Being Skinny .


Let me begin by saying that: Arrey tu kitni patli hai! (omg you’re so thin!) is NOT a compliment. Just in case you said it to a skinny person and thought you were saying something nice. Me, I wanna cry when someone says that to me. In a world full of beauty standards, and matrimonial ads looking for a patli, lambi, gori ladki, it isn’t easy to accept and love your body the way it is. And why do they even say patli in the first place? Why not healthy/fit? The fact that society has set standards in our heads, it makes it generally acceptable to be skinny and not think twice before saying it to the person’s face. Try saying “You’re fat” to a fat person, and then you’ll know. Oh no, but you wouldn’t – because that’s not a nice thing to say? Well, then let me tell you the story of a skinny person’s life. Especially a girl!!!

  • Whenever (okay mostly) someone meets you for the first time, this is the ice breaker:
    Example 1 :
    Random person: Wow yaar, tu itni patli kaisi hai?
    Me (standard response): My mom was also very skinny when she was young. So maybe it’s hereditary. (My mom taught me that, btw)
    Random person: Arrey but Punjabis toh hatte gate hote hain!
    Me (in my head) : Fuck your clichéd ass off please?Example 2:
    Random person : Arrey tu kitni patli hai! Ghar pe kuch khaane ko nai milta kya? (Then giggling to themselves)
    Me : Pretending to giggle along ( To myself: If you asked that – you definitely wouldn’t understand anything. So I’ll save the little energy I have.)

    Example 3:
    Indian aunty : Beta itna patla hona theek nahi. Bacche kaise paida karegi?
    Me : (Pretending to blush. Because aadarsh beti gotta do that when they talk about marriage or having kids (read sex)).

  • Being skinny has a direct effect on how old you look. So if I’m 24, I still look like an 18 year old. And somehow (I’ve been feeling this way for a long time now) I feel like people don’t take you seriously if you’re skinny. (Fellow skinny people – please tell me if you feel the same). Like seriously. Does that have to do something with the minimal amount of space that we occupy in this world? And not to forget: people take it for granted that you don’t need much space to sit. I’ve literally been told – Arrey tu toh patli si hai, kahi bhi adjust ho jaegi and arrey tu toh aadhe bande ke barabar hi hai. Okay I know I don’t take much space, but don’t people think at all before they say something like that? And this is exactly what I mean when I say they don’t take us seriously.
  • Finding the right size of clothes is the most difficult task of our lives. That is exactly why we hate shopping. Who would like looking at fancy clothes and feeling like a hanger in the try room? Or being called a hanger at that! Yeah that’s another one!
  • Weakness is an everyday struggle. Fainting too. Monthly pains are x100 times worse than normal healthy women. If under medication, the appetite is even smaller.
  • Going to a restaurant where you can’t share food – but have to buy your own portion – it’s a waste of money and food – because we can NEVER finish the portion, and it’s the most embarrassing thing on the planet.
  • I think we do feel colder than normal people, but winter is also our favourite season because we can pretend that cozy sweaters are our layers of fat. And for those couple of months, we appear normal to the human society.


That said, I wonder why nobody ever asks us WHY we’re skinny. Every question is aimed at us in such a way as if we are giving the other person an inferiority complex by being skinny. But in reality it’s the other way round. It’s because it’s acceptable – like so many other things in society – that we just say it. Nobody bothers to ask WHY? If someone did, we would shed tears and tell them what a pain it is to live in a skinny body – in a world where everyone thinks it is amazing – but only we know how we struggle to eat, how our appetite dies every day (or for others who do eat good portions, the metabolism to gain weight sucks), how we want to, sooooo badly want to gain weight and eat more, but this teeny weeny appetite of ours fails us every time. But, well, maybe if people stop passing it as an acceptable thing and actually recognize that it’s something that needs to be worked on or treated – we might be better motivated. Negative comments don’t treat it; in fact they only make us feel worse about our existence.

Expecting society’s standards to change might be too hopeful.. But seriously – here’s a thought – how about we aim for healthy/fit and try not to say: Mujhe bhi patla hona hai!


Zebra Crossing : Culture shock in India


Growing up in India, I never had a problem crossing roads. You know, you learn. You adapt. Before I left home for an experience of life in Europe, I never thought about these things – which were a part of my daily life in India. Greetings for example, about which I wrote in my previous post. And now, what comes to my mind is : Zebra crossings.

I had learnt about the concept of zebra crossings quite early in my school textbooks, but never saw anyone using it the city where I lived. I learnt how to cross roads, just like everyone else. It was never a problem – I could say so, because I’m still alive. Looking both ways on a one way road, turning your head left-right, left-right, and hoping to ace the timings once again. Smooooth! No dikkat at all! I was a pro, just like everyone else.

But when I first went abroad, I was alone, and too excited about everything. It was my first ever experience of living alone in a new country, and I certainly wasn’t prepared for the culture shocks! So I’m in France – during the first few days – and I’m crossing the road, as if I own it. A car comes speeding and the driver gives me a stare which clearly means “Are you stupid?” – And thats when I realize, they do have this zebra crossing thing going here in Europe, and quite seriously at that! So they weren’t talking about some fictional land in the school textbooks!

Three years in Europe, I’m pretty used to crossing at Zebra crossings. At the signals, waiting for the red light to turn green for the pedestrians. And where there were no pedestrian signals, I would uselessly wait, not knowing that the cars would stop themselves if I’m walking on it. So well in time, I learnt the ways of this blessing that is the zebra crossing!

But every time I came home to Delhi for the holidays, I experienced a reverse culture shock. The first time I came back during the summer, I actually started looking for zebra crossings. Something I had never bothered to observe before. To my surprise, we never notice the zebra crossings, because helloooo!!! The vehicles are ON the zebra crossing when the signal is red! And poor pedestrians are zig-zagging to cross the road. In some other places, the white lines are sooooo light that they are almost invisible. But who cares? Because we are experts in crossing roads – because we are, what they call, Khatro ke khiladi!

I noticed that near the Connaught Place area, they do have these pedestrian signals, which were quite a relief, but even in that case, the vehicles are still ON the zebra crossing. And then, this incident that happened just a few days ago : I was in CP, and had to go from one block to the other. There was no signal there for the cars to stop, but I saw a zebra crossing. A couple walking in front of me jumped right onto the zebra crossing, while the cars and autos were speeding towards them. For a second I thought maybe the vehicles would stop because pedestrians crossing on a zebra crossing where there’s no traffic signal. But no, they didn’t. Khatro ke khiladi managed to cross the road alive, zig-zagging and stopping at the right time, hoping another vehicle doesn’t crash into them!

On a very serious note, this is an issue of concern. Growing up in the capital of the country, I only learnt about road ethics and safety in theory, and never practically because nobody follows them! Since the last three years, everytime I’ve come home after an year abroad, I don’t venture out of the house alone at least for week, because I’m scared! And I’m not even exaggerating. I’m scared to cross the road. Scared because I might have forgotten the skills to watch both sides of a one way road, hoping not to die. Scared because I’m out of practice!

It is my request to every one who drives, to be more careful, and follow rules for the combined safety of everyone around! If today I managed to cross the road safely, there must be someone out there who didn’t, and a life was lost!

As a side note, I would like to add that we must also not be scared to speak up about these things. Personally, I too think twice before saying it now, because everytime I compare life in India with my experience abroad, they say “Haan zyada angrez ban gai hai tu. Bhool mat yahi se gai hai!”. Lol, I know that, and it doesn’t mean that I don’t like being in India anymore. In fact I am so happy to come back! But certain things make you think, and react! And that is why, I chose to write about it. Doing things because that’s the way its done, will not help us create a better space to live in. Together we can make a difference!

Be safe!

La Bise : Culture shock in Europe


First experiences are special. First experiences of living in a new country can result in serious culture shocks too. Not in a negative way, but in a funny, ironic way. When you leave a country like India to go live abroad, the first experience can be full of eye-widening, thought provoking experiences. One of the major culture shocks for me, was La Bise: The cheek-to-cheek greeting that is so common in France. Growing up back home, I had only seen films stars do the cheek-to-cheek kiss, or maybe others belonging to the ‘elite’ class. Chez moi, when greeting an elder, say Namaste or Sat Sri Akal. Sorted. Look at the person, bow your head a little and say it. With friends, just a ‘hey’ or a side hug works. But in France, there was a completely different thing going on.

It took me a while to understand that the bise is a part of the everyday life, and it can be taken very, very seriously. One person would enter the room, and would do muah-muah to everyone sitting there. Sweet, I thought to myself. After a few days of observation, I realized that they also do it while leaving. Sweet again, I thought to myself. Such an intimate way of greeting and saying goodbye! And now, I thought I was ready to greet in the French way too! But then, I forgot to notice which side you have to go to first. The initial weeks of meeting new people was a struggle in my mind. Left first? Or right first? What if I bump into their face? Should I just shake hands? Or hug? Umm, no. But they’re French – they would go for the bise! So then left first? Or right first? The left and right struggle was solved in its own time – practice makes a man perfect! But there were more mysteries of the bise yet to be solved – It is okay to do the bise with youngsters that you’re meeting for the first time, but what about people older than you? This question still haunts me! I might have embarrassed myself a couple of times by doing the bise with a much older lady that I met for the first time. I always wondered if there were rules about how to do the bise with who!

After living, working and studying in France for three years, I learnt a lot about the French culture and was quite comfortable with the greetings. I didn’t have to think left or right anymore! But outside of France, the mysteries of the bise were new, and more embarrassing! Once upon a time, I went to Belgium, and a friend introduced me to his friends. Friends of friends = do the bise. I did the calculation in my head. Went for it, but was left hanging in the air on the other side. Because, as I would learn later, they do one cheek kiss in Belgium! Ahem. One of the most awkward moments of my life, but a useful lesson learnt. ‘Next time onwards, I would be careful about the nationality before thinking one or two, instead of left or right’, I told myself. But when I met an Italian (Roberto! Yes, you!), I realized that the left or right also had to be taken into consideration: because for Italians, it was opposite to that of the French. We met so often, but never came to the decision as to which side to go to first!

After several awkward greetings and meeting people from different parts of the continent, I realized that the bise was a greeting which is similar everywhere in Europe, but distinct in its own style: quite similar to what we have in India, in the sense that the greeting changes from Namaste to Sat Sri Akal to Vanakkam to Khamma ghani, but the bow of the head or folding of the hands remains similar. However, the most annoying part of the culture shock is that it can linger on for a while, and become a part of you if you live in the place for too long. So now the greeting queries have started working the opposite way: I had never put so much thought into how to greet a person while I was living in India, but now my head starts doing the greeting calculations for handshake/hugs/Namaste on its own.

Dependency is a killer.

Another day without a single drop of water. The sun was shining bright ; too bright. But the more, the better. Not always though ; not when there was no water to quench the thirst. How they wished they were out in the open. Breathing in the warm summer air. They wish they could look up to the sky, and wave excitingly with the wind, as the black clouds would approach. These days they could still see the black clouds coming and going, but useless. Useless, because there was no way out. The raindrops would smear the window panes for hours, but why would they rejoice? Why would they rejoice when they couldn’t quench their thirst? They would look at the beautiful tiny raindrops. They would call out to them, and probably imagine what it feels like, when they touched. How soothing and refreshing it was. But now, the windows were a barrier. It was as if the raindrops were calling out to them too, but the barrier was impossible for them to break. They questioned why they even had to be alive, when their basic necessities couldn’t be met. They questioned God and blamed him for not making them fit enough to walk, so they could find their own sources of needs. Yes, needs. Why were they destined to be trapped in a world where nobody cared about them? Were they only an aesthetic element that didn’t need care? Or were the people around them so absorbed in their own aesthetic value, that they couldn’t care about anything else?

They wished, time and again that they didn’t have to take birth in the first place. But who was to be blamed? God certainly wasn’t responsible for their painful death. They knew they were wrong to blame him. For they could see their fellow beings rejoicing and growing up in his care, out in the open, under the blue sky and timely rains. Who was to be blamed then? Of course, the human beings who locked the doors, and windows, packed their bags, and went off for a two weeks holiday, forgetting all about them.

Dependency is such a killer. But only if they could do something about it, only if they could make decisions for themselves ; if they could choose where to be ; if they could do what these humans did : talk, walk, sing, dance, touch, jump, run!

“How lucky they are! And how happy they must be in this life!”, the dying rose plant said to the bougainvillea.

The Rain Messenger .


Photo credits : Instagram @armaanmehra

.. 5 am in the morning. She sits at the doorstep of her house. All-nighters were not a choice; insomnia is a disease when one awaits the return of a loved one. She had tried to fall asleep all night, twisting and turning in the bed. But she finally gets up at the sound of the early morning temple bells, and settles down at the doorstep. Her eyes are full of sleep and dizziness. She wants to fall asleep for once, peacefully, like in her mother’s lap. The peace that she had known only for a little while. Since as long as she could remember, she was told every day that she was a girl, and girls don’t belong to the homes they are born in. She was told that she would be sent away to her husband’s home, and that is where her real life would begin. She cursed the childhood version of herself, for getting the gudda-guddi married as a part of a game. “Maybe that’s why they got me married – because they misinterpreted a childhood game as a wish of little girl”, she thought to herself – an eighteen year old dressed up as a bride. But little did she know – this was the game the elders liked to play.

At the doorstep, she lifts her drooping eyes. Black clouds are settling in the predawn sky. It is easy to see them coming in the light of the day. But when it is dark, and the sun is still going to take a while to show its face, you feel the black clouds of rain ; like an army of soldiers ready to attack while the town is still asleep. The goose bumps start appearing on her skin, and her saree ruffles with the wind, as she gets up to breathe in the new day. Thunder and lightning scowling; the temple bells responding equally. Not a drop of rain on her body. She waits; she waits to get soaked in the morning rain. Before the neighbors are awake, and before the rules bound her again. She waits, her arms stretched to the infinite sky. She waits, as she has been waiting for a while now. For an year now, in vain. No news of her husband.

Tears course down her cheeks, even before a raindrop could make its way to her barren body.

Contemplating on the couch .


Her eyelids were heavy, at the peak hour in the afternoon. Her eyes full of sleep and dizziness, wanting to fall asleep on the couch. She lived in a house with an attic, and watched the raindrops falling on the window, that gave a view of other houses: the houses that she was taught how to draw as a child. Triangles and parallel lines, a road leading to it, mountains in the background, a river flowing from the valley, and the sun setting or rising: you’d never know. The houses were the same, but they were too many. More than she could have drawn in one scenery. Of course, it was when she grew up that she realized that the houses that she drew along the river, were fantasies turned into standards of happiness, that generation after generation would fight all their lives for. Just like the girl with the golden locks and rosy cheeks that she learnt of in stories and recited as poems, would define beauty standards. The world was full of so much bullshit, she thought to herself. She wondered who would shed a tear, if she took her last breath at this moment. She closed her eyes for a moment and pictured herself sitting by the sea. The waves washing her feet, coming and going away, just like her fluctuating feelings about living in this world full of so much bullshit. She wished to stay there a while longer, and understand why the waves did what they did. She had learnt about it in the science textbook at school. But she did not want science to answer her questions about this world full of so much bullshit. Because she knew science could give reason to so much that humans go through in life, but it could never answer the questions that are common to every breathing body: why do we fall in love? What is this pain that the heart feels, when you part ways with someone you loved? What happens to those who die for love? And what happens to those who die anyway? Where are the people who once wiped away our tears? And which lifetime will we meet them again in? … She wants to stay by the sea for a little while longer and watch the waves dancing to the shore and then disappearing on the sand bed. One after the other, with all its force and passion, dancing towards the sand bed, only to mingle with it and then rest in peace.

She wakes up at the sound of her phone notifying her of an email. A deadline for her next assignment. She gets up from the couch to make herself a cup of coffee. Steaming hot liquid pouring out from the machine, turning to froth and bubbles in the blue mug. She sits on her desk to begin with an all-nighter. Meanwhile, the sun dries up the raindrops, and the bubbles disappear in her coffee mug.