Manu is so South Indian to our astounded Delhite eyes that he remains our south Indian friend for the next six months. he is alright with this moniker, though his forehead wrinkles a little when sunainaa tells him to use fair and lovely. a few weeks later i can see (amongst the contents of his unpacked bag after a trip home) garnier fairness for men cream. he loses weight rapidly. the first time i met him, we were walking next to each other on the road, and he turned to me and said – i want a six pack by the end of the year. i laughed along, but then he started losing weight and didn’t stop. by january he has lost sixteen kilos and now weighs less than sunainaa. the gym instructor tells him he is underweight, a fact he repeats till we are all sickened by the sight of his underweight grin.
we are all girls in varying states of plumpness. kritika has a round tummy she will cover up with flowing tops. her angular face and lanky legs do not cheer. mum said – some people just stay this weight…they can NEVER lose more weight! for one second i am sure she’s going to cry, but then she laughs. she was trying to be comforting. then she said, kritika, you will NEVER look this good again! at that point we both burst into laughter, conscious of our inadequate bodies, the irony that these right here are the good old days. then we light up and exhale our worries under the guise of smoke.
sunainaa’s wide green eyes are permanently happy. she looks like a rolypoly puppy. she used to be overweight – pictures of sunainaa in her school uniform on facebook reveal a plump girl with shiny round cheeks – but then shed it all in a flurry of gymming. she became hawt – thin and beautiful, boys drooled and girls hated. it wasn’t a good time for her. she shares everything and is empathetic of people who make the same mistakes she’s already made. this is my problem area! – she declares, holding onto the sides of her stomach like the ears of a disobedient child. so sunainaa has muffin tops, kritika has a paunch – i am the only one in the group who is, ladies and gentlemen, blessed democratically with fat everywhere. the boobs are too big, the stomach pops out in tires when i sit and hunch, the face is round like a baby. i stew in irritation as these thinner girls complain about their minor problems, but can never seem to heap up enough discipline to set forth on my own diet longer than a couple of weeks. i give up soon- each tomorrow is another day, another diet to start at breakfast and end at the tipping point of five pm – lunch was hours ago and dinner is hours away, time to pull open a silver wrapper, pick up the phone for americana, pour boiling water into the cup of noodles. but more on that later.
ok. kritika and i sit facing eachother, serious warriors armed with rhetorical questions designed to gauge your very moral fiber. we have just seen the italian job, realised mark wahlberg is devastatingly attractive, and now must wrestle with the morality of both of us wanting to fuck mark wahlberg. god appears before you. i say, hands poised at knees in a pose of meditation. he says – here is mark wahlberg. either you can have him or apoorva can. what. do you. do. i give him to you obviously! kritika cries out. LIES! i screech. what you wouldn’t give him to me? she says. of course not. you have pawan, i have NO ONE.
okay i have another one. i MARRY mark wahlberg -
- why didn’t i marry him?
you married pawan.
oh.
yeah. so then i meet him, we fall in love, marry have kids, etcetera, but then i DIE.
kritika bursts out laughing.
this is not meant to be a funny story. anyway, i die so – DO YOU sleep with mark wahlberg?
yes – she says without blinking. but nothing emotional, just physical i swear.
you WHORE.
can’t you see it. you’re dead – she giggles, eyes glittering. he’s comforting me, then i start crying, so he puts his arm around my shoulder, one thing leads to another and-
you WHORRRRE.
kritika finds a phrase on urban dictionary that sums up her personality – midday depression. for in the middle of any given day, she teeters at the edges of happiness and falls backwards into a vat of sadness so great that she stays submerged for hours, arms suspended, eyes open, making no effort to burst out. she will lie on the bed, a question mark with a tangle of jet black hair on one end, motionless and eyes glued willfully shut. that is unless the phone bursts into song – this will surely be pawan – then she will sacrifice herself, take off the jacket of sad, talk to him, and everything will be all right till the next time.
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