This is not a joke. I have genuinely broken my left arm. Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Proper orthopedic level damage. Plaster. Sling. Sympathy from strangers. And suddenly, the universe decided that this was the correct moment to unleash winter.

The temperature dipped immediately. Coincidence? I think not. The weather clearly saw my cast and said, perfect. Now let us add craving.

I am craving steaming hot momos. Not politely warm momos. I want them to go directly into my mouth so that I can make those completely undignified vhuavhuavhua sounds while trying not to burn my tongue and still refusing to let the momo go. The kind of sound that tells the momo, you will hurt me, but you will not escape.

Then there are those crispy brown aloo tikkis. The ones whose tawa gives off heat strong enough to restore faith in humanity. You stand near it pretending to decide whether you want chutney or not, but actually you are just borrowing warmth. The chole follows. Garam. Spicy. Mischievous. Playing table tennis with your tongue while you pretend you can handle it.

December cold waves are not weather. They are emotional manipulators. They whisper things like eat something fried, eat something hot, you deserve this, look at your arm. And honestly, after a week of this, I believe them.

At this point, my left arm is broken but my willpower is fully intact only when it comes to ordering food. I should have bought an automatic. Because managing winter, injury, and self control simultaneously feels like a manual transmission on a steep hill.

I love winters. I truly do. The clothes are better. The food is superior. The excuses are endless. And after thoroughly enjoying all these thoughts for a solid week, I have arrived at a very mature decision.

I will go on a diet. Later.