My biggest problem areas are my stomach and face. If I indulge

The words of Prateik Babbar—“My biggest problem areas are my stomach and face. If I indulge too much, I gain weight at these wrong places. So, I stick to a very strict diet in order to avoid that”—speak with candor about the discipline required to guard one’s body and, beyond that, one’s self-control. On the surface, it may appear a simple confession about physical appearance, but beneath its modest humor lies a timeless truth about moderation, awareness, and discipline—virtues known and honored since the days of the ancients. For what Babbar expresses is not vanity, but vigilance: a man’s recognition of how quickly indulgence can become weakness, and how strength must be maintained through conscious choice.

In saying his “problem areas are the stomach and face,” Babbar reveals not just the burden of the body, but the burden of awareness. To know oneself—to understand one’s flaws, limits, and vulnerabilities—is the beginning of wisdom. The ancients called this gnōthi seauton—“know thyself.” For only the one who knows his weakness can master it. To identify the “wrong places” where excess appears is not mere complaint—it is acknowledgment that every soul, like every body, has its points of fragility. The wise do not lament them; they discipline them.

The origin of Babbar’s insight lies in the modern world’s obsession with image, but its essence belongs to every age. In ancient Greece, the philosopher Socrates walked barefoot through the markets, surrounded by abundance, yet took nothing. When asked why, he replied, “How many things I can do without!” His restraint was not born of denial, but of freedom—for the man who cannot resist indulgence is its slave. Babbar’s words, when stripped of their humor, echo the same principle: the strict diet is not a prison, but a path to mastery. Through control, one gains peace; through indulgence, one loses it.

The stomach, in many traditions, has long been a symbol of desire—the hunger not only for food but for comfort, for pleasure, for escape. The face, the mirror of the soul, reflects the inner condition of the heart. When Babbar speaks of these as his “problem areas,” he unknowingly echoes the language of the sages: for our appetites and appearances are always the battlegrounds of the self. The strict diet, then, becomes a metaphor for discipline in all things—to consume only what strengthens, to reject what weakens, and to remain mindful of what we allow to enter our lives, whether through the mouth, the mind, or the heart.

Consider the story of Buddha, who in his youth lived in luxury, surrounded by abundance, yet found no peace. In his first attempt to seek enlightenment, he chose the opposite extreme: starving himself to the edge of death. Only when he discovered the Middle Way—neither indulgence nor denial—did he find harmony. This same balance is what Babbar’s words point toward: not the rejection of life’s pleasures, but their wise regulation. To eat, to rest, to enjoy—all are good, but when they rule over us, they become chains. The strict diet, therefore, is not about food—it is about self-mastery.

Yet there is gentleness in his reflection, too—a recognition that discipline must walk hand in hand with humor. To say “I gain weight in the wrong places” is to admit imperfection with grace. The ancients would have praised such humility, for laughter at one’s own flaws is a form of strength. The Stoic Epictetus taught that a man should neither boast of his self-control nor despair of his weakness, but observe both with calm understanding. In this spirit, Babbar’s humor disarms vanity—it transforms what could have been insecurity into self-awareness, what could have been pride into lightness.

Let this be the lesson carried forward: discipline is freedom, and self-knowledge is strength. In every age, the human body and spirit wrestle with desire, excess, and image. The wise do not flee from this struggle; they engage it daily with patience and humility. Be mindful of your “problem areas,” whatever they may be—not merely of body, but of character. Maintain your “diet” not only of food, but of thought and action. And when you falter, as all do, meet yourself with humor and begin again.

So remember the wisdom hidden in Prateik Babbar’s lighthearted confession: that mastery begins with awareness, and freedom begins with restraint. To live well is not to live without pleasure, but to ensure that pleasure never consumes purpose. For the soul, like the body, is shaped not by what it takes in abundance, but by what it learns to measure, to balance, and to let go.