Don’t Stare At My Boobs
The empowering tale of a girl with a huge rack
As a little girl, I looked plain.
Tiny eyes, black hair, thin lips, tummy roles, and so on, were features that were too common in my school to get attention. I blended in with the crowd and, if you ask me, that was a blessing — because it’s a curse to get unsolicited attention. I can attest to that because I got it.
I had small, round things protruding from my chest at an age where no other girl in my grade had — and it turned not only heads but also legs.
People call them breasts — I called them my shame.
They’re mighty monuments that refused to quiver under the tightness of my petticoat. They stuck out like two rising hills, proud of their lineage and eager to catch strangers’ eyes.
Back then, breasts were a taboo topic among children of my age, and therefore, were spoken only between confidants under the dim lights of school washrooms — or to tease.
“Look at that! That’s why we call you Gundi,” my friend mocked with eyes flickering between my red face and budding boobs. Gundi means fatty in Hindi.
Although I wasn’t immune to their teasing, I showed a strong front. What bothered me most was the realization that they noticed my shame, which meant…
