You can give up booze. Or quit smoking. Forget the kosha mnagsho. You can live in serious self denial. You can turn vegetarian and author the cult classic among veggie foodies, called The Monk Who Gave Up Murighonto. You can do yoga and become Baba Rajon Dev. But still there is no saving you unless you can handle stress.
About this time, a couple of years ago, I had got official confirmation that my heart was under serious attack. I was told my heart functions were down to ten percent, two arteries were blocked, hundred per cent and that 15 per cent of my heart was damaged beyond redemption (I swear there have been moments in my life when I had thought the percentage was far higher than fifteen, but hell, I wasn't going to quibble with a little bit of good news coming my way!). And that I had survived to tell the tale was due to a rare combination of good fortune and solid medical skill.
Recent figures show a high number of Indian professionals suffering from heart diseases and other stress-related ailments compared to their western counterparts, who share the same work space. One tried to figure out why and this is what one found: From Monday morning onwards till about Friday evening, the Indian professional and his western colleague follow the same lifestyle. They work in the same office, deal with similar problems, more or less the same set of people, handle the same amount of stress. On Friday evening everything changes.
The western colleague's wife or girl friend shows up in office, they leave together for a long drive to may be Rishikesh. Pitch their tent on the bank of The Ganges. Have a can of cold beer (yes, you Bajrang Dal morons, you get beer in Rishikesh) and make wild love under a starlit sky. After two more days he shows up in office on Monday morning, refreshed and ready to tackle whatever life can think up to throw at him.
What about his Indian colleague? Let us now take a sneak peek into his awesome weekend. Friday evening as he parks his car outside his home, a cheery phone call from the wifey : "Sorry, forgot to tell you, the Kapoors are coming for dinner.” For the sake of general bonhomie and domestic peace, let the Indian colleague be known as Sandeep. Sandeep and Amit had once worked in the same organization and now kept in touch because their children go to the same school.
Sandeep quickly visualized the evening that lay ahead him. The teetotaller Amit will regale you with his inside take on the furious corporate battle in his office for the post of executive vice-president and how he has managed to stay one step ahead of the competition. Meanwhile, his wife will not-so-discretely show off her new diamond ring and you try not to squirm as your wife fixes you with an accusatory look. The deal is, as the evening wears on, if you can keep a straight face and look suitably impressed, you are allowed a fantasy. You are allowed to fantasize who should you kill first -- your guests, for doing this to you on a Friday evening, or your wife, who should have known better. That particular fantasy, I am told, is therapeutic.
Saturday mornings can be charming, if you don't mind fraternizing with electricians and plumbers. The almirah door that practically came off the hinges, the leaky faucet that floods your bathroom, the electric iron that could stand trial on attempt-to-elctrocute charges -- they have been patiently waiting for your personal intervention on this balmy Saturday morning.
The evenings can be oh-so-much-fun. Just after your child takes a break from watching cartoons and an hour before Ekta Kapoor enters your life, voila, the TV is all yours. If you are lucky, you can catch a few overs of a cricket match not featuring India (BIG stress issue that, watching India get thrashed, any cardiologist worth his salt would tell you).
Sundays, one is spoilt for choices. You could either drive down to the airport to pick up your aunt and go for a leisurely lunch with parents, wife, child and the newly arrived aunt. Or, may be, go over and say hello to your in-laws. Of course, the good nephew that you are, ideally you would take her for some shopping in the evening, which the rest of the family would so much enjoy too. After all, these spanking new shopping malls need to be patronised too. And since you are into movies, you can catch a movie at the nearby multiplex. Once again you are spoilt for choice. You could go for The Motorcycle Diaries or the arty but trendy Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi. You wisely settle for Salaam-e-Ishq ("darun music" your mother says, "it has Salman Khan", wife beams, and then the clincher, "the little one will love it").
After that rocking weekend, as you meet up with your white colleague, brush a tuft of the Rishikesh grass off his shirt collar, you fight a murderous urge to throttle the next man who uttered the word "S T R E S S".
The lesson in all this ? SIMPLE. You can't combine a western week with an Indian weekend or vice versa.
The jury is still out on who is winning the battle between me and stress. But I am glad to observe others are faring decidedly better. There is a friend in Punjab who has hit upon this splendid vacation idea -- he is sending his wife and son on a forty-day paid holiday to the United States. He meanwhile will chill out at his modest 1000-acre farm, doing all those things that millionaire farmers do when their wife and child holiday abroad. Last I heard, the jolly Sikhs in the Doaba area of Punjab were readying themselves for The Mother of All Binges.
Now THAT is one way to take care of stress.
About this time, a couple of years ago, I had got official confirmation that my heart was under serious attack. I was told my heart functions were down to ten percent, two arteries were blocked, hundred per cent and that 15 per cent of my heart was damaged beyond redemption (I swear there have been moments in my life when I had thought the percentage was far higher than fifteen, but hell, I wasn't going to quibble with a little bit of good news coming my way!). And that I had survived to tell the tale was due to a rare combination of good fortune and solid medical skill.
Recent figures show a high number of Indian professionals suffering from heart diseases and other stress-related ailments compared to their western counterparts, who share the same work space. One tried to figure out why and this is what one found: From Monday morning onwards till about Friday evening, the Indian professional and his western colleague follow the same lifestyle. They work in the same office, deal with similar problems, more or less the same set of people, handle the same amount of stress. On Friday evening everything changes.
The western colleague's wife or girl friend shows up in office, they leave together for a long drive to may be Rishikesh. Pitch their tent on the bank of The Ganges. Have a can of cold beer (yes, you Bajrang Dal morons, you get beer in Rishikesh) and make wild love under a starlit sky. After two more days he shows up in office on Monday morning, refreshed and ready to tackle whatever life can think up to throw at him.
What about his Indian colleague? Let us now take a sneak peek into his awesome weekend. Friday evening as he parks his car outside his home, a cheery phone call from the wifey : "Sorry, forgot to tell you, the Kapoors are coming for dinner.” For the sake of general bonhomie and domestic peace, let the Indian colleague be known as Sandeep. Sandeep and Amit had once worked in the same organization and now kept in touch because their children go to the same school.
Sandeep quickly visualized the evening that lay ahead him. The teetotaller Amit will regale you with his inside take on the furious corporate battle in his office for the post of executive vice-president and how he has managed to stay one step ahead of the competition. Meanwhile, his wife will not-so-discretely show off her new diamond ring and you try not to squirm as your wife fixes you with an accusatory look. The deal is, as the evening wears on, if you can keep a straight face and look suitably impressed, you are allowed a fantasy. You are allowed to fantasize who should you kill first -- your guests, for doing this to you on a Friday evening, or your wife, who should have known better. That particular fantasy, I am told, is therapeutic.
Saturday mornings can be charming, if you don't mind fraternizing with electricians and plumbers. The almirah door that practically came off the hinges, the leaky faucet that floods your bathroom, the electric iron that could stand trial on attempt-to-elctrocute charges -- they have been patiently waiting for your personal intervention on this balmy Saturday morning.
The evenings can be oh-so-much-fun. Just after your child takes a break from watching cartoons and an hour before Ekta Kapoor enters your life, voila, the TV is all yours. If you are lucky, you can catch a few overs of a cricket match not featuring India (BIG stress issue that, watching India get thrashed, any cardiologist worth his salt would tell you).
Sundays, one is spoilt for choices. You could either drive down to the airport to pick up your aunt and go for a leisurely lunch with parents, wife, child and the newly arrived aunt. Or, may be, go over and say hello to your in-laws. Of course, the good nephew that you are, ideally you would take her for some shopping in the evening, which the rest of the family would so much enjoy too. After all, these spanking new shopping malls need to be patronised too. And since you are into movies, you can catch a movie at the nearby multiplex. Once again you are spoilt for choice. You could go for The Motorcycle Diaries or the arty but trendy Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi. You wisely settle for Salaam-e-Ishq ("darun music" your mother says, "it has Salman Khan", wife beams, and then the clincher, "the little one will love it").
After that rocking weekend, as you meet up with your white colleague, brush a tuft of the Rishikesh grass off his shirt collar, you fight a murderous urge to throttle the next man who uttered the word "S T R E S S".
The lesson in all this ? SIMPLE. You can't combine a western week with an Indian weekend or vice versa.
The jury is still out on who is winning the battle between me and stress. But I am glad to observe others are faring decidedly better. There is a friend in Punjab who has hit upon this splendid vacation idea -- he is sending his wife and son on a forty-day paid holiday to the United States. He meanwhile will chill out at his modest 1000-acre farm, doing all those things that millionaire farmers do when their wife and child holiday abroad. Last I heard, the jolly Sikhs in the Doaba area of Punjab were readying themselves for The Mother of All Binges.
Now THAT is one way to take care of stress.
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