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Beauty is defined rigidly in our world, with little place for those who don't fit. Here's an account of the big, fat, and f*gly, who remain ignored, or worse, ridiculed.
Beauty is defined rigidly in our world – fair, thin, tall- with little place for the dark, fat, short ones. Here’s an account of the big, fat, and f*gly, who remain ignored, or worse, ridiculed.
All they could see was a large lump of flesh – obstinate, smelly and lazy. That was all everyone would see. They took her pictures, posted offensive comments, laughed at her face, and applauded at her jokes. She was the brunt of every third joke in stand-up comedy. That was her, a disgusting lump of flesh.
They vouched against racism, against discrimination on the basis of religion, caste, creed, but it was alright to laugh at her. She fit no controversial agenda. It was OK. She was but a lump of flesh.
She had a name. No one knew. They named her Gluttony and expected her to respond at their call. They disguised their callousness behind her gluttony. They disguised their crude words behind her self-loathing. They blamed her for who she was; a huge lump of flesh.
She carried the burden of her cross. Day by day she dragged it as it grew heavier. They even got a fancy name for what they were doing, “Fattertainment”. Media could be creative, and no one blamed the media for flooding them with opinions. She had made poor choices and landed up where she was, they cried. They feared she would create an epidemic. Their fat humour was the best weapon against the lump of flesh.
She would never get into that little black dress hidden in her closet, the one she untiringly tried after every session of a sweaty workout.Related Stories All Good Things In Life Are Not The Prerogative Of Slim, ‘Beautiful’ People; STOP Fat Shaming! It Was Finally My Kind Of Rose Day!
She would never get into that little black dress hidden in her closet, the one she untiringly tried after every session of a sweaty workout.
The weight bias finally weighed her down. It killed her motivation and it crushed her chances. She would never get into that little black dress hidden in her closet, the one she untiringly tried after every session of a sweaty workout. Her genes had failed her as much as her jeans had. Away from prying eyes, all day, she would try a new regime, a new diet, a new set of exercises. No one would ever know. She would stand for hours in front of the mirror, wondering why everyone else failed to see her as she did.
She had beautiful eyes, she knew. Sadly, only she knew that.
Locked up in her room, she would emanate the fragrance of beautiful flowers. Sadly, only she knew that.
She longed for love. Locked in a room, crushed by their comments, beaten by the unrelenting media opinion, a lump of flesh longed for the love that they all took for granted.
She now rests, in a huge casket. As she disintegrates, like all of us will someday , it was noticed that she didn’t take up much space beneath the earth. They buried her deep, still fearing the epidemic. Filled with bony prototypes of humans created in labs and edited in softwares, this was certainly no world for the big, fat and the f*gly.
Pic credit: Concept image of obesity via Shutterstock
Hi everyone, I am a teacher by profession and a restless being at heart. I am a writer more of conviction, less of vocabulary. My restlessness along with my compulsive desire for learning anything new read more...
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We can’t bombard impressionable young women in the name of enlightened entertainment to feed them the same drivel. At least let us not label misogynist movies as helping the cause of women.
I have watched at least 2 ‘purported’ trailblazing Bollywood movies in the recent past that left me with a feeling that I had taken part in the ice-bucket challenge all over again. This time around, however, without even the satisfaction of having supported a worthy cause.
Both the movies have about a 90% liking rate on IMDB/Rotten Tomatoes. Both are touted to ‘sensitively’ portray the taboo topics that seem to be mostly hidden underneath a layer of banana peels – dangerous to even tread nearby.
Dushyanta clearly remembered everything. But he didn't have any intention to accept a poor woman from a remote hermitage as his wife and her son as theirs.
Dushyanta clearly remembered everything. But he didn’t have any intention to accept a poor woman from a remote hermitage as his wife and her son as theirs.
She sat motionless on the royal bed, her knees drawn up to her chin, staring vacantly outside the palace window.
She was sheathed in exquisite scarlet red silk, shot through with golden threads forming intricate traditional patterns. Chests of gems and jewellery were strewn all over the bed. The maids were fussing over whether a diamond-studded necklace would suit their queen or a gold choker would look better. Another younger maid was arranging her tresses in a coiffeur.
Was this what became of her? Would she bring children into this world with a man like that? The bigger question was did she want this life? NO! screamed something from within. She was no weak woman…
Aarti looked at herself in the mirror, her entire face was swollen, bruised and red. The physical abuse her husband had dealt her, created deep wounds, scaring her soul.
Her’s was an arranged marriage, the groom was good looking and rich. The criteria for which he was immediately approved. All her neighbours had praised her luck. “Rani bankar raj karogi tum.” (You’ll be the queen of the house). They had assured her. “Lakhon mein ek dulha mila hai tumhe.” (You’ve got a very good husband). They gushed.
The gift of education is one that keeps on giving. Here's a story about unfair old customs, and how kindness and education help thwart them.
The gift of education is one that keeps on giving. Here’s a story about unfair old customs, and how kindness and education help thwart them.
“Is it 6 am already?!” Smita thought to herself as she placed the pillow over her ears to drown the noise of her mother’s calls to wake her up. After what seemed like only a few moments, she was pulled out of bed by her mother, wailing and kicking, and pushed into the shower to get dressed for school.
Listening to her granddaughter Smita sulk and shuffle her feet as she headed out the door to school, Ramya was reminded of those times when she was back in Rajkot, almost two decades ago.