Thank You for Letting Me Know I Have Breasts
And for how I should feel about them. I may have never known if you hadn’t noticed
The first time I was made aware of my growing chest, I was ten.
It was a hot summer day, the kind of dry desert heat that makes soft cotton clothing feel like sandpaper. I walked into my home, uniform sticking to my chubby body, right into a mom-group gossip session.
“Did you see? L’s daughter R has big, big breasts now?”
“Whaaaa..? Really? Already? She’s only twelve, no?
“Yeaaaa. L should tell her to wear a brassiere. It looks so bad, no?”
I dutifully removed my socks and shoes, took a bottle of cold water from the fridge, and almost made it to my room, when one of the aunties said —
“Oh Preeti, you’re also becoming big now! Look at your chest!”
And I did. I looked down but I didn’t get it.
While they giggled, ignored me, and continued to chatter among themselves, I stood there wondering what they were talking about. These little mounds? But D — my sister — has them too. So what?
Later that evening, my mother came to me with a half-embarrassed, half-desperate…
