Amma’sin a rush, she doesn’t have time to toss together a salad. “Do it yourself,Minahil,” she instructs me sharply as she scurries quickly out of the door, onehand adjusting the chiffon dupatta slipping down her shoulder while the otherrummages around in her beige oversized bag for her car keys. “I’ve a full-timejob too, you know. I can’t fix all your meals all the time,” she barks inirritation. Items in her purse clack together loudly as she tosses them aroundcarelessly, fingers scrabbling. “You’re seventeen years old, for god’s sake,”she adds in admonishing tones, “it’s about time you start doing some more workaround the house.”
I’mhungry, and I’m disoriented, and deprivation of chicken, pasta, bread or anyform of dessert is causing me to feel infuriated and crabby. But I clamp mymouth shut, and don’t reply. Experience has taught me that the worst moment tocommunicate with Amma is this, right before she is departing for work. Amma isperpetually late, a habit instilled within her that she is unable to shatter.Her pay gets cut if she doesn’t make it to the pathology department of ExcelLabs on time, and so the lateness is fraying her nerves now, the pressure tomake it to work within the next few minutes burdening her. I can see sparks ofimpatience radiating from her eyes, a scowl etched across her forehead. Iretreat silently into the kitchen, teeth locked tightly together.
“Leavesome salad for me, I’ll be home by ten,” Amma shouts over her shoulder as shefinally locates her elusive keys and vanishes out the front door in a whirlwindof pale green and white chiffon. I pull open the fridge door roughly and obtaincarrots, cabbage, cauliflower, capsicum, broccoli and green chillies. Placing themon a cutting board, I grab a knife from the drawers, along with a bottle ofolive oil from the cupboard. The knife flashes suddenly and abruptly in thebright block of sunlight streaming in from the kitchen windows as I raise ithigh in the air and bring it down upon the cauliflower head. It slices cleanly,splitting apart into two. “Dieting sucks,” I mutter, as the knife dancesbriskly along the cutting board. I’m fairly good at cooking; I can producereasonably tasty dishes. But it’s the act of fixing them, the effort involvedin the process that I detest. Laziness is what dominates me. I finish choppingup all the vegetables, drizzle them hastily with olive oil, salt and pepper,tip them into a large bowl, and pop them in the microwave. The machine whirs upto life, and I sigh with relief. There. Done. Television is calling to me, andI hasten to oblige its summons.
* * *
Saulehawas fat, and she knew it. The mirror before her clearly presented theunavoidable reality. She turned this way and that, tossed her long brown hairaround, placed her hands on her hips as she scrutinized her reflection. Therewas no denying it. She, Sauleha Arif, was fat. That was the simple truth of thematter. Everywhere she looked, a bulge there, a roll of fat here met her unwillingeyes. She closed her eyes, prayed inwardly, opened them again. She was stillfat. She was fatter than her mother, for Christ’s sake – and her mother hadpushed out four kids! How shameful, to look worse than your fifty-year oldmother in a pair of jeans. Truly, therecan be nothing worse than that, she mused pensively. And then she felt thefamiliar prickle of tears well up behind her eyes, that burning sensation thathinted at the onslaught of a flood. This moment, right here, perfectlyencapsulated the simple truth behind why she despised thinking about herweight, acknowledging it. Doing so made her cry, uncontrollably.
Perhapsthe time had come to go on a diet. Her class mate Minahil had just begun a dieta few weeks ago, and Sauleha could see that it was working. Minahil’s waistlooked flatter; her double chin had reduced significantly. She wondered whetherto team up with Minahil, but that girl was living on vegetables only, andSauleha adored meat far too much to give it up. I can’t munch on greens every day like some kind of pathetic rabbit,she grumbled gloomily. Perhaps exercisecould be the key to my weight loss dreams, she murmured inwardly, and then snorted in disbelief and self-deprecating amusement; she despised all forms of exercise as well. Shedisliked the stickiness of perspiration, and any fast movements always made herdouble over, panting for breath. It drove home, even more vigorously, the realizationof how unwieldy and uncoordinated she was, drilled it even more firmly into herhead.
Hercell phone beeped from where it lay buried under the haphazard piles ofclothing strewn across her bed. With one last sweeping glance at the mirror,she swiveled around, groped for her phone. The brightly lit up screen displayeda new text from her friend Sameena. HotSpot, today at 4. Z came back from Karachi last night and is coming too. Youin?
Saulehapondered, her fingers momentarily frozen over the keyboard as her mind churnedbusily. Yeah, she typed out suddenly,coming to an abrupt, immediate decision. Seeyou there, babe.
Dietingcould wait, until she’d worked her motivation levels up further. For now, she’dturn her focus onto more important matters, like what to wear to Hot Spot thatwould highlight her generous bust without calling attention to the equallyample stomach underneath. And perhaps drape a cloth over the mirror in herbedroom as well. Ignorance is bliss, as they so rightly say.
* * *
Zarmeenatapped her fingers at the sticky tabletop of the booth she and Sameena weresitting in, her eyes roving over the numerous posters crowding the walls of HotSpot. Next to her, Sameena glanced at the pale brown wristwatch strapped acrossher wrist, and sighed. “Honestly, that girl is always late,” she moaned inirritation, and Zarmeena nodded her head in silent agreement. Sauleha reallyhad no concept of punctuality, being unfailingly, persistently late foreverything in all the six years Zarmeena had known her. But Zarmeena didn’t letthat rouse her anger anymore, unlike Sameena, who invariably got riled up overSauleha’s tardiness. Certain things in life were facts and you couldn’t changethem no matter how much you wanted to, and Zarmeena knew that perfectly well. Saulehawas who she was, would always be who she was, and Zarmeena’s sighs and groanswouldn’t effect anything.
Thewaitress shuffled over, pad in hand, and Sameena told them the usual. Thewaitress didn’t bother noting it down, simply nodded quickly in recognitionbefore disappearing. A sign of how oftenthey were here, thought Zarmeena, and shook her head ruefully. But Sameena and Sauleha both liked it here, and she was loath to tell her friendsthat she wanted to cut back on the calories. They’d both shout her downanyways, insisting on the adequacy of her weight. But they just didn’t get it,and Zarmeena knew, deep in her bones, that they never would. And attempting toexplain it to them would not only be futile, but simply unnecessary.
Thedoor pushed open as Sauleha raced through, her plump figure a whirl of pink asshe made a beeline towards them. She plopped down, flicked back her long, lightbrown hair, and smiled as she leaned forwards to hug them both. Zarmeenaexchanged the perfunctory hug, and then watched as her two best friends felleasily into conversation, chatting about the same, trivial matters. She leanedback and observed idly how low-cut and figure-hugging Sauleha’s top was, thepush up bra serving its purpose as it shoved her cleavage even further out ofthe neckline. Zarmeena fingered the modest neckline of her own loose-fittingtop and frowned. She wished intensely that she was as comfortably with her ownbody as her friend. Sauleha was overweight, but she had no qualms about it. Shenever tried to restrict her food, always eating cheerfully and without guilt,and never tried to hide her body underneath shapeless clothes. She walked witha confidence that Zarmeena was painfully aware she could never emulate.
“Whyso glum, chum?” joked Sauleha, and Zarmeena glanced up to see both of herfriends eying her with concern, having stalled their conversation to focus onher. She forced her lips into a smile, and tried to speak, but her throat feltlike it was coated in a thick layer of bile. Clearing it, she spoke again,offered jet lag from her flight last night as an excuse. She made more of aneffort to join the conversation, but her head was pounding and her stomach wascramping excruciatingly, and though she racked her brains desperately, shecouldn’t think of anything to contribute. The waitress arrived with a traybearing their customary three vanilla and chocolate nut sundaes and three tallglances of sweet orange juice, and Zarmeena leaned forwards to eat, nearlymoaning in relief as the sugar hit her bloodstream, decreasing her headachealmost at once.
Anhour of chit chat and ice-cream later, they finally looked at the time andmournfully concluded that it was time they set home. “Before the parents flipout,” Sameena sighed, shaking her head in disdain. Sauleha fished her cameraout of her bag, and looked for any random person to take their photographtogether, but nobody seemed to be around. Zarmeena quickly offered to do so;she didn’t like being photographed anyways. For some reason, she always cameout looking weirdly gaunt and rigidly, awkwardly tense in photographs, but she simply guessed thatattributed to a lack of being inherently photogenic.
Theyhugged, and the friends split up then, each heading for different parts of thecity. Zarmeena reached home fifteen minutes later, to see that her mother’s carwasn’t in the driveway. She lived with her mother, an only child, and thoughher mother worked long hours, it didn’t bother Zarmeena. She’d always been alover of solitude.
Pullingout the scale from under her bed, she stepped on it, biting her lip, clenchingher fingers in anxiety. The number blinked resolutely up at her, and shegasped, breath rushing out of her in a sharp, thick torrent. She closed hereyes. 40 kg. She’d gained almost an entire kilo since yesterday. Well, there’s nothing else for it, shethought grimly. Walking into her bathroom, she stuck two fingers down herthroat and threw up neatly, cleanly, with an efficiency that was the result ofmany months’ practice. She flushed when she was done, averting her eyes deliberatelyfrom the yellowy mix at the bottom of the toilet seat. Her limbs ached, and asshe reached for the wash basin counter to help herself propel herself uprightagain, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror opposite. Her cheekswere flushed red, her eyes overly bright, shining. She felt purged, blessedlyabsolved.
