I have been feeling very restless lately. I have stopped Salsa classes. I was to renew my classes last month, decided not to. I have had enough of Rocky and Ludhiana BTM. Enough. This mans that I get home an hour and a half earlier and watch two additional soaps. I love watching soaps. It is the best way to feel thankful about your own life. Look at Ichki in Uttaran or Suguna in Ballika Vadhu or Simi in 12/24 – they are fair and thin, but their lives suck. Mine sucks too, but at least nobody is switching brides in a mandap.

In this moment of clarity I can’t help but feel sad about how Bhagalpur Boy hasn’t tried to call me even once. While realistically I didn’t hope that he would, but I also wanted to be proven wrong. For once. And so, what do we do? More Rafi, of course. From the movie Dosti – Jaane Walloh Zara.

Anyway, the point is, beauty has always been an inspiration for Hindi films and drunk Urdu poets. One expects that. In fact, even as a behenji for life, I find myself being naturally drawn to good looking people. I will not lie. But, in what all aspects of life does the way you look matter? In marriages? Sure, it does. People want to ensure that the gene-pool is not messed with. I don’t like it, but I cannot change that. But, imagine your career becoming a victim of the way you look?

Let me clarify, I am not in the armed forces or a flight stewardess. I can imagine, being fat in those professions may not be good. I also don’t work as a lift-woman, where again being over-weight can prove to be a problem. I work in a telecom company. There is nothing fancy about my job. I don’t have to interact with customers, I don’t work in some swanky office in Gurgaon and I don’t stay up till late in office and order pizza on office expense.

My office is in an innocuous looking building in South Delhi, right next to a sanctuary. We do a lot of back-end processing work. I don’t call up people and put on a fake accent. I get in to office at 9:25 in the morning. A chartered bus drops me there. I sort my desk, fill my bottle of water and begin work by 9:30. I am shy and don’t have much to say to my colleagues. Plus, I don’t like them. So, I work till lunch. Eat lunch at my desk, out of the dabba that Ma gives me. After lunch, I feel sleepy and I waste time on the Internet. Around 5, my conscience wakes up and I work for another half an hour. At 5:30, I go to the ladies-room, comb my hair, re-apply my lip-stick and leave. If I miss the 5:45 chartered, I will need to take an auto, which will cost me eighty rupees. It is not much, but is a waste.

I am good at my work. My very seedy boss likes me and things are peaceful. Except that, the money is not enough. This year, the company decided that increments were not possible. I am not greedy, but I would like a thousand rupees more each month. At least, I will be able to get a global hair colouring done and cover the greys on my head. I have applied to many places and the only two skills that everyone seeks are – communication skills and a pleasing personality. I lose out on both counts. My Hindi is fine. In fact, it is very good. Even though, I am from UP, my Hindi is not like the villains in cinema. It is fine. My English is very average. Though, I speak and write better English than everyone else in my family, it is still average. Some years ago, in DU, a girl called me a Vernie. I was hurt then, but she is right.

The accent is still overlooked. The fat is hard to. Any personality that I have, is hidden behind layers of fat. And no, I am not the I-am-actually-thin-but-need-to-complain-about-my-fat person. I am five feet and one inch. And I weigh eighty-one kilos. I have moved from pleasantly plump to obese over a period of three years. It is apparently due to the levels of thyroxine in my body and several hormones. However, you can’t put any of that on your CV.

How do I know that prospective employers evaluate me on the way I look? I am not a mind-reader. They actually tell me. This is Delhi, being uncouth is our birth-right. Arrey behenji, thoda weight kam kijiye, one of them told me. We have uniforms in our office, we don’t have any of your size, another told me. Hum development sector mein hain, bahut saare foreigners aatein hain, jo bandiyaan thode theekh-thaakh lagein, wohi sahi lagte hain, said someone who works in an organisation that is working in the area of gender inequality. If I wasn’t as upset, the irony of the situation would have been amusing.

And it is not like I have chosen to be fat or anything. I have tried to lose weight. But, it is stubborn and refuses to leave me. A lot of people, which includes, pesky neighbours, strange relatives and random people on the road tell me, kuch to kijiye. Kya kahoon unko?

I need to find other ways to make that thousand rupees. Tuition classes, perhaps? I have been taught by several fat teachers.

On a more cheerful note, here is Rafi to our rescue yet again.

This Rafi-Lata duet from Do Raaste is yet another favourite. I must admit, I always found Rajesh Khanna to be somewhat wimpy. I mean, who can possibly like a Punjabi boy from Amritsar? Though, I did like Ishmeet Singh. But then, he is dead.. So, back to Do Raaste, I really like Mumtaz. She was neither a behenji nor a BTM. In fact, she managed to find that middle-path. I think it was to do with her buttocks-clinging kurtas, combined with her occasional desire to show off her belly button and her rather stern and alarmingly high hair-setting. She was also one of the great actresses if you were to shoot a rain song. She was such a relief after the likes of the insipid Asha Parekh and phenomenally ugly Mala Sinha.

I went straight to Rocky and asked him who my dance partner was going to be? He said that, he had to align body types and thinks I am too fat for Bhagalpur Boy. So, I am reunited with my original partner Mr Tight Jeans from South Delhi. Tight Jeans and I never got along well. For one, he is constantly scratching his crotch and adjusting his chaddi. Then, he bores us to death about how he lives in South Delhi and can’t imagine living Jamuna Paar. He fails to mention that he lives in one of those Moti-Bagh sub-let government houses. The ones with Indian styled squat toilets and shared with ten other people. But I mostly hate him because he calls me – Behenji. I am one, but I don’t like it when somebody calls me so as a racist insult.

I decided that Bhagalpur Boy needed to be given a chance and I should not jump to conclusions so quickly. After class, I went to him and as I was walking towards him, he said, arrey dekh, Moti aa gayi.

It must be said that Behenji is far more acceptable than moti. Bloody Biharis.

As Rafi once sang beautifully, in a song that was picturised on a UPite and was about the assholeness of a Bihari – Mere Dost Yeh Kya Ho Gaya…

As a child, I had always wanted dimples. Didi had one and everyone found her gorgeous. When I was seven I realised that if I smiled in a very strange way a dimple appeared. It was a complicated method, I had to pretend that my mouth was filled with water and smile and swallow the make-believe water at the same time. And sure enough, a hint of a dimple appeared on my right cheek. I used to stand in front of the mirror and practice. Dadi caught me once and thought I was mocking her. Baba came home and caned me. My plans to be a dimpled beauty were abandoned.

Now, I have accumulated so much of fat, no holes can be made to appear on my face. Instead, I get all the Sharmila Tagore movies on Moserbear and marvel at her dimples and ‘nazook labon’.

I love this song. Even if I remain somewhat baffled by this line – nainon ne sapanon kee mehfil sajaayee hain, tum bhee zaroor aanaa. But hell, it has the beautiful Rafi anyway.

The dance classes have regressed beyond all imagination. Rocky is probably a porn-star and looks at all of us as potential co-stars. There is one new Behenji turned Mem in class. And it breaks my heart to say this, she gets all the attention now. She is the new Babeh. Plus, she is from Ludhiana, that qualifies her as automatically hot. Until she opens her mouth, that is.

I have befriended a boy in class. He is from Bhagalpur. It is not Lucknow, but that is alright. He told me that Ashok, Kishore and Anoop Kumar are from Bhagalpur. This got us discussing about a Lata (also, Rafi providing some support) + Ashok Kumar song – Rahen Na Rahen Hum. Plus, Bhagalpur Boy didn’t get into an argument about Kishore versus Rafi. Thank god. I like him. Maybe.

The only notable progress has been that I have started Salsa classes, my salwar-kameez and fat have proven to be the least of my problems. Salsa is tough and every time I lift my legs, I know how Sridevi felt in Himmatwalla. Thundering thighs are truly thundering. My instructor cum partner looks like one of those guys who got rejected in the first round of Rakhi Ka Swayamvar. Though, as a behenji, I don’t mock people like Rakhi Sawant. Let’s call this instructor – Rocky. Rocky is uber cool – spiked hair and fake Tees from Janpath. He calls me – Babeh. I am not sure if it is meant in a Punjabi way or a Jor Bagh kind of way. Still, it is wonderful being a ‘babeh’.

Went to this weight-loss clinic near house. They used this vacuum cleaner to suck the fat. Except for farting noises nothing was generated. Papa has been after them about the money-back promise they made.

We have new tenants who have moved into the first-floor. One journalist couple, who are pretty, thin and annoying. If I were twenty kilos lighter, I would have their life. Bloody yuppies. And I would also listen to Pakistani bands instead of Rafi. Wait? Why would I give up Rafi for anything? Maaf kar dijiye, mere khuda. Forgive my moment of weakness.

I will henceforth, update this space regularly and update you on my Salsa and other aspects of behenji life.

On that note, a lovely Rafi duet. Abhi Na Jao Chodkar, Ke Dil Abhi Bhara Nahin. Waah. The beautiful Dev Anand and even more beautiful Sadhana. Sigh. When I grow up and become thinner, I want to be Sadhana. Behenji, but hot.

I hope that, someday we can have an Indian Michael Phelps. Till then, stop drawing American parallels.

Song of the day: Kabhi khud pe, kabhi haalat pe rona aaya

My heart broke. But I came home and repaired it pronto with this.