Big Boobs

Yesterday, I shaved my head. It was a liberation of sorts. A way of saying the hippies are back. My manner of making a fashion statement. It was, in all honesty, a desperate attempt at ensuring that incidents like the one at Race Course would not be repeated, at least not with me.

I haven’t, correction I didn’t have long hair but what I had was nice and soft and would smell nice after a shampoo. Days when I felt ugly and fat, I would release my hair from the braid I religiously kept it in and allow the curly strands to fall below my shoulders. Somehow, this always made me feel better. Nowadays when I feel sad, I stay far away from all mirrors.

Race Course was as crowded as it usually is and the crowd just served to worsen my mood. I had woken up with the feeling that today would be the day I’d finally be able to write a masterpiece. But I’d barely managed to finish my morning coffee when my sister descended on me with her children; she needed a baby – sitter and was I available. A firm No was on the tip of my tongue but somehow the tip of my tongue never made the desired connection with my brain and a faint Yes was what came out instead. With Ahmed who insisted on scratching his mosquito bite till it bled him to death and Fatima who wanted nothing better than to be left alone while she picked her nose and my bitch who ever since she had become pregnant commanded full possession of my lap, I could feel my masterpiece slipping away. So, when my mom suggested Race Course, I grudgingly agreed.

Dressed in my oldest shalwar kameez, which has a hole near the slits and doing further damage by plonking on my ainak, I walked into the park.

“Stop picking your nose Fatima,” I declared for the umpteenth time.

“Why?”

“Because people are watching.”

“So,” and rendering me speechless with this monosyllable, she continued her exploration.

They started with a little Frisbee. My bitch joined them and I settled on a bench with Vikram Seth for company. Not very good company but a relief nevertheless.

Two minutes of Frisbee and they were thirsty – naturally.

Off we trudged to the canteen.

I got in line behind an Auntie whose immaculately done up nails made me feel shoddier than ever. I sighed; the day could hardly become any worse. The person at the front got his Coke. The line shuffled forward. A strange smell made its way into my olfactory organs. I sniffed; yuk, it smelt of sweat that had been accumulating for at least a week. I moved closer to the auntie. A whiff of her perfume greeted me – better much better.

A minute later, the same bad smell surrounded me and this time it was a lot powerful than before. I pinched up my nostrils and moved even closer to the auntie; so close that I could count the bleached hairs by the side of her face. The smell slightly faded.



Another person received his samosas and the line took another step forward. This time the smell nearly knocked me down – it wasn’t just plain sweat now, it was mixed with caked sebum and evaporated urine.

And then before I could shuffle closer to the auntie, something brushed against my breasts. I drew in a sharp gasp – it had been the slightest of all brushes so it may have been a mistake. But no, it came again – and this time it was more of a brush, it was a definite stroke followed by a slight squeeze.

I was paralyzed. I knew I was supposed to scream. I knew I was supposed to slap the man behind me but I just couldn’t move.

My turn came up. In a voice that seemed alien to me, I asked for two Pepsis. As I stepped out of line, I caught sight of the offender. He was a mere boy – probably even a couple of years younger to me. His hair was slightly messed up and on his smudged face he wore an expression as cherubic as Ahmed’s.

How could a boy this young harbour such distasteful thoughts, I wondered, feeling the acid churn in my stomach. As I stood there looking at him, he suddenly met my gaze. We stared at each other for maybe a few seconds but then, I averted my gaze.

I was far too ashamed of my self to be able to look at him any longer.

Hustling Ahmed, Fatima and the bitch, I hurried home.

Later that night as I stood in front of my bathroom mirror, I observed my breasts. They looked just the same but then what had I expected. Though this may sound crazy to you, I had half thought I’d see scorch marks on them or at least spot some difference – some proof relating to the day’s incident but they looked just the same; a little bigger than I liked but the same.

For years, my friends have been teasing me about the size of my breasts. Most just say they wished they had my curves but there are those who look me over with pity for according to them I’d never be able to wear strappies or fitted shirts and the fact that I am least interested in wearing strappies never seems to satisfy them. Pity me they must.

I never really let this get to me. My breasts had never mattered to me more than any other body part but that day I felt disgusted. Disgusted by my 36 inch breasts. Disgusted by our society that produces such frustration. Disgusted by my self for not confronting the boy there and then.

And why did I not confront the boy? It had very little to do with me not having the guts for it. It had more to do with me feeling ashamed, ashamed of having big breasts.

Feminists would tend to shake their heads at this but then I’ve never seen a feminist with big breasts.

That day when I went to my hair – dresser and had my head shaved off, I did wonder why I was doing this. One reason was that I could hardly have my breasts removed; I could of course go to a surgeon but that was messier and bloodier than what I was ready for. Another reason was that I felt I didn’t deserve my hair (and yes I can see Feminists going tsk tsk at this one too).

But the main reason was that I figured with a bald head I’d be less attractive to men. Pitiable but true.

Acknowledgments: Prviously published in Visage.