often during the week i come back to this trouser..
with a a hope that to its circumference my girth would surrender..
i pull it up exhaling..doing a yogasana of sorts..
but when i breath in i realize..the trouser should have been stout..
i console myself, its a reflection of my well being..(touch wood)
and something about it not that i would but i should..
but each dreamy morning defeats this “BIG” reality..
i prefer bed to the treadmill ..and i sprint towards a calamity
the first recollections go back to a high school drama..
was given this nickname.. was fondly called “belly baba”
i have grown out…of pants along with school and college..
the sarcasms ..the names ..i have learnt to manage..
with so much hopes i see the gadgets in tele brands..
the flat n sexy abs..to buy them i begin to plan..
but i postpone that effort..like so many times i’ve done..
to be what i i am i now think it is fun..
i stand with straight legs..bend down to touch my toes..
i accompolish that and i announce that i’m still not a fatso..
i write this much and i realize..its just not worth thoughts..
its action that it calls for …not words that i so often jot..