Of Beedis, Boiled Onions, and Billion-Rupee Farmhouses

Today, after completing my jog, I joined the regulars for our customary “rest and recovery” session, about 30 minutes where the body cools down, and the mind warms up. The conversations, as always, wandered freely, from current affairs to history, movies to cricket, and anything in between.

One of the friends steered the discussion towards health. He spoke about Japan, its healthy yet ageing population, and recalled an old Japanese lady’s advice: boil pieces of onion in hot water, add a pinch of salt and a dash of lemon, and consume it regularly for its supposed health benefits.

He then added, with a hint of mischief, that doctors too might know of such simple remedies, but where’s the business in prescribing onions and lemons?

Not stopping there, he reminded of another tip, soaking one’s feet in lukewarm salted water. He extended the logic further, suggesting that even adding salt to bathwater could be beneficial. As someone who relies entirely on a shower, I found myself quietly wondering how one might adapt such wisdom to modern plumbing.

It was then that I felt compelled to offer a counterpoint.

I told him about an elderly man I see every day at the Darshini where I stop for breakfast after my jog. He claims to be over a hundred, and, to be fair, looks convincingly close to that milestone. I’m told he owns a significant portion of the land on which the eatery stands, and is therefore served breakfast and coffee, perhaps with a monthly settlement by his family, though that is just my conjecture.  I have never seen him pay anything.

What stands out, however, is not his diet, but his habit.  He is almost always seated on a stone bench under a tree, opposite the Darshini, with a beedi in hand. Either one before breakfast, or one after, but invariably one.

Now, I asked my friend: if this gentleman were to advise that smoking a few beedis daily is the secret to crossing a hundred, would we accept that logic?

That was enough. The group burst into laughter, and even my friend paused, perhaps reconsidering the charm of overly simple explanations for long life.

I wrapped it up by saying:  we don’t live long because of such practices, but often in spite of them, and that explanations this simplistic can hardly capture the real reasons behind a long and healthy life.

That earned another round of laughter, and perhaps a quiet nod of agreement.

Just then, this friend left and was replaced by another, our resident yoga expert/trainer and retired professor, who has since diversified into real estate.

He mentioned he was heading to Malur, where some land was being developed into sites. Naturally, I asked if there was real demand in such areas. He spoke enthusiastically about the growth potential of townships around Bangalore, Nelamangala and the like, quoting current rates with the ease of someone who had clearly rehearsed the pitch.  To be fair, he wasn’t trying to sell anything to us, we are hardly his target segment. This was more of a friendly update, or perhaps a warm-up before his actual meetings later in the day.

A few weeks ago, he had casually mentioned a villa property spread over a couple of acres, priced at a modest ₹35 crores. We had listened with the detached curiosity of people reading about luxury yachts in a magazine.

Today, he added that investing in land or a farmhouse in his native Chitradurga could offer a healthier, nature-filled life.  That was my cue.  

I told him that we are now at a stage where moving from the bedroom to the hall itself feels like a project, and that our horizons, for the moment, extend comfortably within those boundaries.  Farmhouses and acres of land, I suggested, may belong to a chapter we have already read.  That, once again, lightened the moment.

Such are the conversations that animate our mornings, a group largely past sixty, occasionally indulging in philosophy, gently mocking fads, and always finding humour in the absurdities of life… while also keeping a couple of younger members entertained in the process.

Stories, not instructions. Experiences, not advice—medical or otherwise. Data, only what the internet quietly gathers anyway. Proceed with equal parts curiosity and common sense.