Society makes people feel answerable to it. My parents were interrogated by a number of irrelevant people—neighbours, friends, distant relatives. Even our neighbour’s housekeeper offered us her sympathies!
Everyone claimed to be a well-wisher but they were only scrounging for gossip. Some wanted to know if the hunt for another groom had begun. The condoling chats always ended with famous proverbs. ‘Whatever happens, happens for the best’, this one defeated others by a decent margin. ‘Time heals everything’ was a close runner-up.
It would take a long time for my family to recover from this setback. They just needed to stop thinking of it as one.
25
255 days before the wedding
I had to get out of the house. I just had to. I had started going to work again and had even begun attending lectures. I needed an outing, a change of scene, fresh air. The frigid atmosphere at home had started to thaw. The mourning was coming to an end. Although my parents were still avoiding contact with the outside world, they had resumed their daily routine. Grandma was back to her kitty parties. She was the most headstrong among us. It was she who restored normalcy at home. Grandma was a paradox; she was the most conservative and the most modern member of our family. And I am grateful to her for helping me move on by just being normal.
Sometimes, the best help that someone can offer is just letting you be.
I knew it was only a matter of time before my parents started thinking about my marriage again. For them, the task of finding a groom had only toughened. But it would take them a while to approach me with this topic.
Our relationship had become strained in the past couple of days. The knots, however, started to loosen. For the first few days, I avoided everyone. I purposely got out of my room when no one was in the living room, usually before or after everyone had had breakfast. The food would be kept on the kitchen counter for me. I would quickly gobble it, then get ready and leave only to return after the rest of the family had retired to their respective rooms. A week must have passed like that. And then slowly, we stopped avoiding each other. I would be in the same room with them but not make eye contact. The next step in the road to recovery was giving information. ‘I’ll be late tonight,’ I would say while leaving for office in the morning. ‘Your dinner is in the oven,’ mom would say when I came back from college. Generic communication had begun. Papa and I still hadn’t spoken. On the other hand, Grandma and I were absolutely fine.
One morning, mom came to my room and asked, ‘What will you have for dinner?’ This question, after a period of fighting and avoiding each other, was a sign that things were back to normal. It was time to call a truce. We had all suffered enough. With mom, it was obvious that matters would straighten out. She and I had had fights before and survived. It was my equation with Father that I was worried about. Have you ever been in a situation where the most important person in your life has hurt you and only he can help you overcome the pain? That was my state. I had always been my daddy’s girl. At this point in my life, I needed him to be there with me and not against me. I needed him to tell me that it was okay not to be able to find a suitable groom. I needed him to tell me that even if no man accepted me he would never leave my side. I needed him to tell me that my decision was right even though I had gone against him. I needed him. And I knew that he needed me too.
A few days later, Mother approached me again and it looked as if she had something serious to discuss. This was definitely not her ‘will-you-eat-bhindi’ face.
Before I could guess what the matter was, Mother came around the bed and hugged me. I had no idea why I was being smothered in my dear mother’s bosom, but the gesture touched me. Out of nowhere, I began to cry and so did she. It had been hard for us to be on opposite ends for so long. Mother’s warmth, her proximity, her love made me a little girl again. For those few moments, I was transported back in time—when being fat had actually been my USP.
‘I’m so sorry, my beta,’ she said holding me tight. ‘I’m so sorry for what you have had to go through.’
‘You are right. We should never have agreed to marry you off to such a family. They don’t deserve you. We were so blind,’ she sniffed.
I remained quiet, relieved that I was finally being understood.
‘Since this chapter has begun, you’ve had to go through so many difficult situations. My brave girl. I’m so sorry for not trying to understand you.’
‘Okay, Mumma, I can’t breathe,’ I said breaking away from her. ‘Now stop crying and let me go.’
‘No,’ she said, bosom-smothering me tighter.
‘Uff! Please, Mumma. Stop being filmy now,’ I said, tearing her from me. All this clingy, emotional business with my mother always made me uncomfortable.
She eventually sat on the bed, making it clear that we weren’t done yet.
‘Beta, listen. Papa is very disturbed because of what has happened. He is not even eating properly. I know he should come and talk to you but he is too embarrassed. He feels it is his fault. But the truth is that it was because of me and your Nani that all this happened. We were the ones who convinced Papa to accept all their demands.’
So finally we were on the same page. The car was not a gift; it was a demand.
‘Don’t worry, mom. I’ll talk to him.’
‘Actually, don’t talk to him about this. I don’t want him to feel guiltier. You can already see how sorry he is. Why bring up this subject at all? Instead, I was thinking why don’t we all go out for dinner tonight? It has been such a long time since we went out together. We will go to any place you like. I want us to become normal again. I want my house to have a happy atmosphere again.’
‘Should I make a reservation for 9 p.m. then?’ I said sportingly. Finally, I could see a silver lining. Oh, how badly had I wanted my family to be with me in this!
Mother smiled as she rose from the bed. Before leaving, she turned and said, ‘Oh, and one more thing, beta. Papa, Nani and I have decided that there is no hurry to get you married. Even if you are, we are not ready to part with you just yet,’ she said endearingly.
I could not believe my ears. How could I not hold my pillow and cry after she left? I was officially free from the wedding circus.
26
215 days before the wedding
It was time for my fourth dance class that evening.
I’d walked into the first one feeling extremely nervous about shaking my body next to other people shaking their bodies!
My body was not an asset for me. You know this. And to groove it skilfully to music, while several people watched me was not something I looked forward to, but I had decided to give it a shot.
Anu had assured me that this teacher was really good. She was back in my life. After retreating into a shell for several weeks, when I finally decided to come out of it, it was Anu I contacted first. She had tried her best to be there for me during the most unpleasant phase of my life but I had blocked her out completely. Sometimes you need your friends to tide you over rough times, but sometimes you need to do it alone. We caught up over drinks one night and I filled her in on all that had happened. Oh, did I mention earlier that I was into drinking now? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do after a break-up? I’m a fast learner.
Since our first night out, Anu and I had been meeting regularly every ten days for drinks and dinner. She would come down to her parents’ house more often than I’d expected and it was a delight to meet her every now and then.
Life was back to normal even though it could not be as simple as it used to be. The truth was my confidence had taken a major hit since the whole debacle. If I had earlier been conscious of my body, now I was unable to deal with it. And to add to my woes, I was eating like a hungry pig on the loose. It was Anu who suggested I do some activity to let off steam. She said whenever she was stressed out (what the hell did she have to be stressed about?) she would take dance classes to take her mind off problems. You could guess how desperately I needed help if I was co
nsidering joining a dance class!
I was in the last leg of my MBA course. There were no more lectures so I had enough time to devote to a hobby. Self-conscious and wary, I felt like a misfit, surrounded by a group of talented, sexy and fit dancers on day one of the jazz dance class. Apart from me, there were three men and eight women, of whom one was fat. The rest were seasoned dancers and dressed in tights, sports bras, cut-out tops, vests—basically anything that accentuated their toned bodies.
I lurked around in the back row, dressed in track pants and my father’s T-shirt, trying my best to stay hidden from the instructor, a middle-aged man with a sculpted body. Of course, I had a crush on him.
The second class was not very different from the first—both were equally disastrous. The third was not very different from the second. I would get tired and breathless faster than the rest of the lot. Within minutes of the commencement of the class, I would have sweat patches in questionable areas of my body. The exercises were painful and I would give up halfway. Remembering the choreography was a huge struggle for me as was the fast pace of the class.
At the end of the third class, I came home exhausted and ready to abandon this newfound passion of mine. It only seemed to be getting tougher. The next morning, even a mild sneeze hurt my sore body. I had made up my mind I would not go.
However, on the evening of my fourth class, when Grandma said she would be dropping me to class since she was heading to a new beauty parlour nearby, I could not talk myself out of it. I didn’t want to tell her that I was planning to discontinue the classes because I was no good. I couldn’t think of a way to talk myself out of it so I went with her. Unfortunately, I was in for a terrible surprise when I reached.
The usual routine had been called off that day. Instead, every student was supposed to perform an impromptu SOLO jig for the others. This was to build confidence, ironically. I wanted to run right out of the studio but didn’t have the courage to even do that.
The class began and the first girl went up to do her bit. It would be only a few minutes before they called out my name. It was terrifying. I decided to leave on the pretext of falling sick but the other fat girl got to the instructor with the trick first. Sadly, he saw through her move. She was asked to stay, her sudden sickness notwithstanding. Such tyranny! I thought I’d vomit if I had to go through this. Making a complete arse of myself in front of so many gorgeous men and women, with nothing to camouflage me—yikes! I sat there watching my classmates deliver one good performance after another, dreading the two minutes when I would be the centre of attention and cursing Anu for talking me into this.
‘Madhurima, right?’ the instructor announced, looking at me. I considered not responding. ‘Go on, you’re next. Don’t be shy or nervous. We’re all dancers here.’
‘I . . . I . . . can’t. Please. Maybe next time,’ I offered. This would never be since I did not intend to ever come back.
‘No, no. There’s no need to feel conscious. There’s no right or wrong in dance. Just enjoy yourself. Come on. We’re waiting.’
‘Come on!’ one of the girls said.
‘You’ll be awesome,’ one of the guys said. If only he hadn’t been so good-looking, this would have been a lot easier. I didn’t move for as long as it is possible to stay immobile when all eyes are on you. Eventually, it didn’t seem like I could get out of this one.
Shakily, I rose to my feet and took centre stage. What’s the worst that can happen? They will laugh at me. They will think I’m ridiculous. Hardly matters, I consoled myself. I would never have to see them again. I wasn’t coming back.
They played some song I did not recognize and I froze.
‘Just start moving. Do anything,’ the instructor suggested.
Anything, anything, anything, I said to myself. For some reason, I started to jump on the spot. Maybe I had forgotten this was a dance class?
‘That’s good, that’s good,’ the instructor said. Maybe he too had forgotten that this was a dance class? People started to clap and I don’t know why this irritated me. It was nice of them to not laugh at me but I didn’t want their encouragement. I wanted their admiration.
After thirty seconds of being a bouncy ball, I decided to stop. This was a nightmare.
‘Okay, never mind,’ the instructor offered. ‘Good attempt,’ he said like a true teacher should, despite my clumsiness. He was about to pick the next student when I decided that this was not how I wanted to come across in front of the class. The image of a scared, nervous, fat girl would never change if I didn’t erase the impression I had created. They had seen my worst already. I decided to give it another go.
‘Umm . . . can you change the track?’ I asked, surprising everyone in the class.
‘Sure. Anything in particular?’ the instructor said, excited all of a sudden.
‘Uh . . . just any Salman Khan song.’
He chuckled as everyone grew curious and I felt like I was about to faint. Then I heard the beats of O O Jaane Jaana from the popular movie Pyar Kiya Toh Darna Kya and instinctively closed my eyes, glad that this was the song chosen for my comeback. I’ve got this. Slowly, forgetting about the others, I started to groove.
Gently grooving to the music with closed eyes, I pictured that I was a model—long hair, flat stomach, longer legs. And I owned the stage. I started to enjoy the beat as the familiar words kicked in. And suddenly from the graceful model, I turned into a boisterous man who didn’t give two hoots about what the world thought. I shut my eyes tighter and let my body take over. I knew the lyrics perfectly and danced without thinking of my next move. I could hear people cheering but tried to block them all out. I told myself that there was no one present except me. Trying to recall the trademark steps, I danced and danced and danced. A hand strike in the air, a pelvic thrust to the side, a hip roll here, a slight shimmy there and before I knew it, the song ended.
‘Superrrrrb!’ clapped the other fat girl. When I opened my eyes she was smiling at me, clearly impressed. She had never before been so pumped up in class. I had motivated her. Everybody cheered. She was next. I was red in the face and out of breath.
‘Why the hell were you so hesitant? You’re a great dancer,’ came an astonished voice. ‘Try our Bollywood classes. And next time—eye contact,’ said my instructor, patting me on the back and nudging me to the side. I couldn’t believe it was over! This was by all means a big achievement for me.
From that day on, I had a newfound motivation to go to the dance class. Because of one little push, one sign of progress, my attitude had changed. Someone in the class looked up to me now, just as I looked up to all those fit dancers. Suddenly, the class seemed to be getting easier or rather, I seemed to be getting better. I could keep up with the warm-up routine, I could recall eighty per cent of the choreography and I could improvise moves for the parts I didn’t remember.
I was no longer just the fat girl in class, I was the dark horse.
27
180 days before the wedding
My graduation ceremony was held the previous week. I was now officially an MBA. I sat looking at my pictures from the felicitation ceremony, which was attended by my proud parents. They looked truly happy in the photographs—something I had not felt they would be for a long time after I broke off the engagement. If they were still not over it, they were doing a good job at hiding it.
Mother had printed out some of the photographs and entrusted me with the task of adding them to the album comprising pictures from my school and college days.
Mother had a record of every accomplishment of mine—big and small. There were pictures of me when I topped the crafts class, got the second prize in a 100-metre race—can you imagine that I could run? As I flipped through the album, I noticed how my age and weight climbed up simultaneously. From a skinny kid, I had turned into a ball. Luckily, there wasn’t a noticeable change in weight in the photos of my graduation from senior college and those of my post-graduation. The graph was now stagnant. At least I could call
myself well-maintained.
I had my newfound love for dance classes to thank for the few kilos I had shed in the last two months and that too without putting in too much effort. Strange, isn’t it? A few months ago, I was killing myself to lose weight and it just wouldn’t happen. And now that I had stopped obsessing over it, it was taking care of itself.
As I sat browsing through a few more photo albums, stored in the one mammoth cupboard that housed all such albums, it dawned on me how physically active I used to be as a young girl. In fact, to say that dance was my newfound passion was wrong. It was a rekindled one. There were so many photographs of me in skating classes, skipping on a jump rope, playing badminton with my dad.
And then there were pictures of that one summer when I got really fat. I wish there was a tragic story behind my rapid widening. For years, I wished I could have something to blame, like a medical condition that makes you fat. It would take away the guilt, the shame. It would provide me with a comeback for the several comments and observations that people made initially. Someone would say, ‘You’ve put on quite a bit of weight,’ and I wished I had some concrete reason to give like, ‘Oh aunty, I’ve been diagnosed with overeatingandnoexcersizonia.’ And then they would sympathize with me. They would understand that I was not really fat, it was not my fault and it was to be blamed on something else. They would understand that it was okay for me to be fat, that actually I was thin but due to this serious condition I had put on weight. But unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. I had only my laziness and love of overeating during that beautiful summer to blame for my fit-to-fat transformation.
It wasn’t that I had inflated like a balloon. The gain was gradual. After gaining the first ten kilos, things went downhill or rather up-scale. Sadly, pun intended.
The timing didn’t help because I was in the last two years of high school, which meant I was engrossed in studies and tuitions. All physical activities, like the occasional swimming session, the summer holiday hobby classes, the dance classes, took a back seat. Eating was my favourite and only way to cope at that point. I didn’t look at it as a problem. I thought with time I would be able to get rid of the weight as easily as I had acquired it. Over those two years, my personality (and my wardrobe) automatically changed. Due to the weight gain, my favourite clothes stopped fitting me. Vests had been replaced by loose T-shirts, tights had been replaced by baggy pants, (sometimes you choose the tomboy life, sometimes the tomboy life chooses you) my stamina plunged, outdoor games were replaced by electronic ones and soon I began college.
Encounters of a Fat Bride Page 10