I am a fallen woman

God yes! I have to finally accept the fact. The above words are true to the bone. Talking of fallen women, I am the fallenest of them all. Yes, I understand you deserve an explanation. What happened? Why did I stoop so low as to fall? The intriguing and interesting (maybe) reasons are not beyond imagination. 

The classic take of this fallen woman began a few years ago when she was sleeping. She got up to relieve herself and found herself on the floor instead. With a leg that refused to bend and knee (u jerk) that was twice its normal size, for no apparent reason. It took a box full of pills and a visit to urgent care (that showed no urgency ) and a business class trip back to India to feel better. It is a much longer story you can read at https://myhumerousbone.wordpress.com/2022/07/01/on-your-knees-get-set-dont-go/

Undaunted by the mishap, a couple of years ago I decided to go shopping. I took a bold step out of the cab and gently twisted my foot. Not intentionally but maybe the foot had a mind of its own. Actually that is what happens when various body parts develop this condition called – I-will-go-wherever-I-want much like the troublesome teenager who refuses to listen to reason. Long story short, after some self medication, followed by a visit to the nearby orthopaedic, who cast me in a cast and left me to fend for myself complete with a cane for the next month. If that interests you, the detailed version can be found at https://myhumerousbone.wordpress.com/2023/03/03/break-a-leg-or-two/

The trend continued. A few months later, I started practising yoga, maybe it will improve the balance and make my muscles, or whatever is left of it, stronger and less fattier (or is it fatter). Yes, I made a mistake. I imagined I could exercise vigorously and get away with it, but shhh, the leg was listening. This time it was a twisted knee. Why the fellow decided to twist is anyone’s guess as dance and I never got along well. And decided that never the twain shall we meet. Maybe the knee is hard of hearing. 3 weeks of physiotherapy, learning to walk straight again and not look like a duck waddle, patience woman, thy knee will heal. Now the doctor and I are on first name basis, he knows I will be back soon.

And heal it did, but left its mark, it isn’t the same anymore. My right side acts a shade shadier than the left. And that is absolutely not right. I would have left it alone, if not for the fact that it is directly connected to the rest of my body. I think I may need to start walking with that book on my head, provided my neck can handle the extra weight. 

My toe and little finger have also decided to join in the fun. They love to go on a banging adventure of their own, pitting against the door or any other piece of furniture in the vicinity and the stars look so beautiful, even during daytime. The piece of furniture can be a few feet away, but my feet with my wobbled walk will find its way there somehow and check it out. I spanked it too, but it seemed to rather enjoy that.

I have also realised that my legs somehow have an affinity with all the potholes on the road. I love my long walks but who knew even a nice long walk would come with a hefty price tag (aka the doctors bill). If there is a gap in the road, I have to measure it, here my foot refuses to behave the way it behaves with furniture around. 

And recently Humpty had a great fall, the king of falls. Did I choose to fall? absolutely not. Socks are a culprit, I know since the socks and sandals came in contact with each other, but socks and floor  also behave the same way, was yet to be determined. I was on the phone, the bell rang and I walked towards the door. I took a left turn and my body took a horizontal one and I found myself back on the floor with my fat thighs and elbow taking all the load. The only time I have ever been grateful for the layers of fat around my hips that make me look like a pear. I think the way I felt after the ground touched me was as if the earth quaked. Or did it shout in pain when a truckload of fat fell on it. The ball fell, bounced, fell again, thanks to Newton. Nothing broke, the fat acts as great shock absorbers, but I get to wear a pain patch for the next 20 days. At the ground level, that isn’t so bad after all.

Now I know I  am a tragic figure doomed to wander the earth with the gait of an old person, drooping slightly on one side, hobbling in place of walking. Osteoporosis has befallen. I am the poster child of bone decay, almost like I took a wrong turn at the crossroads (or was it the pavement) and the ground is the next thing I saw. But walk I will, and meet all ye potholes and furniture. If I fall yonder, do pull me up and get me on my way to the next fall. Maybe I should christen myself water since water falls.

Now I have a guideline for the right behaviour 

Step 1 : look before you step

Step 2 : learn to walk slowly.

Step 3: give furniture a wider berth

Step 4: Socks suck, lose them.

Step 5: if not, be ready for a fall-down

The prince and us paupers

Top 5 reasons why I did not attend the celebrations of the wedding of the century.

1. Who sends an e-card only? I mean, the generation where I belong, we want a personal invitation. And by that I don’t mean the 7 lakh, 7 kilo card, I mean a call from the मलिका-ए-जश्न or मालिक-ए-जियो. You can invite all these celebrities but did not call the most important ones- आपका परिवार – like me, and the 1.45 billion others (minus the 1000 odd celebs), and of course you missed Biden too (#bullet), or maybe he plain forgot. Coming from there to here is a bit of a long journey and he cant take a risk at his age. I am sure you invited Trump but he had an ear-in problem, I hear.
2. It was too long -cruises and pre wedding and haldi – I don’t have four months spare on my calendar to dedicate to this bash, I only took two weeks off at my own son’s wedding, I can’t afford 4 months (and can’t maintain my hairstyle for so many days) . Oh now I get, that is why only those people were invited who do not have to go to the office every day. Fine, you will give a couple of crores in return gifts  (#showoff), but what about the cost of all the attires and accessories I would need. Maybe if you had given the gift earlier, I could have traded it and got some goldware to wear. And you missed the best location for the wedding- the moon, imagine the wedding in the earthlight..
3. The frog oops the prince – well, I do understand why he wants to save elephants (#kinship), but why he didn’t want to save his childhood friend from himself. Like someone remarked – ये कुछ कर तो पाएगा नहीं, फिर क्यों? What a waste of the beauty – I have always heard love is blind, but un-love is rich too. From a net worth of 10 crore to a wedding that cost almost 600 times that, lie in the bed of gold and eat only diamonds and sapphires man.. Or maybe it was – पापा पापा, बहन की शादी 100M में, मेरी भी शादी करनी है, और उससे डबल, नहीं 6 गुना खर्चा होना चाहिए ; कौन तुमसे शादी करेगा बबुआ? वो हैं ना; बोल राधिका बोल संगम होगा की नहीं .
4. Mumbai weather, torrential rains and who gets married in such horrible weather? my dresses would have been spoiled yaar, maybe Antilla has air conditioning but an auto rickshaw doesn’t. And on top of that I don’t like their home. क्या मतलब है, चींटी किला? The architect couldn’t even draw vertical straight lines. And they call that monstrosity a mansion? you build the 5th floor and then realize 6th needs a 100 sq ft more, the architect must have failed in his drawing class. I can draw better mansions. I have equally good reasons for london – it was too cold and for the cruise (will let you know as soon as I think of one – of course, wasn’t invited).
5. Very little money spent on the event. People take loans to get their children married and this guy spends just 0.5%- so miserly.  If he had spent about 5%, all of us could have had a feast, you know. All he needed was to swiggy the food and return gifts to every home, problem solved. I feel so taken for granted – no 15L, no return gift. But no, you don’t have that kind of money to spend on us, you would rather invite the जांघिया बनियान  singer or the big booby Kimmy and the greatest actor of all times. Another problem was I could not decide what gift to give, like I can’t afford a villa or a yacht or a helicopter, it wouldn’t have looked nice if I gave a more traditional Ajanta wall clock right?

The whole thing is an atrocity. Yes, lot of artisans got work, multitude of vendors, there was the भंडारा, money circulating, good for economy and all that. But think about how we paupers feel. The pomp and show in a third world country that celebrates the most expensive wedding in the world, while the biggest slum in the world is right next door. Are we showcasing that India has arrived? What happened to the principles of simplicity. The trend this is setting is that of the bigger and fatter (literally so) celebrations, so many of us will get influenced and go from riches to rags in satisfying our kid’s demands. The pomp and flaunt and glittery glitterati, celebrities make the event, what happened to having friends and family and an intimate affair? Or maybe they are friends because of the social status. Ultimately they did because they can, and others will try to do, even when they can’t. 

And can we stop seeing the photos now. Can someone tell the media It is done, over. Enough is enough. The world will anyway continue to call us crazy Asians for decades to come.

M to XL

I was never thin. Actually, I was. Once upon a time. Not so thin like a friend who needed to eat 6 bananas daily to increase weight. But lanky enough to lie next to my mom and wonder why she is double my height when we are horizontal. Being slim had scores of advantages (and some disadvantages too). I could run faster than my friends, I could eat whatever I wanted to and everybody still said “you need to eat more”. But then I had the same flatness, front and back. Clothes stuck to me like a scarecrow. My mom used to say my bony arms stuck out like sore thumbs, ouch.

And skinny I stayed through my teens and through most of my 20s. So it was all hunky dory till I was blessed with a growing baby inside of me. Once the little fella was born, I realized I was just about 15 kgs overweight from my previous skeletal state. Now that was unacceptable. I no longer fitted in my old Jeans and I needed baggy clothes to hide my protruding belly and bulging arms. That was quite unappealing to everyone including my husband and I had finally become abundantly abundant.

For a few months I stayed put. Maybe I will be back to normal after a few weeks, months..and also because the doctor advised so but what I did not realize was; that was the new normal. After about 6 months, I had had enough and I decided to join one of the many weight loss programs, meant for the vain, with a singular aim in mind. I need to fit into my old Jeans.

6 months of long brisk walks, prescribed diet and many exercises later, I managed to reduce by 12 kgs, which felt really good and I was back to (almost normal). Almost since the car tyre on the belly had become a cycle tyre, but did not go away and I was destined to live with it for the rest my life, or so I thought.

For the next couple of decades, I kept going through the cycle of anxieties of growing by a few kilos, back to exercise, gym, walk, diet, till I managed to get in better shape. I wasn’t fat, I wasn’t slim, I was (in my opinion) ok, with a teeny-weeny protruding tummy. Yeah, people never believed that and used to call me Tuntun and other names synonymous with fat aunties. Once out shopping (in my forties), a kid came and daintily draped the dupatta around my stomach “you should keep the baby wrapped” and I wanted to just sink in the ground.

But I could still fit into my clothes from 15-20 years back and though at times my belly button would amorously peep out from between the shirt buttons, I still considered myself not bad. My shopping size continued to rest at medium, but I did wish they made “a little more than medium”.

Then menopause hit. And hit. I could literally see myself growing in leaps and bounds. But denial is the first response. I am fine, I told the mirror, so what if the T-shirt feels tight, I can breathe, right. What if my shape has started resembling a balding guy with a paunch larger than his man boobs. I can still fit into a medium. Maybe they should make larger mediums. I have so many lovely clothes from across the world and I need to fit into them. BTW, the tyres started resembling Humvee ones now.

Then the to the second stage. I have to do something. I am not eating rice for next 6 months. I am down to one chapati. I am going to skip breakfast. Red poha is better than white poha. Only skim milk for me. I can stay hungry for another hour. Salad for the hungry soul. But even food for thought went straight to my thighs And so on…till Zero. Not size zero, but zero impact. Zilch. Nada. The belly button continued to torture me and the tights became tighter. My metabolism sucked and became moti-bolism.

Finally came to terms, the comfort level disappeared and I realized I had to start looking at large and maybe even extra-large, deva re deva. Nothing seemed to fit a pear-shaped body. Whatever was beautiful was only available in small and medium. Designers and retailers never seemed to make anything nice for the Indian rice eating, achar lover shapes. It either does not fit or looks like a sack. Who calls it out of shape, round is a shape as I even read in class VII Geometry. I guess menopause is like the second puberty, instead of growing tall, you grow far and wide.

All my clothes went into cold storage. I mourned for that dress from Singapore and the shirt from Munich and the skirt from Vegas as I folded each of them and tucked them away. Will they ever see light of the day again? But then there is always a silver lining. My wardrobe is empty and the + size stores are beckoning me to come hither.

Who dare cares if I am fat? No, I am a woman of substance, a little more substantial than others, so what? Tere baap ka khaya kya?  Mera maal, meri charbi. Shape or shapeless, my life, my choice. I will devour that one more paratha, and finish the last pizza slice. And kachori is my all time favourite. Burrp. Anyway in your fifties you need that extra cushion. My daughter in law must be thinking, why is my supersized supermom double my size when she is lying down. Karma!

Cut me some slack, literally , I don’t fit otherwise. How can you expect me to be smart, sarcastic and slim ? I can’t be perfect you know.