There was a time when children hid report cards from parents. Today, parents hide biscuit wrappers from children. At least that is the situation when I visit my daughter. A dedicated fitness enthusiast settled in the US, she lives in a world where people voluntarily wake up at unearthly hours to do burpees, drink strange green liquids and discuss ‘gut health’ with the seriousness normally reserved for international diplomacy. She belongs to that tribe which believes that happiness is not measured in wealth, success or relationships, but in protein intake. To tell you the truth, I walk regularly, do strength training, swim and firmly believe I am reasonably active for my age. But according to my daughter, my main issue is not exercise. It is ‘calorie input’. This phrase has now entered my life with the force of a court summons. And this is what she has promised me that she will work upon when I visit her in a couple of days. Our daily conversation, now eventually reaches the same destination. And while I looked forward to her phone calls earlier, beseeching the phone to ‘ring, ring’, I now somewhat dread the daily call. “How many steps did you do today?” “What did you eat?” “How much protein?”

 

“Did you measure the calories that you burnt?” I sometimes feel less like a mother and more like an accused being interrogated by the FDA. The alarming part is that she has backup support. Trainers. Coaches. Nutrition experts. People with frighteningly fit bodies and expressions that suggest they have never eaten a pakora while enjoying the rains. Recently she announced triumphantly, “I am going to give you my iWatch that I will sync with your phone.” I had been dreading such a moment. I do not want to be ruled by watches. A daughter is enough! Continuing in the same vein, she added, “I spoke to a coach and he explained exactly why you are not losing weight.” I waited nervously. Then came the revolutionary discovery. “You must burn more calories than what you eat.” Wonderful. This, translated into simple language, means: “Eat less.” This was information my ancestors probably knew while cooking on firewood. And I, for sure, am fully aware of it. But modern fitness culture never states anything simply. It arrives wrapped in technical jargon. Suddenly ordinary eating becomes ‘mindful nutrition’. Rice becomes ‘carbs’. Dinner becomes ‘fuel’. And hunger apparently is no longer hunger but ‘cravings triggered by emotional imbalance’. That is what the conversations are about.

 

She is hell bent that I improve my eating habits. “What did you have for dinner?” “Peanuts,” I said. “Whaatt?” was the accusatory response. “That’s pure protein,” I stammered. “50 gms of proteins have the highest calories in the food pyramid,” she stopped short of yelling. I felt like bursting into tears - I do not want to break up my food into calories. In fact, come to think of it, I visit foreign lands only because of the array of breads that are available there. The baguettes at the farmers market are to die for, but if she is going to keep tabs on it, there seems to be no point in going saat samunder paar. Earlier people ate because they were hungry. Today people analyse food like stock market investors. The other day I proudly informed my daughter that I had walked over 8,000 steps. Instead of appreciating, she asked suspiciously, “Were they actual steps or smartwatch steps?” Apparently there is a difference. Now fitness bands have created an entirely new category of athletes - people who achieve fitness without moving significantly. I know someone who completed her daily target while sitting in a car through Nagpur traffic because of the movement of her hand while she was driving her car. Another proudly waved his arm while watching television because he was “just finishing remaining steps”. I am amazed at mankind’s brilliance. We may not solve pollution, inflation or potholes, but we have mastered fooling wrist watches. My daughter, however, belongs to the honest fitness category. Her smartwatch probably reports directly to the United Nations. She tracks calories burnt, calories consumed, sleep cycles, water intake and perhaps even emotional fluctuations. Meanwhile, I come from the generation where fitness tracking meant one aunty saying, “You’ve put on a little weight, haven’t you?” Frankly, that feedback system was simpler and far more affordable. Now every meal at home resembles a scientific experiment. I happily sit down with poha.

 

She asks, “Did you measure the oil?” Measure the oil? Madam, in Indian kitchens oil is not measured. It is emotionally poured. And if the cook has charge of the oil canister, God save everyone from cholesterol. Then comes the attack on my beloved snacks. “Why are you eating popcorn?” “Because I am alive”. No answer ever satisfies fitness enthusiasts. According to them, all tasty food belongs to the enemy camp. They eat things with names like quinoa crackers and Greek yogurt bowls while I continue to believe that hot bhajiyas during monsoon are proof that heaven exists. But I must admit, beneath all this calorie policing lies concern. Genuine concern. Every daughter reaches a stage where she starts parenting her parents. Suddenly the child who once refused vegetables now lectures you on fibre intake. The same little girl who survived on Maggi and chocolate milk now sends links on metabolic health. Life truly comes full circle. Of course, I pretend to resist. I argue dramatically. I defend my right to occasional desserts. I accuse her of removing joy from food. She rolls her eyes and says, “Moderation is the key Aai!” That word again. Another favourite of fitness experts. Still, I have started becoming slightly cautious. I do read labels now.

 

I have reduced random snacking. I even check calorie counts occasionally - though mainly to confirm that happiness is indeed fattening. And every night before sleeping comes the final ritual. My daughter checking my fitness stats from another continent. “Only 6,000 steps today?” Immediately I begin marching around the bedroom like a rejected army recruit while my husband watches silently, wisely refusing involvement. Technology has changed parenting forever. Children no longer need to live with us to monitor us. Somewhere in America, my daughter sleeps peacefully believing she is improving my lifespan. And somewhere in Nagpur, I quietly eat half a laddoo in the kitchen with the stealth of an international criminal. n