Ragi to Riches

Given that many of my friends who were born in the year I did, face another decade-birthday this year, leaving me way behind at 26, I seem to be more and more interested in "health" food.  This, however, is not new to me.  I have always surfed the sine wave, with a few days of uber-virtuous living, alternating with spongecake-samosa- chocolate binging, which the body has been taking pretty well thus far.  My rapidly aging erstwhile classmates, held in the throngs of midlife crisis, are now passing their metabolic problems to me, believing that THAT's what friends are for, and so the body, in particular the stomach area, complains whenever there is as much as a whiff of culinary sin in the zip code.  By stomach, I mean the area extending from a few feet in front of the face to the toilet bowl, so that at the sight of the doughnut which usually makes the tongue drip, there is an automated voice that tells the brain that a single sniff of that thing resulted in some interesting fluid dynamics in the bathroom last time.  The voice is hyperactive these days,  correlating coffee with the duodenal balloon that that fills up with sulfurated air that often finds exit at the most inopportune moments, ice cream to the cushion at the seat area, bhajji to the aqua regia along the entire plumbing route and so on.