It happened during one of those sticky Mumbai summers, the kind that turns your T-shirt into a second skin and makes even the fan seem judgmental. I was 19, broke-ish, heartbroken-ish, and definitely not on speaking terms with portion control. My cousin was getting married in Thane, and as is tradition in our family, the real ceremony wasn’t at the mandap — it was at the buffet table.
I don’t remember much about the vows or the flower arrangements. But I remember the smell of ghee-soaked basmati, the way the alu vadi was rolled so tight it looked like it had a law degree, and how the jalebi guy had a line longer than the one outside Siddhivinayak Temple on Tuesdays. This wasn’t just food. It was a line-up of edible emotions. And I had come prepared — stretchy pants and a flexible moral compass.
The Great Plate Strategy
Now, Indian wedding buffets are not for amateurs. There’s a pacing strategy, an unspoken code. You start light: maybe a spoon of farsan, a couple of dhoklas, a diplomatic scoop of raita. Then you circle back for mains. But that day, I broke protocol. I went all in. First round: two kinds of pulao, methi malai mutter, paneer lababdar, puris puffed like tiny parachutes, and three pickles I couldn’t name but respected deeply.
My friend Rohan, who was wisely nursing a small plate of salad and dal, gave me a look. “You know there’s dessert too, right?” he whispered.
I nodded, mid-bite. Of course I knew. But this wasn’t about capacity. It was about commitment.
Why I Did It
See, this wasn’t just overeating for overeating’s sake. This was tactical, deliberate indulgence. I had just flunked my second attempt at the engineering entrance exam. My ex had uploaded an album titled “New Beginnings 💫” with a guy who wore a soul patch. And I was tired — of proving things, of being measured, of being “on track.” That day, I didn’t want balance. I wanted gravy.
Every bite was a rebellion — against productivity, against expectations, against calorie counts. I wasn’t eating because I was hungry. I was eating because I needed to remind myself that joy, even if shallow and sodium-heavy, was still accessible. That I could feel full in a world that constantly told me I wasn’t enough.
The Post-Meal Reckoning
Of course, the aftermath was brutal. My stomach felt like a traffic jam on the Western Express Highway. I had to loosen my drawstring so discreetly, it could’ve won an espionage award. I couldn’t move during the bride and groom’s first dance, partly from fullness and partly from existential dread.
But I didn’t regret it. Not even a little. Because somewhere between the third helping of undhiyu and the second gulab jamun floating in its sticky bath, I felt… calm. Safe, even. Food has a way of doing that. It can’t fix your life, but it can hold it gently for a while.
Years Later, Still Full
Now, living in Austin, I cook a lot more intentionally. I make dal with measured salt, use brown rice because my doctor said something alarming, and try not to have second helpings unless I’ve walked at least 7,000 steps. But once in a while — on a rough day, or a weirdly homesick Tuesday — I allow myself that kind of eating again. Not mindless. Not reckless. Just… honest.
Because sometimes, overeating isn’t about excess. It’s about letting go. About silencing that inner critic that asks too many questions. And on that wedding day, surrounded by relatives who asked me why I wasn’t in IIT yet, I answered them the only way I could — by going back for thirds.
And honestly? That was probably the most satisfying answer I’ve ever given.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
