After having undergone some heavy training on the IMF macro data analysis for three days, I was a bit stressed. Nah, make that TOTALLY stressed. Tired. Slow. Down. Even in my dreams, I was exploring linkages in the different sectors. And my awake time was a real nightmare.
While undertaking innocent simple transactions like buying vegetables, the mommy in me was exclaiming in horror at the prices of vegetables while my poor, over-wrought econ mommy brain was hypnotically recording the effect of my money sector on the Sabzi waala’s real sector. That it would eventually lead my home account into a fiscal deficit seemed certain. Aaaargh!
I need to stop this. Let me watch some TV. Switch on the news and there was this continuous talk on the external sector. The rupee has plunged to new lows thanks to the Chinese, who apparently have not undergone the IMF macro data analysis training in centuries.
The newspapers were turning blue arguing when the dashing Governor would finally employ FOREX reserves to make the system dash once more. Despite the fall, there was also this talk of how the Rupee fall has been amongst the lowest in all Emerging Markets. The IMF declared that the Indian economy was actually amongst the more bright EMs.
After listening to a particularly loud debate by Arnab Goswami on how the Indian Rupee depreciation is actually tantamount to a depreciation of Indian politics (WHAT??) and how the Indian nation now demands an answer from Chinese authorities (WHHHHAAAAAT?), it looked like the Rupee low would co-incide with my post-training tiredness low. I was tired. I needed a break. Why am I an economist?
I went to the gym and realized guiltily that it was Friday. The day we are put on the scale. Hmm, I have generally behaved and not gone off diet this week. Except for those 3 gulab jamuns I had for lunch in the training break. And all participants were having ice-cream. How could I refuse it? Of course, the scale, like a dementor, cannot be reasoned with. And like a dementor, it wipes off every good feeling, every smile off the faces of all plump ladies, mine included.
Having said my prayers, I climbed on to the scale. Imagine my surprise, when my trainer said “Hmm, that’s 66.5 and climbing.” Really? I said reflexively, “But 67 is a psychological benchmark. I really think he’ll use those reserves now to break that fall.”
“Manasi? What are you talking about?” That was again my gym imstructor, looking a bit scared at my crazy reaction.
I suddenly grinned. “Ahm, ah, no, that was nothing. How much did you say the ideal number is?”
She looked through all my records and history. “Well, you aren’t doing too bad, actually. In fact, amongst the batch today, your numbers are the best. But I still think that you should try to get to 65. That indicates really good health.”
I was laughing as I realized how close she was to the truth. I couldn’t agree more.