Last fortnight we were soaking up the sun on the lush grounds of MB Club, in the cantonment, when my octogenarian dad boomed that I would need bariatric surgery to shed the flab if I expanded even an inch more, horizontally. Luckily, I could blame the smiling sun for my flaming cheeks and smarting eyes. An encore happened days later when the grand matriarch on his side of the family tree told me squarely that, well, I had become fat. Breathing in, seemingly cleverly dressed in black, I sidled away. But it is always a triple whammy. That very night in the elevator I met a garrulous, rather generous-hipped lady, a pest living a few apartments down in my high rise — who gargled that she couldn’t recognise me as my girth had undergone a major expansion.
Forget the slim-boned, the ectomorphs, the blessed. I had it easy-peasy while growing up, slurping up honeyed mangoes for breakfast and lunch, gobbling parathas with melting globules of white butter, tucking in besan pakodas and eating mutton biryani at 2 am. All was cool. Of course, that feels like a lifetime ago. Then motherhood arrived and those impish hormones kicked me in the tummy and cackled wildly. I sweated it out and rebounded, survived PCOD, and the second tyke arrived at 35. The tendons were already shrieking, the energy levels were shrinking rapidly. It took double the effort, easily. But the LBD size just wouldn’t drop below 14. Fuller, Rubenesque, he commented. I basked, shrugged and chugged along.
Shilpi Madan for DailyO