Three months. Same breakfast. Oats, banana, black coffee.
Then Tuesday. Wanted paratha.
Happy watched me at the stove. 7 AM. Weekday.
“The oats?”
“Tired of them.”
“Three months wasn’t long enough?”
I flipped the paratha. “Was too long.”
She leaned against the counter. “You do this with everything.”
“What?”
“All in, then all out. Food. Shows. Hobbies.” She paused. “Me.”
The spatula stopped.
“We have cycles,” she said. “Close, then far. You pull, then push. Every few months.”
I hadn’t seen it. But there it was.
Arash was negotiating with his breakfast. The daily dance. Five more bites. Four more. Three.
“Why don’t you like carrots?” I asked him.
“They’re boring.”
“You ate them last week.”
“Those were different carrots.”
At the office, couldn’t focus. Kept thinking about the women before Happy. Same thing each time. Intense start. Comfortable middle. Restless end. Guilty return.
Same cycle. Different people.
Last year I tried meal prep. Morning runs. Measured portions. Lasted four months. Then midnight biryani. Back where I started.
Rizwan ate his lunch beside me. Grilled chicken. Salad. Measured portions. Same thing every day.
“Don’t you get bored?” I asked.
“Of what?”
“Same food. Every day.”
“No. It works. Why change it?”
“For variety?”
“Variety isn’t the point.” He ate a forkful. “Consistency is.”
I thought about Happy. Fifteen years. Same conversations. Same routines. Comfortable.
Too comfortable?
That evening I told her.
“I think I destroy things when they get comfortable.”
“Obviously.”
“You knew?”
“Of course I knew. You cycle. Intense, then distant. With me. With Arash. With your work.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I did. You were in a distant phase. You don’t remember.”
That hurt.
“So what do I do?”
“Notice it. Choose different.”
Simple. Impossible.
I thought about chocolate. Either none for weeks or entire bar in one sitting. No middle.
With Happy, same thing. All there or nowhere. No middle where I could just be.
“Maybe the food thing is practice,” I said later.
“Practice for what?”
“For staying.”
Next morning. Oats again. Not because I wanted them. Because I was practicing not leaving.
Arash noticed. “I thought you stopped eating those?”
“I did. Now I’m not.”
“Why?”
“Practicing staying with things.”
“That sounds boring.”
“Maybe.”
Over weeks I watched myself. The urge to quit right when things got comfortable. Choosing easy food when stressed. Same way I’d disappear from Happy when stressed.
The fish in the fridge. Bought with good intentions. Left until it spoiled. Thrown away.
Like promises to spend time with family. Made with good intentions. Let work consume them. Thrown away.
Friday. Happy made kacchi biryani. My favorite. Instead of eating fast, I ate slow. Paid attention.
“Why are you eating like that?” she asked.
“Trying something.”
“Trying what?”
“Being here. Not thinking about next thing.”
She looked at me. “You’re being weird.”
“Probably.”
Arash copied me. Slow bites. “I taste cardamom!” Like he discovered something.
Maybe he did.
Kamal came for dinner. Watched me eat.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Trying to eat like I want to stay.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard.”
“Maybe.”
“Is it working?”
“Don’t know yet.”
After he left, Happy asked, “Is this real? Or is this another intense phase before you quit this too?”
Fair question.
“Don’t know. But I’m watching myself. That’s different.”
“Watching yourself do the thing isn’t the same as not doing the thing.”
“No. But maybe it’s something.”
That night Arash asked, “Baba, why do people get bored of things they like?”
“Don’t know. Maybe we think excitement and staying are the same thing.”
“Like your oats?”
“Like my oats.”
“Still sounds boring.”
“It is.”
Months passed. Some days wanted to stop the mindful eating. Go back to unconscious. Same days wanted to disappear from Happy. Hide in work.
But I noticed the urge. Sat with it. Didn’t run.
Something loosened.
“You seem different,” Happy said one evening.
“Different how?”
“More here. Less in your head.”
Maybe the food thing was working. Maybe not. Maybe just seeing the pattern made it weaker.
Either way, kept showing up to breakfast. Kept showing up to marriage. Kept showing up to being a father. Even when it wasn’t exciting.
The oats never got exciting. The routine never got thrilling.
But somewhere in the boring, found something else. Showed up for myself. For Happy. For Arash. Not perfectly. Not always. More than before.
Last week Arash asked, “Baba, are you happy?”
I was eating oats. “Don’t know.”
“But you’re still eating them?”
“Still eating them.”
He thought about this. “Maybe that’s the same thing.”
Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t.
I don’t know.
Still eating oats.
