I’m fat. So what?

I’m a fat person. I mean, inside.

I mean, I feel fat, most of the times.

I mean I have always struggled with my weight. Ever since I was born. In fact, I was probably born with most of it. The fat part, I mean.

I was a ten-pound baby. My mother constantly teased about bearing triplets. Her mother, my grandmother, who was one of Kolkata’s sought after Kayastha beauties (yes there is such a parlance in my native place, thank you very much!) constantly screamed instructions, asking my very pregnant and very fat mother, to exercise. Eat right. Do what the hell it takes.

It’s what she did, she claims, even now. Sounding apologetic. Every now and then, when I scream at her, telling her that I must have inherited the fat genes from her. Her father, my maternal grandfather, was rather plump. And, yes, before you politely enquire, I abhor that word.

Abhor, a polite synonym for hate. Got that!

So, what does that make me? A fat person, with a temper.

Ouch! Okay, this isn’t what this column is about. Our fat forefathers!

So, let me tell you why I’m here. I recently ruptured a ligament in my left foot. And, today while undergoing physiotherapy at an upmarket South Delhi private hospital, I am told I need to lose weight. Pronto.

“Aap ka weight zyada hai… knees kharab honeke chances hain… aapka age kya hai?” the therapist intruded.

A man.

At last count, I weighed 65 kgs. For those of you who haven’t seen me, I am not very tall, either. And considering most women above 30 lie about their age and body weight, I should warn you not to take my statistics very seriously. I mean, I’ve cheated in the past on both counts.

So what does that make me?

A fat person with body issues?

Serious shit, huh!

“Why have you stopped going to the gym? All this weight on your stomach… very bad, especially for unmarried women… it’s one of the main reasons for your PCO problem, missing periods… will cause crisis in childbirth,” my ex gynaec used to pronounce with deathly seriousness.

Bitch!

I dumped her, and the one before. I mean do thin women not have irregular periods? Endometriosis as I was diagnosed?

Did God (yes, I call him by his name sometimes!) want everyone to be thin? Slim? What would happen then to our multi-billion dollar advertising industry? Renowned Ramdev Babas? Jane Fonda imported VCD’s? Pilates? Cross trainers? Detox diets? Sauna belts? Slimming capsules? Before? After?

Wouldn’t the marriage market also steadily collapse? I mean how would boys and their mommies reject us then? Fat brides? Who would you poke fun at then on highly rated Indian comedy shows? Bigg Boss? Reality television? What would shrinks say to you in the meanwhile? Who would you compare yourself to? Would all the selfies on Facebook, really mean all that much? Would selfishness even exist, anymore? In schools? In life?

Bullies? Brats? Boyfriends? Bosses?

“I am starving myself,” a friend who is also a well-known public relations expert confesses, “I was so thin… before marriage… my two C-sections… and now that I run my own firm. No one wants to do business with me… a fat person. Everyone laughs when I wear jeans… fitted stuff… I am round like a football, like my hubby jokes…. to his friends… to our kids…” she swallows hard.

“We’re smooth at the edges, babe,” I try to cheer her up. Looking down. Scared of her pain. Somehow. Knowing somewhere that jokes don’t go down well. Not when that’s all they got. For us. At us.

“You are pleasantly plump,” Sanya, a girl who used to be my running partner, often used to say. Sounding hurt, almost. Rejected umpteen times for her weight by proposed suitors and at job interviews, laughed at by most members in our health club, Sanya, a fashion marketing professional was a victim of thyroid.

“I try so hard…. I want to be thin… so much…it hurts you know…" she added, sometimes, as an afterthought. Her half smile. The kinds that break your heart.

The truth is no one wants to be fat. I mean, all this bullshit about curves being in, and all that, is just a bunch of publicity material. Ask any fat person.

I mean, just last month, I walked into one of the top fashion brand stores, politely asking if they had a dress I liked, my size. To be warded off brusquely by the salesgirl. “We don’t do size 14 onwards,” she sniggered. Her perfectly chiseled abs, mocking my own!

Her condescension, akin to my grim-looking gynae, or the boy in my neighbourhood who laughed when I made him a Valentine’s Day card with my own hands. Back in the sixth standard.  Or my relatives, back home, in Kolkata, who still initiate a conversation, centred around my battle with the bulge. “Piu, onek roga hoye gechish," they smiled, the last time.

“Yes, she has been going to a really good gym…” Ma quipped in, sounding like a proud parent. My fluctuating inches, her fault, in some way. The way mother’s always carry some of our guilt. Wanting to share the shame of imperfection. Perhaps, just ending up hiding behind it, as I hid.

“It’s cool, I’m smooth at the edges,” I laugh, wanting to score a point.

When the truth is, I’ve got just one joke.

I mean, what does that make me?

A fat person, with a good sense of humour?