
Author’s Note : This is the ninth installment in my 100 days, 100 blogs challenge. You can read the previous installment here.
Before Medium happened,there was a minuscule blog in the internet jungle called Choti Mata Blogs Here! My tiny corner in the webspace. It got approximately 3 and half visitors every month and about half a post every 8 months. In the larger scheme of things, that blog didn’t matter. In the smaller scheme of things, it still didn’t matter. In the smallest scheme of things, it didn’t…well, you get my drift.
Obviously, I am a narcissistic egoist who really really wants to talk about my blog. But that is not the only reason why I have chosen to start my story with this random opening. And the reason is in the name.
Choti Mata.
It was one of those pointless sobriquets that get thrown at you while you are at college and have miserably low standards of hilarity. So, I was Choti Mata — that roughly translates to Little Mother in Hindi. The operative word being ‘little’. (It was only much later that I realized that Choti Mata also means Small Pox in Hindi. It is a fact that I have pointedly chosen to ignore and have refused to analyze the implication of)
I am little. Tiny. Petite. Short.
I can give you a predictably poignant line here about the matrimonial advertisements in India and how much they dislike the idea of short brides, triggering multiple body image issues and complexes in women who are unable to match their exacting standards.
I will not do it. I will instead tell you something else about petite people. Something much more poignant. Something, that I am pretty sure, will tear you up.
Do you have any idea how much time does an average height-ed person spends Googling the heights of famous people?
Yeah. Me neither. But I am pretty sure it is very close to zero.
Do you know how much time a short person spends Googling the heights of famous people?
No. You really don’t want to know.
‘She looks tiny next to Ashton Kutcher. She must be my size….Oh God! 5’5”. What is she? A skyscraper!’
It is funny how looking up to someone takes a whole new meaning for you. What is not funny is how it murders your best fantasies. Especially, if your fantasies feature anyone taller than Tom Cruise.
No Benedict Cumberbatch for you. No Chris Hemsworth. Not even Brad Pitt.
Trust me, it does not matter how adept your imagination is, you cannot hold a conversation with someone’s knee and tell them they are hot. Not even in a fantasy.
It is terrible. I have been actively considering the idea of giving up all Hollywood movies and TV series. There is only so much disappointment a girl can take!
My height woes, however, predate my fantasies by over a decade. It all began innocuously enough, around the time my family figured that pumping me with fabled ‘height increasing’ medicines was actually doing no good. The armory that had been employed to achieve what was then a family ambition was fairly impressive and nearly intimidating. The agents of coveted inches were awe-inspiring to say the least — allopaths, homeopaths, naturopaths, voodoo practitioners, not to mention a couple of other suitably suspect, not so mainstream disciplines.
The end-result, despite such sincere efforts was massively disappointing. The promised inches were never delivered and my vertical dimensions never moved up into a respectable slot.
Come to think of it, maybe we took it all the wrong way. Maybe the result was not that disappointing. Given how effective all my height meds claimed to be, I presume I was on my way to the midget book of records before they came to my rescue.
I think I should be grateful.
Efficacy of my height regimen aside, once I came to terms with my height (or the lack of it), in true survivor spirit, I decided to deal with it in the most resilient possible manner. I went to a shoe-store and bought a pile of most hideous looking platforms.
Don’t judge me. At that point of time, aesthetics were not the priority. Kinetics were.
I really wanted to buy the pretty ones. But then I figured they would be of no use if I were to spend the majority of my walking time sprawled flat on the floor. Hence, I settled for the ugly ones. At least I could walk. Generous instances of awkward tripping and stumbling aside. But so long as my chin was not brushing the floor all the time, I was fine.
It was the period in my life when I was obsessed with the idea of five. And this obsession had a touching back story. In true law school traditions, someone there figured that 4'11" was not insulting enough. And so, I had to have a height of ‘paune paanch feet’ (translation — quarter to five feet). That one simple master stroke elevated ‘paanch’ or ‘five’ to the position of the most desirable goal in my life — at one point of time, even more than a paying job!
The five zeroes in my initial paycheck did vindicate my obsession to some extent (which I threw away eventually — but more on that later) and it slowly wore off.
The obsession was short lived. The jokes were not. But there was something even worse than the jokes. It was the patronizing sympathy that seemed to follow me everywhere.
“You know…great things come in small packages. Look at Sachin Tendulkar!”
These were the instances when I really wanted look at these people and tell them, “Guys! You are so not helping!”
It was a giant load of expectations on my short shoulders because I was short. It was the kind of irony that almost nobody seemed to notice.
Of course I wanted to be great. But not because I was short. It would have been overcompensating. And no good ever comes out of it. Unfortunately, I seemed to be the only one who understood this extremely important fact of life.
It was perhaps a result of my upbringing that despite all this, my height never really transformed into a full blown self-esteem issue. Or an issue at all. In my family, if there is an obstacle, you fight it. Considering yourself a victim, no matter how insurmountable the circumstances, is never an option.
Yes, I was short. And yes, it was never an issue. But it was a battle. And like every battle, strategy was the key. Mine was a two pronged plan — humor and bad memory.
I learnt to laugh at my height (or the lack of it). And I learnt to completely forget the fact that I am short.
It was and continues to remain a battle plan that Genghis Khan would be proud of.
And yet, despite the strategies and preparations, there comes a time in every battle when you are caught off guard.
For me, it was around the time when I and almost everyone around me at the law school had become immune to the non existence of my height. There were occasional jokes but they were predictable and predictably cringe worthy. Besides, it was adorable how these people still thought they were cracking a joke that I had never heard before.
It was probably because expected had become a norm and my defenses were at an all time low, that this particular story became…well…a story.
It was an International Mock Court Competition. I was one of the speakers from my team. We had reached the semi-finals. The team we were pitted against had two female speakers. Both absolutely gorgeous. And tall.
Very tall.
I know we live in politically correct times. And perhaps, what I am going to say next may not sound to be in sync with the times. But the fact is, these politically correct times are also very shallow. Impressions do hold a lot of water. Impressions that are often formed based on your looks. And harsh as it may sound, sometimes being attractive plays out as a huge advantage. It is not a universal truth of life…but it is a truth all of us have to face at some point of time or the other.
My competitors were ravishing. And even though we were supposed to compete and win based on our oratory skills, our judges after all were humans. I knew this. But like all other times in my life, I promptly forgot about it and decided to focus on my rounds.
It was during the lunch right before the semifinals. One of the guys from the other set of semifinalists — the one we were not competing against, approached us and started making small talk. This particular person had made a lot of effort to ensure that he was perceived cool. A tattoo here, a ring there…and a goatee that should have gone out of fashion in 2003, but unfortunately was still trending in 2008.
He was a dude. He talked like a dude. He had a name that I have suitably forgotten. So, I will refer to him as Mr. Goatman. I am not sure if the goats all over this country are ever going to forgive me for this transgression.
“You are up against that team”, Mr. Goatman exclaimed, bobbing his head animatedly. My teammate nodded ruefully.
“I pity you guys.”, Mr. Goatman mock sympathized, “ They are brilliant. Besides, have you seen those girls? No wonder they are the favorites.”
My teammate, the other speaker and also a guy, agreed vehemently. “Yes”, he said, “the judges are always biased towards girls. And these have this whole…you know…added advantage”
Mr. Goatman bobbed his head even more animatedly. It was at this exact moment that his gaze flicked towards me.
“But you too have a girl on your team”, he said thoughtfully…and then he seemed to size me up, “a little invisible. But well…”
Offended was suddenly the understatement of the century. It was like a punch in my gut. I gaped at Mr. Goatman in utter shock, unable to even come up with a response that could remind him of at least his manners.
The worst part was that it wasn’t even meant to be an insult. From his perspective, it was a statement of fact. The kind of judgment that has long been normalized in our society. I am pretty sure Mr. Goatman thought he was being truly sensitive.
I spent the next fifteen minutes of my life thinking of a billion biting responses that I could have summoned at the right moment but didn’t. Because our wits takes a leave of absence at the exact moment they are needed the most. Every single time.
But because this my story, I am obviously going to end up being the hero. In this instance, I don’t even have to cook up the facts.
We won the semi-finals. And the finals. I was adjudged the Best Speaker of the competition. I am sure Mr. Goatman was there somewhere in the crowd that was applauding my win.
I did not see him.
If this were not real life, I would have marched right up to Mr. Goatman and said some cool sounding stuff like, “There is your lesson, jackass and then perhaps proceeded to yank his goatee right off his face.
Real life unfortunately is a lot more subtle and underplayed. I never saw Mr. Goatman again. Over the years, I have figured that it wasn’t really his fault. He, probably, just couldn’t help it.
My take away from my height woes and my experiences with Mr. Goatman and his ilk are simple but profound. No matter what you do, who you are and where you belong to, you are bound to be judged. Too short, too tall, too black, too fat or too thin. There is always something. There is no escaping it. And there are ultimately just two words that are your shortest route to a healthy self esteem and great confidence, not to mention a healthy, happy life.
Stop Caring!
I did, anyway.
The much loved A Sufi Celebration of Life is now available as a swanky ebook. Grab a Kindle version here! My latest short story If The Trees Could Walk is now available on Juggernaut. Go check it out! And don’t forget to review, rate and share! Also, if 140 character fiction is your thing, follow me on Twitter and check out my #Tiniatures!
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