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To the young and the hungry: Enjoy the silence while it lasts. Today you are eating the mutton; tomorrow, the mutton is eating you
I HAVE reached that precarious stage of life where my social circle is now a rotating cast of medical professionals. These white coats shake their heads when I tell them what I used to eat regularly. They viewed my past diet with horrified fascination; I did all the “good stuff” like lontong, nasi lemak, rendang, biryani, and fish head curry.
My primary “health advisor”, before a little medical episode last year required me to see hospital doctors, was my friend at the Curry Palace. He is not happy with me now because I am talking to real doctors who wear stethoscopes and have nurses and white coats that have never once been introduced to a turmeric stain.
While the hospital doctor talks about “cardiovascular integrity”, my Curry Palace specialist remains convinced that the only thing wrong with my health is that I’m not filling it with enough of his mutton-fried rice.
This new abstinence is my new normal. I have undergone a full-scale biological rebranding; I have succumbed to total health-sector radicalisation. My grocery list now looks like the manifest of an ancient spice ship caught in a health-food raid. I have gone full-throttle aesthetic ascetic.
Front and centre are the chia seeds (tiny, gelatinous pebbles that look like frog spawn) and the accursed apple cider vinegar, a liquid that smells like a gym floor and tastes like a direct assault on human joy. I have enough magnesium and potassium on my bedside to jump-start a dead Volvo, and I treat Celtic salt with a reverence usually reserved for Siti Nurhaliza concert tickets.
I have what is known as obesity and a visceral fat problem. My Curry Palace friend recently showed me a greeting card from the Ikram Society, which was in the news a few weeks ago for some rather creative “zakat shenanigans”.
The card was titled “Happy Old People’s Week” (or something similar) and offered deeply spiritual medical advice, including the exhortations to “avoid arguments and unnecessary conflict” and to “swallow sadness and move on”.
Which is simple, but not nearly as helpful as what the doctors say I must do now: Walk in the mornings. At sunrise. Not just walking, mind you, but engaging in a specific, rhythmic pace that requires me to talk to myself.
Make no mistake, this is not for the giggles. This is a desperate, panting negotiation for survival. The doctors are obsessed with visceral fat, which, as far as I can tell, is medical shorthand for the ancient, marbled grease of a thousand illicit biryanis currently strangling my internal organs like a hungry python.
To evict this internal squatter and escape the looming shadow of clinical obesity, I am told I must reside permanently in “Zone 2”. Apparently, if I break into a light jog, my body panics and hoards the fat like a doomsday prepper hoarding canned beans. If I push too hard, I release a weird hormone that, in a cruel twist of biological irony, actually causes me to get fatter.
The only way to verify I am walking in this narrow corridor of fat-burning bliss, a Zone 2, and know that I am successfully melting the mutton without alerting the hormonal guards, is to make sure that I can maintain a conversation while walking fast.
Since no one I know could be persuaded to walk with me at sunrise, I am forced to talk to myself. I shuffle past the Curry Palace at a brisk, life-saving clip, muttering to my imaginary friend about the benefits of potassium simply to prove to my lungs that I haven’t triggered a “tiger response”.
To the casual observer, I look like a man who has finally lost his marbles after a lifetime of Kuala Lumpur (KL) traffic. To the medical community, however, I am the picture of health. I’m not sure which is more frightening, but at least the mutton-fried lamb smells from inside the shop are the same as they were when I was allowed to be happy.
To the young and the hungry: Enjoy the silence while it lasts. Today you are eating the mutton; tomorrow, the mutton is eating you. One day soon, the grease will demand its pound of flesh, and you’ll be out here with me, vibrating with apple cider vinegar and conducting a one-man symposium on the sidewalk.
It is a tragic irony that a life of good eating ends with a man talking to his own imaginary friend, simply because his heart is too terrified to let him be quiet.
- ZB Othman is an editor of The Malaysian Reserve.
- This article first appeared in The Malaysian Reserve weekly print edition
The post The 7am hostile takeover appeared first on The Malaysian Reserve.

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