There was no looking back after that. College life consumed me as I consumed everything consumable in sight. By the time my weight gain truly started to bother me, the damage had been done. The ‘fat brigade’ had accepted me as one of its own. The label stuck. Then adult life happened and here I was.
Looking at the photographs after such a long time made me think: had I not been such a reckless eater that summer, would my story have been different?
28
163 days before the wedding
Anu had called me over to her mum’s place for dinner. It did occur to me that she was staying over at her parents’ house a bit too frequently. That day I learnt the reason behind it.
‘I’m . . . I’m not happy,’ she said, sobbing as we sat down on her bed eating wafers. ‘I know, I know . . . it doesn’t look like that, it shouldn’t be like that. But it is.’
Anu, the perfect girl living the perfect life with the perfect man, was saying that she wasn’t happy? How could it be? Maybe she was mistaken. She was probably PMSing.
‘What has happened?’ I asked, totally at bay regarding the problem.
‘I can’t do this. Maybe marriage is not for me,’ she said.
At first, I was stunned. I had not anticipated that there was already trouble in paradise. I could not stop thinking of her grand wedding as she launched into her sob story. In the next one hour I got to know everything.
Everything went well in the first few months of Anu’s marriage, the famous ‘honeymoon phase’. She didn’t even realize when or how the problems started to crop up. It wasn’t long after they had come back from the honeymoon that the cracks began to appear. The main problem was frequent misunderstandings with the in-laws. There was no real issue between Akshay and her but, at a crossroads, Akshay always favoured his parents. This started giving rise to fights between the newly-weds.
‘I’m so sick of that house that “I”, Anu Sharma, actually started looking for a job,’ she said, stressing on how much of a big deal this was. Anu never wanted to take up a job after marriage. She wanted to have a baby soon and then maybe design clothes.
‘And they have a problem with that also. Because apparently I “never showed an inclination to work” earlier. Arre! Can’t a person change her mind?’
‘I tell you, marriages are all jokes! Nothing is as it seems,’ she continued.
I barely spoke during her rant, drinking in this unimaginable scenario.
‘Sorry, I don’t mean to scare you. I’m sure you will have a happy marriage whenever you marry,’ she said, wiping her nose.
‘Stop crying, Anu. Don’t be one of those dramatic wives. If you have a problem, solve it. I know Akshay loves you. He’s always so nice to you.’
‘All that doesn’t matter when there is a new fight every day. Love goes out of the window. Peace is the most important thing in a household.’
After that, Anu narrated each incident in detail whenever Akshay had sided with his parents and I sat quietly as her sounding board.
I left after dinner.
That night I was ashamed of myself, not because I was unable to offer any good advice to Anu, but because in spite of what she was going through, I didn’t feel bad for her. As mean as it might make me sound, the bitter truth was that I was sadistically comforted. Before you judge me, I hope I can convey just how much I love Anu. She was and will always be my best friend. But, you see, while growing up, I had always felt like her shadow. Boys wanted to be with her, girls wanted to be like her. I was the imperfect one in our pair. You know the quintessential nerdy, bespectacled, loveless girl in every teen movie? I was she, except I wasn’t even smart or intelligent (or bespectacled). I was just the fat girl. And all my years of playing second fiddle to Anu had built up to that one moment when I saw something not working out for her.
For the first time I saw Anu as just another person, who was suffering like others were, who was as imperfect as others were, who couldn’t handle something as others couldn’t. Suddenly, she was not above me, I was not below her like how I had always believed I was. Suddenly I had company. I was not alone in this struggle called ‘life’.
Of course, I never wanted anything bad to happen to her. Never. But when I saw imperfection in her life, I didn’t feel bad, felt terrible about not feeling bad.
Human emotions are complicated. Humans are complicated.
29
159 days before the wedding
My grandma’s social butterfly image meant that she had many a gathering to attend. Although her circle was not very big, it was more active than those of people half her age. Be it the launch of a new restaurant or the shutting down of an old one, Grandma’s circle of fellow septuagenarians was always ready to explore the city. They weren’t very extravagant but knew how to enjoy themselves. From playing cards to watching the latest movies, the women, mostly single or widows, had an agenda set for at least two days of the week.
Turn-by-turn, Father and I often dropped and picked Grandma up from her get-togethers, if the location was convenient for chauffeuring.
That morning, she was busy setting her hair in hot rollers as early as 10 a.m. for a lunch party that she had to attend. Grandma had extraordinary patience in decking up for her gatherings. But to be fair, the lunch was being hosted by Meenu aunty, whose parties were touted as being the best organized, with innovative games, delicious food and novel return gifts. Meenu aunty had the slimmest figure and the fattest bank account in the group. She had acted in a lesser-known south Indian movie in her youth, which earned her the title of a ‘celebrity’ in her clique. She was the undisputed ‘IT girl’ of the group—a position my grandma had been eyeing for a while. Of course, Grandma had to look her best at this luncheon.
‘So which one of you is driving me to that attention-seeking Meenu’s house?’ she asked during breakfast, hot rollers covering the entire length of her thinning hair, nails properly filed, eyebrows non-existent.
Father looked at me in response to her query—a smart move. I knew Meenu aunty’s house wasn’t nearby; I had gone there once to pick Grandma up. Father usually chauffeured her on weekdays but it was a holiday; either of us could do it.
I had to play it as smartly as Father, which meant not refusing Grandma directly. So, I looked pointedly at Mother, passing the buck on to her. Household politics, I tell you!
‘Ma, why don’t you just take a cab?’ my mother suggested softly, avoiding Grandma’s eyes, pretending to be busy applying butter on her toast.
‘A CAB!’ Grandma exclaimed, eyes popping out, hand on her chest as if she would get a cardiac arrest any moment.
Silence followed.
‘You want me to take a cab to that Meenakshi’s house? Is that what my life has come to? Three grown-up children and not one to take the old woman out! Oh, if it weren’t for my aching knees I would have driven myself.’
For the record, Grandma didn’t know how to drive. She claimed to have driven a lot in her youth and had a photograph in the driver’s seat of our deceased Ambassador as proof. But legend has it that she was only posing. According to Mother, Grandma had tried driving twice and banged the car on both occasions.
Had it not been Meenu aunty’s house, she would’ve been perfectly fine with going in a cab.
‘Fine, I’ll take you,’ I said, confident that the reluctance in my voice would make her feel guilty and suggest that she go on her own.
‘Great. We’ll leave by noon,’ she said quickly and sipped her tea.
A little after noon, Grandma stepped out of her room dressed in a light blue maxi dress that, thankfully, didn’t reveal her figure. She would’ve looked fine had it not been for the ridiculous, colourful hat on her head, her favourite, which she maintained was high fashion.
I was to drive her and her friend, Guddi aunty, to the lunch and Guddi aunty’s son would pick them up later. They take you to kindergarten, you take them to kitty parties, that is the deal.
It took about an hour to reach Meenu aunty’
s house. I wasn’t very familiar with the roads in that part of the city; we didn’t go there often.
On my way back, I was waiting at a red light when someone caught my attention on the opposite side of the road. A man was walking out of a building and going towards a car. It was Harsh.
All this while, he may have crossed my mind occasionally but I hadn’t been curious about his whereabouts. I had managed to forget about him easily, but now that I had seen him, I wanted to know what he was up to.
Before I could decide what to do, Harsh had already reversed the car out of the parking spot and was heading into one of the by-lanes. By the time the light turned green, he was out of sight. I quickly changed lanes to follow him but couldn’t spot his car. I knew he didn’t live too far away. I contemplated heading towards his house but then another idea struck me.
About five minutes later, I entered the building that my ex-fiancé had just left. I had never been this snoopy. It was exciting. I was about to find out something big, I could feel it in the air. Finding him in the middle of nowhere was no coincidence. Fate wanted me to discover something—the hidden wife, the illegitimate child, something that would add everything up and make Harsh’s aloofness, his far-from-regular-behaviour valid, acceptable and understandable. Or maybe his marriage had been arranged to someone else now. And that someone else lived here. The possibilities were driving me crazy.
I entered the building as casually as a regular visitor would, but was stopped by the watchman. I saw the board of a dental clinic behind him and lied that I was here to visit the doctor.
‘But he isn’t at the clinic today,’ the watchman said in Hindi.
Realizing that I would need his help in figuring out why Harsh was here, I decided to give it up. As confident as a wife spying on her husband, I inquired which apartment the man in the grey shirt had gone to in the building. The watchman was a little taken aback and understood that he was in an advantageous position here.
‘Can’t give out details,’ he said righteously.
I thought a sweetener might make him talk so I took out a fifty-rupee note and fiddled around with it as I repeated my question. The watchman didn’t divulge any information although I swear he looked as if he would lunge at the note any minute. I badgered him a little to open his mouth but he didn’t give in, clearly enjoying this.
Ignoring his protests, I went inside the building but there was no knowing which flat Harsh had visited. The building was a regular residential establishment, which offered no clue. Feeling a bit foolish, I decided to give up the pointless quest.
How did it matter anyway? It was a stupid idea. There could be innumerable reasons as to why Harsh had come here, like dropping his grandmother to a kitty party!
I quietly walked out of the building. I must not have taken more than three steps when the watchman came out running, seeing his baksheesh slipping away.
‘Listen madam, because you seem like a genuine person I will help you out,’ he said, as if he were doing this only for me.
I wanted to act pricey this time but wanted his help more than that.
‘Okay,’ I said, folding my hands, expecting an answer.
He rubbed his left palm with his right thumb making it clear that his lips were sealed till he received a tip. I quickly took out the fifty again and, thankfully, he accepted it without any more fuss.
‘Now tell me, why had that man come here?’
‘He comes here to meet the doctor,’ informed the watchman, checking the note against the sunlight.
What a waste of effort! The last person to give me some juicy insight into Harsh’s life would be his dentist. I didn’t want any details of how Harsh’s gums were. This was a closed chapter in my life and I should have let it remain one, except one thing gnawed at me as I was making my way to the car for the second time.
I turned and shouted, ‘But you said the doctor isn’t in the clinic today.’
‘Not him. The one behind the building,’ the watchman said and walked back inside.
My curiosity was piqued again. Of course, I turned around but, this time, I circled the building to get to the backside.
As I inched closer to Harsh’s big secret, if any, I wondered whether my opinion of him would change if I discovered something earth-shattering, like a cancer specialist or a fertility clinic. I knew I was being overdramatic but well, it runs in the family.
However, I was in for a rude shock when I found what I was looking for. Even in all my wild conclusions, I had not thought of this.
In front of me was a signboard that read: Dr Balwinder Marwah, MBBS, MD (Psychiatry).
I stood rooted to the spot. A shiver ran down my spine. A psychiatrist? A PSYCHIATRIST? WHAT! Had I almost married a madman? A lunatic, a sociopath, a schizophrenic? I went through the list of all the people who I reckoned went to psychiatrists. The revelation was totally unexpected.
I recalled my interactions with Harsh for a clue. There was something off about him from the beginning, but I didn’t imagine it to be so dark, so heavy. A psychiatrist? It just wouldn’t sink in. And we all thought I was the flawed one.
I didn’t know what to do next.
Was this a sign that the break-up was a blessing in disguise? Had I dodged a bullet by ridding myself of a deranged man with a gory past and a troublesome future? Was fate helping me move on from what I had been through? The shame, the embarrassment, the unending inquisition, the sorry state of my parents. Was I just supposed to rejoice the fact that I wasn’t the faulty one? Was this my cue to run straight out and never turn back? Or should I give in to my curiosity and meddle just a little, inquire just a little more about what exactly Harsh’s problem was?
I went into the clinic, pretending that I needed to see the doctor urgently, but the receptionist shot me down.
‘Doctor only take half-day today. Please come with appointment.’
‘But . . .’
‘Doctor only take half-day today. Please come with appointment.’
The third time she repeated it, I felt like punching her in the face. At least then we’d have proof that I needed anger management. Could that be the reason why Harsh came here? Anger management? But then I could not imagine him as someone with a wild temper. In fact, I had always thought he was too docile, too cold. Hell, he hadn’t even bothered to contact me since the marriage had been called off. Who does that?
I had to halt spying for the time being. I would take an appointment and return at the earliest. I had to unravel the mystery of the man I had almost married.
30
156 days before the wedding
‘Hello, Ms Pandey. Please take a seat,’ Dr Marwah, soft-spoken and kind-eyed, said as he shuffled through some papers.
‘Hello, doctor,’ I walked in and sat on the ‘patient’s chair’, a small, comfortable sofa.
‘I hear you’ve been quite insistent on an immediate appointment. My secretary tells me she had no choice but to squeeze you in because you called her repeatedly.’
I smiled guiltily. I had found out that my ex-fiancé—the only man I’d ever been involved with (if we can just pretend for a while that what Harsh and I had had was ‘being involved’) was seeing a psychiatrist. Of course I was going to pester his doctor’s secretary for an appointment. And it had still taken me three days to get hold of him. I was now more than hopeful of some answers.
‘So tell me. Before we jump into any serious discussion, I would like to know a little more about you. How about . . .’
‘Actually, doctor,’ I cut him off, unsure of how to go about this. ‘I . . . this may come as an unusual request,’ I smiled. ‘But I’m here to inquire about one of your patients.’
‘I’m sorry?’ the doctor said firmly, conveying that my request was not welcome.
‘Uh . . . yes. I wanted to know about one of your patients whom I happened . . .’
‘I’m sorry, Ms Pandey, but I cannot entertain such requests. This is . . .’
‘But . . .’
> ‘Please understand that there are rules. I cannot . . .’
‘Doctor, I don’t want details of the patient’s personal life or his whereabouts or what he discloses in your sessions. I just want to know what the problem is.’
‘Look, Ms Pandey, I am sure you may have some reason for contacting me. But unfortunately, I can’t help you. I suggest you ask your questions to my patient directly in case your intention is to help him. But I cannot disclose any information to you.’
‘Please at least try to understand . . .’
‘Now unless you intend to pay me for the hour, I would request you to make way for the next patient and appreciate the fact that I am not billing you for your time here.’
And that was the end of my first visit to Harsh’s psychiatrist. And I say first because there was a second . . .
31
149 days before the wedding
Dr Marwah’s secretary was being difficult. Shouldn’t a psychiatrist’s right-hand be more patient? Well, I had called her an inexcusable number of times in the last two weeks but that still didn’t justify her flared nostrils when I walked into the clinic.
I had carefully wrapped a scarf around my face and casually thrown another around my body to ‘disguise’ myself in case Harsh was around.
Encounters of a Fat Bride Page 11