tomorrow we go heavier."
I left. I stopped at the dhaba. Aloo paratha. Extra butter. Glass of lassi.
In my land, protein comes from mother's kitchen, not a plastic tub. The gains are in the ghee.
The Costco Membership
Last Saturday, I took my mother to Costco.
She had never been before.
The moment we entered, she stopped walking.
“Beta, why is this grocery store the size of an airport?”
I said, “It’s Costco, Ma. People buy things in bulk.”
She nodded seriously.
Then she saw the mayonnaise.
“Why do you need this much?”
“It’s cheaper.”
She picked up the container.
“Are you opening a restaurant?”
We moved on.
She found a box of forty-eight granola bars.
“Who is eating all these?”
“I am.”
She stared at me.
“You have one stomach.”
At checkout, I explained that the membership costs money.
She became suspicious.
“So you pay them to allow you to buy too much?”
“Basically.”
She thought about this for a few seconds.
Then she said, “Beta, in India, shopkeeper gives you membership for free.”
I said, “Ma, that’s just called knowing the shopkeeper.”
She ignored me.
Outside, we passed the food court.
She saw the giant pizza slice.
“How much?”
“Two dollars.”
She smiled.
“Finally. Something Costco understands.”
Then she saw the hot dog combo.
“Also two dollars.”
Now she was impressed.
“See? This is why America is successful.”
I said, “Because of cheap hot dogs?”
“No. Because after making you pay for membership, they give you food so you don’t regret it.”
That evening, she put the Costco receipt on the refrigerator.
Not for the warranty.
For evidence.
In America, bulk buying saves money; in an Indian family, bulk buying requires a five-year consumption plan.
#costco
Artificial Intelligence Has Entered the Family
My son told my father, “Grandpa, I’m using AI now.”
My father looked impressed.
“Very good. What does AI do?”
“It can answer anything.”
My father immediately tested it.
“What is the best investment?”
My son asked ChatGPT.
It gave a long answer about diversification and risk.
My father nodded.
“Not bad.”
Then he asked, “When should I buy?”
The AI said, “It depends on your goals and risk tolerance.”
My father frowned.
“Too much education. No answer.”
Then my mother got involved.
She asked, “Can AI tell me what to cook tomorrow?”
My son typed the question.
AI suggested several healthy dinner options.
My mother read them carefully.
“No.”
“Why?”
“It doesn't know your father.”
She then explained that my father refuses anything with too many vegetables.
AI suggested paneer.
My mother said, “He will say paneer is too heavy.”
AI suggested dal.
“Too boring.”
Rice and vegetables?
“Too much work.”
Finally, AI suggested ordering takeout.
My mother smiled.
“Now this machine understands America.”
The next morning, my father announced he had started using AI.
I asked, “For what?”
He said, “I ask it questions before I ask you.”
I felt proud.
Then he added, “But after it answers, I call your uncle to verify.”
**Artificial intelligence can process everything, but Desi intelligence still requires a second opinion from the family WhatsApp group.**
The Toilet Paper Emergency
The first time I saw people hoarding toilet paper, I thought something terrible had happened.
It was 2020, and Costco looked like a disaster movie.
My wife called me from the parking lot.
“Yaar, toilet paper is disappearing.”
I laughed. “Why? Did everyone suddenly get stomach problems?”
She was not laughing.
Inside, people were pushing carts loaded with giant toilet paper packs.
My father stared at one cart.
“Five packs?”
He shook his head.
“How many bathrooms does that man have?”
My mother quietly said, “Maybe his relatives are visiting.”
We reached the toilet paper aisle.
Nothing.
Completely empty.
My mother looked at the shelves.
Then she looked at Dad.
Dad looked at me.
Nobody said anything.
Finally, Dad smiled.
“Good thing we installed that bidet.”
My wife nodded.
“Exactly.”
My son looked confused.
“Why is everyone fighting over toilet paper?”
Dad pointed toward the empty aisle.
“They are preparing for the emergency.”
My son asked, “What emergency?”
Dad shrugged.
“Apparently, they have not discovered the water yet.”
That evening, my mother called her sister in India.
“Aunty, America has no toilet paper!”
My aunt paused.
Then she asked, “But they have water, no?”
My mother smiled.
“Yes.”
Aunt laughed.
In America, people prepare for disaster by buying toilet paper; in our family, we just turn on the bidet.
#Costo #Toiletpaper