On the Fat Train

Siya was looking at herself in the mirror, sucking in her stomach, trying to stand tall. She turned around, to get a better look at her butt, but instead her eyes fell on her computer screen. She knew she would be termed psychotic if people found out she was looking for “fat quotes” in Google. But she needed an inspiring “lose weight now” quote. Instead all she had come up with was a quote that scared her shitless. It was by the hot, or now old-and-not-so-hot Elizabeth Hurley. Ok, she knew there was no reason to be so bitchy, but this quote just screamed for a bitchy slap-her-and then-kick –her-then-burn-her comment. Anyway, according to Google, Elizabeth Hurley once famously said, “I'd kill myself if I was as fat as Marilyn Monroe.” Marliyn Monroe was fat? Siya found herself entering Marilyn Monroe’s name in Google and hitting images. There she appeared. Her full bosom, her tiny waist and an arse that wouldn’t give up went perfectly well with those scarlet lips and blonde hair. She was fat? Damn you Liz Hurley. If Marilyn was fat, what was Siya? She knew she shouldn’t pay attention, get too hyper, as she often did. But in the world that she lived, fat and thin were as vital as being rich or poor, pro BJP or pro congress, nice or nasty, employed or unemployed. It was bloody important, and Siya knew she was losing the battle.

She returned her gaze to her butt. It was wobbly and patchy. And what she knew was cellulite, she disregarded as an illusion of the eye caused by the lack of sunlight. Even she had to laugh at that. At least it still looked passable when covered up. No, who was she kidding? From the front, she looked like a giant pear walking down the street. From the side, it didn’t have the tautness of Beyonce’s rear, and from the back, it just looked plain full of lard. It was her worst feature. But then as she turned around, she caught a sight of her side profile. Oh, why was she doing this to herself?

She sat down and the chair creaked. Her face contorted and she wondered since when had she started spending all her time in front of the mirror. She had always been a self assured girl, and then woman. Men had come easy and so had compliments. Even women seemed to like her, most of the times anyway. Then why was her fat behind bothering her so much now. Had her body become more important than herself?

She found herself remembering a scene out of the movie Social network, when Mark Zuckerberg set up a site where students of Harvard got a chance to vote who is hotter. Being fat was like not being the girl who got chosen. She remembered another movie, The Bride Wars, where Kate Hudson’s character has a Vera Wang wedding gown, and when she gains a few pounds before the big day, she screams, “Vera doesn’t fit you, You change to fit in Vera.” The magazines she read were all about that celebrity who got their pre-baby shape back or calorie-negative disgusting-tasting food we should be eating. Even people she met just either said, “if it hasn’t gone till now, it won’t go ever” or “why did you just bite into that burger?”. It seemed as if the whole universe was ganging up to tell her that she was fat.

There was some support out there, she grinned. Once in a while, a study done by a bunch of geeky scientists proclaimed that curvy women were more likely to live longer than their slimmer opposites. And historically, she knew, that most societies associated fatness in women with desirable social status as it is an overt sign of wealth where food is not abundant. Yes, she laughed aloud sarcastically. Being fat in India was so a sign of wealth (or a weakness for the McDonalds outside Andheri station). She caressed her belly as she recalled one beautiful story about an African king who used to fatten up his wives before he married them to the extent that they couldn't walk. They were so fat that they had to sit still, and that was regarded as a sign of beauty. Now the laughs were unstoppable, and she found herself rolling on the floor, in her underwear -- If only Kate Moss and Twiggy had never been born.

Then she sat up and realized there were tears on her cheeks, her kajal ran down her face and she almost looked like a painting for the 16^th century. She remembered what had brought upon this fat mania. Her boyfriend, Akash, had asked for a picture of hers last week, preferably one where her assets weren’t covered. It was normal right? They had been dating for a year now, and she really loved him. So to give him a picture wasn’t such a big deal. But she regretted it. The picture was an unflattering one. Her bum cheeks peeked out and her belly just seemed huge as it lay exposed in an itsy bitsy, polka dotted bikini. Oh what a pity, he was going to break up with her now. She knew she had to meet him soon. So, she threw on her jeans and walked the 2 km distance to his house. I need to work out, she thought as she charged ahead. His roommate, Purab, opened the door and gave her a cocky smile. Oh no, she thought, had akash already told him he was going to break up with me. “I ordering a pizza, you want some?” he asked her.

“No, no. No pizza for me,” she noticed her voice was trembling.

Purab was standing next to her now. “He deleted all his porn yesterday you know.  He said he had a picture of you that was enough. He’s been in there with it for a while now,” he pointed to the loo, and a leery and yet strangely jealous smile spread over his face.

She knew she should have been offended. But instead, she gave Purab a flattering smile and took the phone from his hand, “Let’s order that Pizza. What toppings do you want??”