I Am Big So What?

By Shuchi Singh Kalra

Is it only in India where people don' t realize that starting a conversation with, “ Oh, you' ve put on weight!” is incredibly rude? Perhaps I should respond with “ Oh, you' ve become uglier!” so they get the point. From stores that do not stock clothes my size to unsolicited advice from neighborhood aunties, my life— quite annoyingly— is ruled by the numbers on the scale. What' s the big deal about being big? You may wonder. Well, quite a lot, actually. For starters, you get dumped by the only man you' ve ever loved, social situations go from awkward to embarrassing within seconds, and don' t even get me started on the family' s never-ending search for a suitable groom. They just don' t make men my size these days! Nevertheless, here I am, about to meet Suitor No. 7. Begrudgingly, of course. Ride along as I navigate the crazy arranged marriage market. And trust me, it' s crazier when you' re more than a little curvy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fingerprint Publishing
• Release date: Feb 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9788175993822

Book preview

Istared back at my reflection in the beautiful oval mirror that hung on the wall right next to the door and wondered whether I had made the right decision. The mirror belonged to Mrs. Sharma and she was willing to let me keep it, which made me feel more than grateful because it made the stark emptiness of the room a little less formidable.

Let me know if you need anything. I’m home most of the time, she offered as I stood there amidst a pile of luggage, feeling all lost and uprooted. Friday had almost gone and Monday would be my first day at work at Cyber Weave—that left me with exactly two days and a million chores to finish.

Sure, aunty. Thanks! I smiled back at the frail septuagenarian’s warm, welcoming face. After all, it was the only familiar face in all of Chandigarh so far. I was already missing home. I was hoping that you would get the walls painted, I added somewhat hesitantly so as to not sound too pushy. A spacious studio at Rs.1,500 per month was a steal by any standard, even if it had crayon scribbles all over the walls.

"To be very honest, beta, I cannot afford to get it done right now. Maybe around Diwali, Mrs. Sharma replied sheepishly. Diwali was months away and I couldn’t force myself to live with toddler graffiti, which was already sandpapering my nerves away. Can I get it painted? I mean at my own expense? I quickly blurted, before she headed towards the stairs that spiralled downwards into her living room. Sure, sure! It’s your home now," she beamed, excited at the thought of getting a paint job thrown in as a freebie with the rent. Since I had taken an instant liking to her, I didn’t mind—the place was perfect for me, just the right size, and I could do with a landlady who wasn’t anal about petty things like loud music and late nights.

Trying hard to get a ‘to-do list’ organized in my head, I realized that I had a lot in common with the room. I looked at the wall doodles, and the pretty picture of a young, happy family came alive in my mind. There was even a small potty seat and a crate of beer bottles stashed away in one corner—did the young Picasso grow out of it, and did his parents celebrate their offspring’s rite of passage with a beer party? It’s funny how every mundane thing has a story to tell. Family, friends, love, and parties—this room seemed to have had a happy past, just like me. And now it was barren, deserted, alone, with nothing to call its own, except for a mirror that only reinstated its sorry status. Just like me.

Before succumbing to the temptation of finding a corner and bawling my heart out, I bailed myself out of the self-pity. Roli, you need to get going! I said aloud in an attempt to boost my morale. It was like starting life on a clean slate. I tried hard not to remind myself of how much I had left behind, because I knew that going back would do no good to anyone.

O kay, Roli. You can do this! egged Monika as I stood beside her kitchen counter, holding up a rather huge knife over my head. I wondered why Monika even had this monstrosity in her kitchen—it wasn’t like she was making a living out of chopping animals. She was a vegetarian, for fuck’s sake!

I looked down at the helpless little potato sitting on the counter. I was supposed to . . . gulp . . . stab it. You see I’d never killed a potato before. I mean, why would anyone? They are such darling little things.

Roli! Come on . . . hurry up! shrieked Monika, with a life-and-death urgency to her voice. For a moment I wondered why I was even taking part in this madness. All this wouldn’t have happened if we hadn’t watched Jab We Met . . . but I swear it was all Monika’s idea. Well, I might have done something to spark it off, but I would never propose something as silly as killing a potato for ‘closure.’

Just today morning, my nutritionist had once again asked me to cut down on all carbs from my diet. She’d been saying that on all my visits since the past three years. But today Monika happened to be with me. Just my luck. And she picked up all the nasty words, which I’m sure the nutritionist was throwing around just to show off her knowledge of medical terms. PCOD, metabolic disorders, knee replacement, blah, blah, blah . . . pfft! Did you know nutritionists were not even real doctors? They were just some BSc something trying to tell everyone what to eat. Ha! Who needs that?

Anyway, the thing is I was rather used to Dr. Chhabria’s (a PhD; not a real doctor) panic-mongering, but Monika? Not so much. She was a sensitive soul who wouldn’t even drink water after coffee for the fear of ending up with a sore throat.

Okay, hold on, we’re digressing.

So, back to the ‘potato-killing’ project. We came back from the nutritionist’s to Monika’s place, and there was Jab We Met playing on the telly. It seemed like a harmless afternoon of movie watching until that scene played—the one where Kareena Kapoor asks Shahid Kapoor to burn the picture of his ex and flush it down the toilet.

No way! I’m not doing that with Ronit’s picture. I’m over him, remember? I retaliated as Monika looked at me with her eyes gleaming bright.

Who gives a fuck about Ronit, silly? Remember what Dr. Chhabria said? You need to get your mind off carbs.

What . . . have you lost your mind? These things are not even related. That’s an ex-girlfriend, and this is a potato . . . Okay a few potatoes, I said, holding up a half-eaten bag of chips.

Oh yes, they are! Only you don’t realize it, said Monika vehemently. Whether it is carbs or a girlfriend, the point is to get your mind off it. And the only way to do that is to destroy it. Monika’s face looked fierce, which meant she wasn’t kidding.

So you’re saying we burn this packet of chips and flush it down the toilet, I said doubtfully, but not before shoving a huge bunch of them in my mouth. If Monika was going to have her way, they could be sinking under the sewer any minute.

Umm . . . let’s see . . . Monika rushed to the kitchen and pulled out a potato from the basket along with the nastiest looking knife. Here . . . kill it . . . get it out of your system, once and forever, she declared.

Yeah? Really? You think this will work?

Of course. It worked in the movie. Who knows, you’ll end up hating carbs after you do this?

Now, fancy that—me hating carbs. I imagined myself—small waist, cellulite free, nonchalantly walking past the pastas and breads on a buffet table and filling up my plate with lettuce leaves and tofu. I could almost taste them in my mouth.

Yuck! I blurted as the cardboard-like texture of tofu spread across my palatte. The mind is such a powerful thing.

The mind is such a powerful thing.

Maybe this is just what I needed—training my mind to believe that I hated carbs. Monika was right about the symbolism. Maybe it had some deep, psychological impact, which manifested in our choices or something. I had read this shit somewhere.

Maybe I should talk to the potato first and tell it what I think of it, for max effect, I offered.

Yes, do that. I’ll leave the room if you want me to, so you two can have privacy.

No, babe. You are my best friend. You don’t have to go. I turned my attention to the vegetable lying on the counter. Listen, potato . . . I began in a firm voice.

On second thoughts, Monika, just leave. Even though she was my best friend, there had to be some limit to the stupid things we could do in each other’s presence. This was almost bordering on retarded. Monika obediently scampered out of the room.

So, potato . . . I was saying . . . I would have probably been a different person had you stayed out of my life. You are addictive as hell and also tasty . . . but you have made me obese, hormonal, and borderline diabetic. So . . . so, I’m going to kill you now. Go away from my life. May peace be upon your soul! With that, I plunged the knife deep into the heart of the potato.

Monika! Monika! I killed it! I killed it! I squealed as Monika rushed into the kitchen to hug me.

So . . . how does it feel? Do you feel any change? Do you have any carb cravings right now? she asked.

"I just finished a big pack of chips all by myself, Monika. And it’s not like I’m craving for carbs all the time. But yes, it feels good, light," I said.

Nonetheless it almost felt great. Kind of liberating in a way. Maybe this was the end of the carb chapter in my life.

***

I decided to treat myself to a massage that Sunday. Not that I had any aches or pains or anything—I was as fit as a fiddle—but just for the occasional human indulgence. You see, fat girls like me rarely got it the legit way so we had to do a bit of sneaky. And this, I was told, was one the very few places in the town which assigned male masseurs to female clients. Ahem! I wondered if I could have a happy ending top-up.

I had stayed off carbs since yesterday and had a reason to be proud of. Except for that one little toast maybe . . . with the tiniest sliver of butter. But that was only because I was genuinely feeling light-headed and didn’t want to faint. So here I was, lying nervously on my back, waiting for the masseur, and hoping against hope that he would be a Hrithik Roshan lookalike, complete with the pecs and bronze tan and all. Although, fat chance of that happening! The chilly draft from the air conditioner made my skin tingle and I could feel tiny goose bumps rising across my thigh.

Ma’am, have you tried our weight loss massage? came a lady’s voice just as I was about to drift into sweet slumber. I looked up at the petite masseuse who had now positioned herself at the far end of the bed. I let out a loud, disappointed sigh. So, there was not going to be a Hrithik Roshan lookalike after all. I contemplated asking her why I was getting a female masseuse when I was clearly here for a male one, but I decided to keep my trap shut. For how desperate would that sound!

Umm, no, what makes you think I need one? I replied. It wasn’t the first time I was shot with such comments. Most of my responses, by now, had become programmed, like those annoying auto-response systems that companies employed for customer services. If only I had a penny for every time someone gave me unsolicited advice over my weight and how ‘losing a few kilos’ would fix everything from my flabby arms to my relationship status, I would have travelled the world three times over by now. She scanned my 5’8" and a couple kilos short of a quintal frame to make sure her peepers were not screwing with her mind.

No, ma’am, that’s not what I meant. Actually we have a lot of satisfied customers. This treatment uses ultrasound to break fat cells and helps in spot reduction, she explained, obviously unaware that she was digging her own grave. Either she was too slow to read into my tone or too smug to care. I knew these people were trained to market their services and was willing to give her the benefit of doubt but then, much to my shock, she obnoxiously lifted a generous pouch of flesh from the side of my hip bone—All this will go away in just three sittings. She tugged at it like it was the cheek of a chubby toddler. There I was, in the nude, vulnerable, with only a flimsy disposable strip covering my lady parts, and this woman had the nerve to poke, prod, and insult my body.

Okay, missy! I’m not paying you to poke at me like that. I would have asked for a weight loss treatment if I wanted one. Can I have a word with the manager please? I demanded coldly.

I’m sorry, ma’am . . . I didn’t mean to . . .

By then I had stepped down from the bed and was putting on the plush white towel robes. The fresh fragrance of fabric conditioner was hard to miss. Everything at The White Lotus Day Spa had been perfect so far, until this twit gave my bliss an anal probe. And now she just stood there without blinking her bimbo lashes.

It wasn’t every day that I prepared myself to shell out five fuckin’ grand for a weekend indulgence. Hell, I had been planning and saving up for this for a whole month.

Are you going to call the manager in here, or do I walk over to his office? Before she could hear me explode, she strutted her tiny ass out of the door and across the corridor. It took her a little longer than expected—I knew it would, but I had all my cards laid out.

Meanwhile, I checked myself out in the full-length mirror on one of the walls. A perfect hourglass. Okay, so maybe just a larger one, but I couldn’t help the way I was built. I had been this way for as long as I could remember. When I looked at my childhood pictures, I saw this pudgy pink toddler staring back at me. I didn’t even know what being thin felt like and I didn’t care. I loved my cheese and I adored my desserts. The first thing people noticed about me was my size and oftentimes, it was the ONLY thing they noticed. Nevertheless, I refused to give up on life’s simple pleasures just to fit into a smaller dress. In fact, over the years, I had come to love myself exactly the way I was. At least on most days.

Yes, ma’am, how can I help you? The manager was a middle-aged woman, dressed in a light-green business suit.