Wednesday, May 14, 2008


Back when I was doing my college, the worst thing you could be in India is… slim.

I was reed-thin and clothes hung on my frame delicately. People were always concerned about my health (“Are you sure you aren’t anemic?”). Relatives scolded my mother for not feeding me properly. I still remember a cousin’s mocking query. “Why is your body like a cylinder?”

And of course, men always like an hourglass figure, right?

Thus began my quest to put ““more meat on my bones”. I went on a gastronomic rampage. I started my mornings with roasted pancakes and huge dollops of cow’s butter. Afternoon saw me attacking chicken biriyani and meat patties. In the evening, I devoured deep-fried onion pakoras and I usually went to sleep after a heavy dinner of chapattis and cheese buttermasala.

My skin and body told me that it felt ill to consume such food everyday. I didn’t bother to listen. My sole aim was to turn into a lush Indian goddess and my body better be under my command.

My body eventually started to change. My face got round and the cheeks fleshed out. My stomach dropped and my clothes didn’t fit me anymore. I started to slouch and began to walk slower than ever. One fine day, I stopped by the mirror.

Oh no! This was no goddess staring back. True, I was not a cylinder any more. But I was not an hourglass either. I had become neither sensual nor sexy. I was in fact, looking like an inverted cone with sick, bloated features.


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