“Pass the prawn curry,” I mumbled as I reached out over the table over steaming plates of white Basmati rice, Fish Ambotik, marinated cod fillets, naans dripping with thick butter and round soft gulabjamuns. As I reached out, I began to notice that my elbows had begun to develop dimples once again, my arms had become thicker and my elegant female form that I had worked so hard to achieve was now fading into obscurity. I was becoming fat girl again.
Fat girl was a persona who nobody liked in the family. She was always depressed, mean, constantly critical of others, and she hoarded on clothes. I was the ideal example of a bipolar eater – an obsessive dieter for two weeks and then an irresponsible gorger for six.
I had just recovered from a year of post bronchitis chronic cough, and after steroidal medication, the additional pounds had packed on. As I reached for the prawn curry cooked in heavy coconut milk, cream and red spices, my mother’s glanced up at me sternly and shook her head. Always a cheerleader for my weightloss, and a healthy contributor for my low self-esteem in the process, I retracted with a guilty expression.
After the satisfying lunch, we walked out to our bus. There were twelve of us, my parents, my brother and me, my uncle’s wife and two children, my other uncle’s two children, and a couple who were family friends of many years. The interesting people in the whole group were really the couple, out of whom the wife was a dermatologist and a consultant for the Miss India beauty pageant. Standing at a petite five feet with a rock solid body wearing only thin cotton mini, she sported a Mondial watch, and spoke in a smooth buttery high pitched voice.
“Girls,” she cooed, addressing me and my sixteen year old female cousins, “You know how to look slimmer in photos?” What was she hinting at? That fat girl needed some extra help?
“Uh, haha sure why not?” I giggled nervously. The prawn curry and rice was lying heavy on my stomach, not to mention the beige capris were not helping to minimize my rather large behind.
“Okay, first slowly rotate your body to the right so that you look diagonal. Now right hand on your right hip and look towards the camera. Give some attitude. Right, fantastic, great, pose!” Flash! My father topped my embarrassment with his strategic right here right now “with my trusty camera”. I rushed to the camera to see if her idea really worked. All I saw was a fatter version of me smiling sheepishly trying out for the Miss Elephant Thailand pageant. The diagonal angle had caused a larger surface area of my body to be exposed. This position may work on stick thin anorexic models who survive on a diet of cigarettes, lettuce and coffee, but not my figure of fish curry and rice.
“Isn’t it fantastic?” she revelled.
“Heh, yeah, great. Thanks,” I mumbled. I turned around, did the eye roll I developed as an adolescent and sauntered off. What did she know? She never had to suffer the cruel fate of a slow metabolism.
We climbed into the big family bus and began our two-hour journey to the airport. I looked out the window at the rolling Goan countryside. My mind traveled back through the four days we spent at the resort. I had spent most of the evenings before dinner trying to squeeze into pants a size smaller, which led to the rest of the night being uncomfortable about whether my love handles were hanging out. I was constantly scanning girls’ bodies around me for search for the slightest flaws so that I could compare myself. My deep seated insecurity had hit a new low.
Change was inevitable, but the realization was yet to hit. I fiercely guarded tears as I enviously watched flat-bellied girls parade in their string bikinis on the sunny beaches with not an ounce of fat to be seen anywhere. My mother’s remarks never helped anyways. “Why are you wearing that? It makes you look…(pause) big.”
There was a significant spike in my degree of dissatisfaction during the time I spent in India. I felt lonely, bloated, unattractive and pathetic. I was still single at the age of twenty four after a series of unsuccessful attempted relationships, my life was stagnant and I was unable to make any concrete decisions.
We flew back to Bombay for one last day before leaving for Singapore. My mother, fired up to convert me into a full-fledged Barbie before putting me up for auction on matrimonial sites, had taken an appointment with a herbal specialist who claimed a 100% success rate with any ailment she treated. I was to see her for my lacklustre hair and we were her first patients of the day.
She was a stern looking doctor, who had abandoned her OBGYN practice to set up her own herbal medicine clinic. Strong values, rigid diets and an assortment of oils and creams could cure even alopecia, she claimed. She was a short and skinny woman behind her massive wooden table, which had all papers organized into neat piles. Her hands clasped tightly,she examined my hair and skin. “Hmmm, okay we can fix this, no problem,” her lips pursed. An hour later, we were seated in her understudy’s chair while she rattled off the names and uses of all the medicines.
“Will it work?” my mother asked her anxiously, twisting strands of my hair between her thumb and forefinger. “Look, her hair has become so dead.” So had my spirit.
“Auh, yes.” She hesitated.
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