So, on the night of Anu’s cocktail party I made my best effort to doll up as per the norms. For the first time, I wore a lehenga—the dress code for Anu’s girlfriends. I teamed it with a long blouse perfectly tailored to cover all skin on my torso. I had bought shiny new clothes for every occasion. I even wore heels!
Disha (another friend) and I got our hair done at the beauty parlour near her house. She instructed the hairdresser to make ‘soft curls’ on my hair. ‘Wow!’ she exclaimed when I was ready. But when I saw myself, it looked as if I had been given an electric shock. Why would I pay someone to look like this? I expressed my displeasure to Disha without making it look like a complaint but she assured me that it was amazing and that I was just not used to it. She then put ‘professional’ make-up on me at her house. Disha was a make-up artist for some not-so-well-known celebrities but she knew her job well. She spoke a little gibberish while trying to explain concepts like ‘baking’, ‘strobing’ and ‘cooking’ in make-up, whatever they meant.
With every layer that she added on my face, I grew more conscious of it. ‘Don’t worry, I’m doing it as per the occasion,’ she said on seeing my sceptical expression. When she was done, I genuinely wondered if she had dressed me up for Halloween! I felt obliged to praise her though I didn’t feel confident pulling the look off at all. It was going to be one long uncomfortable night.
To add to my misery, Disha’s boyfriend Arpit, who was also invited to the wedding, was picking us up to take us to the party, making me feel like a clingy third wheel.
At the venue, we were early. We went on stage and rehearsed the dance that we were to perform. Sangeet performances are the average person’s opportunity to feel like a superstar, to have one’s moment in the spotlight, to show one’s moves, to show the world that we could all have become Shah Rukh Khans and Katrina Kaifs had we wanted to. I was nervous. I didn’t mind being in some corner of one brief performance for the sake of feeling involved and important in my best friend’s wedding but Anu was making me take centre stage for three dance performances in a row. That left too much room for mistakes.
Once the venue started filling up, the bride and groom made their grand entry, hand-in-hand. Anu looked ethereal in a purple jacket lehenga, which was all the rage back then and I grew a little green with envy. Akshay looked even better than her, in a fitted sherwani (obviously it was purple too) that hugged his body deliciously and I grew a little red with lust. Not an ounce of make-up on him and yet so good-looking. Boys don’t get enough credit for looking effortlessly good.
Everyone hummed appreciative sounds as if they were eating juicy pieces of chicken when the couple slowly, enticingly, walked through the crowd. The two made a few stops to greet some elders and eventually made their way to the throne-like seat designed especially for them to sit on and view the performances from.
The run-up to my performance was nerve-racking. I don’t even know why I had butterflies in my stomach. The bar had opened a while ago and Disha and gang started drinking. Everyone insisted that I have a drink, despite my refusal more than once. I wasn’t for or against drinking. It was just unfamiliar territory. In college, I had tried a few neat shots of vodka that had made me regret my existence the next morning.
Eventually, on insistence of Disha’s boyfriend, who seemed like a genuinely nice man, I agreed for ONE glass of wine. By the time I had to go up on stage for my performance I had gulped down three. And by the end of the night, one glass had turned into one bottle. No wonder I didn’t remember what happened next. Damn peer pressure!
14
349 days before the wedding
‘Wake up, drunkard!’ a playful, mocking voice said on the other end as I answered the incessant ringing of my phone, still half asleep.
Drunkard? Me? I suddenly sat up in bed with a jolt. It was broad daylight. And my head was throbbing. I looked around my room to find garments strewn all over. What the hell had happened the night before?
‘Hello? Are you there?’ Disha’s voice blared into my ears again.
‘Yes, yes, hello. Sorry.’
‘Just wanted to check if you were still alive.’
I didn’t understand.
‘Why, what happened?’
‘You don’t remember?’ she said and laughed. What was this now? ‘I’m not surprised. Well, check your phone later. Anyway, please hurry up and reach Anu’s house as soon as possible. Aunty needs a lot of help. And Anu is panicking. Actually, come to the hotel directly.’
‘Okay,’ I managed to say, still confused. I felt uneasy. Something wasn’t right. I had probably overdone the drinking, but there was no time to ponder over it. It was the day of Anu’s wedding. I had to rush.
Quickly, I tried to tidy the room. By that I mean I bunched up the things that were scattered, into one neat pile of mess to be tackled with later. A quick shower and an unsatisfying breakfast later, I rushed out of the house. All the haste made my head throb even harder but there wasn’t a moment to stop. The family didn’t suspect anything thanks to my reputation of a teetotaller.
It was only during the ride to the hotel that I found a moment or two to check my phone. Nonchalantly, I opened a few chat windows and suddenly it started coming back to me in bits and pieces—drunken, hazy memories of drunken, hazy moments from the previous night. What I had done?
Sudden panic gripped me. Something terribly embarrassing had happened and I got more and more convinced of this with every passing second. Somehow, I thought of Harsh. Why? What did this have to do with him? He wasn’t even there at the event. But I remembered him, something of him. At this point, the cab driver asked me for directions and I got a bit derailed from my immediate train of thought. I was drawing a complete blank save a few random traces of what must have happened. A man laughing uncontrollably. Was it Disha’s boyfriend? There was the performance onstage. I remember climbing unsteadily on to the stage, some part of my outfit getting stuck somewhere, under somebody’s foot? Oh god! It was my foot that had got squashed under someone else’s! I remembered almost victoriously and bent down to check my right foot. But there was no injury. It seemed fine. I checked the other one and there it was! A devilish bruise marred my little toe, which was by no means ‘little’. The bruise didn’t hurt. Hmmm.
What else had happened? At this point, the cab driver sped past an empty road and as the wind blew in my face I caught a whiff of something mildly foul. I quickly rolled up the window to bar the stench and to stop my untamed hair from blowing into my face. Oddly enough, the smell continued to invade my nostrils. It was vomit! And it was coming from my hair. What a gross situation to be in! I examined my hair but it seemed clean, save for a few sticky strands. It was now getting more and more important to know what had happened and I had to uncover the mystery before facing the same set of people again.
Quickly, nervously, I went into the photo gallery of my phone for any clues to trace the events of the previous night and my heart jumped at what I saw. There were tonnes of photographs taken at the party. In the first one, I seemed to be cheering a crowd of people onstage with my fingers in my mouth as if I were about to whistle. I CANNOT whistle so this is ridiculous! In the next one, I was doing a weird dance move. The angle was so pathetic that I would have liked to have a word or two with the photographer. If there were ever a need to make myself look bigger than I am then, this is the person I would go to. In the next picture, I was dancing with a man I had NEVER seen before in my life. Did I embarrass Anu and her family?
I quickly flipped through the rest of the images. Some didn’t feature me but that wasn’t a great consolation. Then I went through my call logs and there they were! Three calls to Harsh. Yes, I had drunk-dialled him. This was bad. The details showed an outgoing call to him, a return call from him and an outgoing call to him again. This was really bad. I shuddered to imagine what might have transpired between us. Why did I call him? How could I have no clear memory of the conversation? I thought of calling Disha so she could fill me in on the
horrors I had committed at Anu’s cocktail party, but I had already reached the hotel by then and there was not a minute to waste.
Unsure of how I would be received by the people who might have witnessed my drunkenness, I warily walked into the lobby, trying my best to avoid anyone’s gaze. However, I was met with smiles and glares from at least three people, whom I did not recognize. I would figure it all out later, now it was time to console Anu since she had woken up to a mighty pimple on her right cheek.
* * *
Once I reached the bride’s suite, everything happened in fast-forward mode. It was manic. Anu’s mom was fretting over something that was to be arranged by them but had been forgotten. Anu was fretting over the ridiculous zit that had magically erupted on her face that morning. Anu’s father was fretting that everyone around him was fretting.
While Anu took a shower and got ready, I ran around for some last-minute errands. At one point, I didn’t even know where I was headed and for what. From helping Anu eat with all the face painting going on, to helping her use the washroom once she was in her rigid bridal garment, I did everything. And I couldn’t stop imagining my wedding day throughout the process. Why did girls stress so much over this so-called most important day of their lives? Since the moment I had entered, I had not seen happiness on Anu’s face even once. There was just stress. Stress about pimples, about garments not fitting well, about having magically woken up with a paunch (which was not true. If what Anu had was a paunch then what I had was an overdue baby!). Not only Anu, everyone around her also seemed to be in a frenzy.
Time flew that day. Before I even realized it, I was already escorting Anu into the hall along with the rest of the girls. With a lot of brouhaha and shorsharaba, the groom made his grand entry in a carriage. I can’t even begun to say how handsome he looked. Anu was one lucky girl and Akshay one lucky guy! Theirs was truly a fairy-tale arrangement.
Once the pandit started reciting mantras, I got hold of Disha and asked her to fill me in on the night before.
‘You seriously don’t remember anything?’
‘Does it look like I’m joking?’
‘How much did you drink, girl?’
‘Disha, don’t lecture, just tell me!’
‘You had a crazy time, that’s all.’
‘That’s all?’
‘Okay, that would be putting it too mildly. Basically, you stole the show during the performances. I don’t know what got into you. You dragged Akshay into our performance at the end, totally impromptu and . . .’
‘What!’
‘How can you not remember?’
‘You know what! Maybe I do. Is that when someone stamped my foot?’
‘Yes,’ Disha said sheepishly. It could not have been her. I could swear it seemed like a much heavier person.
‘Arpit felt so bad about it, he drove me mad asking me to ensure if you were okay.’ Arpit was her boyfriend, in case you’ve forgotten.
‘You called him Armpit!’
‘What? Oh god. What else happened?’
‘I don’t know, I was pretty drunk myself. You did vanish for a while. I remember looking for you. I found you in the girls’ washroom on the phone but you swore you weren’t talking to anyone.’
That explained it! That’s when I must have dialled Harsh. Now there was no other way to find out what had happened, except calling Harsh, but I didn’t have the nerve to do so. Disha looked like she was going to probe further but I changed the topic before she could.
‘And then we went home?’
‘Are you kidding? That’s when the party started! We had two more rounds of tequila shots and hit the dance floor. Seriously, in all these years of knowing you, I’d never taken you for a dancer, but you owned it. You and that uncle brought the house down!’
‘Uncle? Did you just say “Uncle”?’
Disha laughed hard though I was not amused.
‘Yes! Akshay’s mother’s cousin or someone. He’s the over-enthu type, knows all the lyrics and the choreography of every Bollywood song ever made. And you matched him step for step.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I can’t believe you don’t remember.’
‘I can’t believe you’re talking about me. Okay, point out the uncle to me without being obvious.’
‘I don’t think he’s come today. Maybe his wife has grounded him,’ she laughed again. ‘She’s the one in the green saree. Second row.’
‘Oh my god, that’s his wife! No wonder she’s been giving me dirty looks all day. I thought I was imagining it.’
‘No wonder, indeed!’
* * *
Watching Anu get married Akshay was an emotional experience for me. When would I see this day? When would I find a man who would look at me the way Akshay looked at Anu? What if I never found someone like that? Would any man look beyond the reality of my body and fall in love with my nature, my mind? Was it really possible in this day of Photoshop and filters?
Once the wedding rituals were over, Anu was a lot more relaxed. Finally, I saw a hint of happiness on her face. Throughout the ceremony, Akshay could be seen whispering sweet nothings into her ear and on cue she would blush or laugh. At one point, she got a little emotional and he magically got her to smile again. The guests were having orgasms just watching them.
Towards the end of the ceremony, I had tears in my eyes. Onlookers thought they were tears of happiness for my friend, but the truth was I was sad for myself. In everything we do, we inevitably end up thinking about ourselves.
After the rituals got over, it was time for the wedding reception. Anu quickly slipped from the crowd that was eager to meet her, to change into another dress. Since the celebrations had begun, this was the first time I had a few private moments with my friend. We sat in the bride’s suite as she removed her ornaments (only to put on new ones). Suddenly, she approached me and asked me to find Akshay’s name on her henna-stained hands.
The mehendi ceremony, held prior to the wedding, is an ancient tradition of applying henna on the bride’s hands and writing the groom’s name somewhere in the intricate pattern. It’s quite a naughty tradition because apparently until the groom finds his name, he can’t bed his wife on the wedding night. So, to make matters interesting, his name is written as illegibly as possible.
This was the only time in the whole day, when Anu seemed excited about something. It was not hard to spot Akshay’s name in the gaps between her fingers and I told her the same. She laughed.
‘It’s good that it won’t take long to find it. I don’t intend to waste too much time,’ she said and winked, but I couldn’t bring myself to reciprocate genuinely.
Anu and Akshay had that sexual dimension, that catalyst of attraction between them. It was so obvious, so clear. Anu was confident about her wedding night. She was looking forward to it. I could not even imagine how it would be to be naked and in bed with a man.
Even if by some miracle I could find a man I liked who by some miracle also liked me in return, would I be able to connect with him that way? How would I muster the courage to bare it all in front of him, not just my (large) body, but my sense of love and loving? Just thinking about it nauseated me. I’d not even been remotely intimate with a man. How would it be? How would I manage? What if I couldn’t? What if he couldn’t? Anu’s wedding had managed to open yet another Pandora’s box in my life.
15
347 days before the wedding
It was the day after Anu’s wedding. I woke up in a bad mood, sulking that my best friend, a girl I’d known for the longest time, was now someone’s wife. And even though this didn’t actually make her superior to me in any way, it bothered me. She had added another identity to herself. She had progressed to the next stage of life and I felt like I was falling behind. I could not see it happening for me, not in the near future. I did harbour a little bit of guilt for sulking over someone else’s happiness but I couldn’t stop feeling like that. Fat girls make themselves susceptible to constant com
parison. It starts with a comparison of the body but soon snakes its way to every other aspect of life. And it all boils down to one problem, one quality, one so-called imperfection—being fat. You tend to start blaming it for everything. And I knew all this. I knew I was being too hard on myself. I knew that there was enough about myself that I could appreciate but I just wasn’t brave enough.
I thought of how Anu’s first marital night might have been and it made me feel gross and jealous at the same time. I didn’t want to picture it. I didn’t desire to be with a man so intimately, it terrified me, but I wanted it too. It was not an easy space to be in, but I had other things to worry about—like figuring out what the hell I had said to a prospective husband over a drunken phone call.
In my heart of hearts, I knew that I had spoilt whatever slim chance there had been of things working out between Harsh and me. There was no hope of a mature conversation between us over that call. My best guess and only logical conclusion was that it was a stupid, inappropriate call made at an inappropriate time in a very inappropriate state. Other than being fat, I was now probably also the badly behaved, uncultured and shameless girl. The Tripathis would never accept me.
Apart from figuring out what had happened, I also had to prepare a way to explain my antics to my family if it came to that. Suppose Harsh had spewed out everything to his parents? They would now call mine not only to reject the proposal but also give them a good talking to? How embarrassing would that be for my father to endure! He would be absolutely ashamed. Mother would reprimand me. Grandma might be proud though.
I reluctantly got out of bed hoping everyone would be done with breakfast so I wouldn’t have to face them, but when I peeped out of the door, I saw them waiting in the usual round-table-conference-style around the dining table. It had happened. The call had come. I could feel it in the atmosphere, the quietness of the house, the sombreness on my grandmother’s face. I could recognize my family’s tension the way I could read their happiness or grief.
Encounters of a Fat Bride Page 5