I was on my first diet at the age of four. Before you call social services for child cruelty, let me tell you that I was 3’4″ and weighed 32 kg. If my parents had not put me on a diet, you should have called social services. In any case, there is no such thing as social services in India, unless you consider the friendly neighbourhood aunty or nosy relatives. Everyone who is remotely acquainted with you feels he or she has the right to comment on your weight. If they can see it, they think they can talk about it. Weight is a very personal issue. Someone forgot to tell the neighbours that. So they carried forth with great diligence, constantly commenting on what a healthy child I was, with so cute baby fat.
Life was good. On winter mornings I woke up to the smell of halwa. On summer afternoons I stripped down to my white socks and buckled shoes so I could suck on chusa mangoes in peace. Not for long. My mother, who was wearing a bikini when she was five months pregnant with me, knew better. And thus was invented the jam-toast-Tobu-tricycle diet. The principle was simple. If I did ten rounds of the driveway on my red plastic Tobu tricycle, I could have one strawberry-jam toast. Every weekend, early in the morning, the plastic tricycle would start squeaking around the driveway under my ample weight. The whole neighbourhood knew the jam toasts were being earned. Simplistic as it may sound, this is the very foundation of losing weight. You have to earn the privilege to eat yummy food.
( Note : This is women personal opinion )