Taking a jab at fat

Why are fat people either obnoxious or immediately likable? I am not referring to hating or liking the physical mass obviously, but of the person that is hidden somewhere within those folds of lard. And this bipolar view of those with an unfair share of avoirdupois (unfair because there still exist the starving Africans) is based almost entirely on such people I know, as also some consultations with a couple of close friends (who based their input on the 'fatties' they know) who do not mind discussing such a topic without already assuming politically correct stances.

So this is the theory. Maybe it is already propounded by shrinks and the like, but none were consulted before arriving at this conclusion.

Most fat people have always been fat. They never lost the so-called baby fat, and only accumulated additional layers as they went along life, much like people accumulate memories. And consequently, they were always the target for pranks, butt of jokes and the "It" in every game they played with their friends. These friends, being children and thankfully still in their true elements, lost no opportunity to remind the fat kid about the fat, even though it was perhaps in all innocence. I, for one, do not remember ever omitting the mention of fat to a fat kid when making fun of him (I say 'him' purely because most of these memories have to do with the time when I was in an all boys' school, the exercise I am sure would be a lot more fun with a girl), no matter what the context was.

The point is that most fat people have always been fat (except perhaps those who suddenly grew some hormonal imbalance, the only sort of fat people for who I have any sympathy). And society being what it is, shaped by the worship of images of toned shapely bodies everywhere one looks, continues that innocent non-malicious childish teasing in to adoloscence. The bucket of lard really gets it then, with the fat usually becoming the defining characteristic of the kid. If the kid becomes big (not just sideways), he can probably bully his way to avoid being bullied. And look! the first seeds of a life-long existence of an inferiority complex hidden by aggression has already become a strong green sapling. If you cannot fit in with the rest, lord over them; a logic very difficult to argue against.

The other reaction is that of trying really hard to fit in, usually by doing the hard-work required to make other aspects of the personality show even through the thick opaque folds of flab. And this variety usually stops caring about their own fat sooner or later, taking it for granted. Once they have done that, others seem to follow suit rather quickly, discovering in the person other wonderful traits which makes her or him immensely likable (and not because they are "cute"). And of course, this is the better kind of fat people, not merely for being likable but also for having come up with a better solution for their problem despite being lazy enough to not get rid of it entirely.

Another distinction I noticed between the two varieties of fat. The obnoxious sort are only too eager to get their pictures clicked, for instance. They are hungry for fame in whatever cheap ways it comes their way, a manifestation perhaps of their hunger for love, which they seem to also often slurp up in whatever falicious forms it makes its way to them. It is perhaps an understanable reaction to being 'disliked' all your life. The likable fat people, on the other hand, don't give a toss about fame or love (no more than the average thin Joe). They seem to have reacted in an equally understanble way to all the years of teasing - by totally rising above the need for such affection and recognition.

That too...

Why won't you smile with me? - Because you are too sad. Why won't you marry me? - Because you are too late. Why won't you love me? - Because you are too good. Why won't you fuck me? - Because your dick is too big. Why won't you kill me? - Because you are too alive. Why won't you give me a job? - Because you are too cerebral.

While the first few may be exaggerations or stretched truths or simply fabrications, the last one is just the latest episode in my saga of job hunting. Yes, that is precisely what I was told as I was turned down for a job with the BBC World Service Trust. That I was too cerebral, and hence overqualified for the task at hand. Some world we live in, eh?

Since when did having a functioning brain begin to get in the way of getting a job? Should that not be a prerequisite instead of being an obstacle? Should it not improve one's chances instead of obliterating them? But then again, real life has a way of dispensing with logic and screwing up the best laid plans.

I am tempted to lower my own standards but that would be too bad. I am tempted to give up and stop trying but that would be too dangerous. I am tempted to once again take up something that I just won't enjoy doing but that would be too fucked up. And I am thinking all these thoughts because frankly, this entire streak of "bad luck" is getting too tiring.

I have been advised that it might really help my cause if I began believing, since this is all apparently His way of bringing me around to His flock. Now that is simply too much.

Loving animals

I had an interview last week for a job with an organisation that calls itself Circle of Animal Lovers. The opening was for a content writer's post who would also handle their media relations and PR activities. When I reached the 'office', I found it to be rather... ummm... nondescript. It was housed in well, a house, in a small DDA flat in Saket with merely a half-torn, half-faded sticker the size of an infant's hand, on top of the door proclaiming its existence there. Anyway, after reconsidering whether I should ring the bell at all, I figured I might as well go through the interview since I was already at the venue. Of course, there was no bell to be found. So I called, and was told that someone will shortly let me in. After a few minutes, a door on my side slid open up, revealing a man in his 50's who looked like his work in an office could not involve anything more than letting people in and out, or maybe making the occasional cup of tea.

Anyway, I step inside, to be greeted by 7 mangy street dogs who seemed excited to the point of being frenzied. They jumped around me, put their paws all over my clothes, I thought one of the many unclipped nails would scratch me through my shirt while also making a hole in it. The old man, at this point, grabbed a broom and used it lavishly on the prancing animals. Some love, eh? And oh, as for animals, I could spot none other than dogs. There was also a tailor labouring away at a sewing machine in the middle of it all. Anyhow, before these facts could do anything more than merely register themselves in my mind, another door was slid open and I was shuffled inside.

Inside the room, which was as big as my bathroom and smelled entirely of dog fart, was a woman and three more dogs; four computers, of which one didn't work; three chairs and a narrow uneven settee on which I was sternly asked by the old man to seat myself and wait for "madam". A couple of minutes later, yet another door slides open and in comes "madam", a fat Bengali lady in her 50's too, maybe late 40's. In what seemed to be a miracle, she managed after some effort to fit herself cross-legged on that very same narrow settee. But the miracle turned out to be an illusion as she also slipped off at least thrice during our 20-minute conversation. Every now and then, she would look through the door she had come through (which for some reason was not slid shut again), and would call out to 'Motu', another dog, and ask him to shut up, or ask someone else to shut him up.

I spent those 20 minutes there out of sheer niceness and politisse as I had pretty much decided after listening to her for less than 2 minutes that I did not want to be there ever again. Anyway, if nothing else, it provided some sort of comic relief, you know, her thick accent and the general monologue that she spewed out. She began with telling me about the organisation. Basically, they cook food for 200 dogs daily and distribute it through their 5 centres. The fifth centre is in Haryana where they don't cook, neither does that centre get supplies from this main office, so I wonder what exactly it is that centre does. I couldn't be bothered to ask though.

Then she told me how they rely on public donations for the most part, and hence needed to communicate with the public effectively. Then she told me how her husband had a heart attack while he was talking to someone in Calcutta 2, no, 3 weeks ago (the confusion was her own, not mine). The husband's death was to take her to Calcutta, then back to Delhi and then to Simla, and so she didn't have time to write herself. She would merely tell her ideas to the writer who would then do the needful. Then she asked me all the designing experience I had, when my CV mentions nothing about designing except a working knowledge of Photoshop and HTML. Blah blah blah.

To cut a long story short, she told me towards the end of it all that she would be happy to have me if they could meet my financial expectations. I really didn't want to cause another heart attack in the family, so I did not say what I expected, and instead asked her to give me an idea of what they would offer. In response, she told me the salaries of every employee in the organisation, which apart for vets, included all of 3 full time employees. After ignoring all this needless information, I again asked her to give me an idea, this time, specifically for my job role. She took a long look at my CV, and then said the following words (accented to present a more accurate picture), "Shee, loooking at yore a-ducation and a-xperience, I theenk you would a-xpect about fourteen thoushend. But shinsh I don't know you yait, I would shuggesht you shtart with tain."

Good thing I had kept my gob shut earlier. So anyway, I told her I will think about it and let her know. Just about this time, Motu had made his way in to the room we were sitting in, and was looking at me and barking. I reached out my hand to pet him, which he immediately lunged at to bite it. Good thing I have decent reflexes too, else... That is when I was also informed that Motu was the dead husband's pet and didn't like anyone but the now dead man touching him. Wow.

Anyway, I figured I had wasted enough time and money by merely turning up for the interview, and I do not have it in my poor wallet and large heart to waste another phone call for turning her down. And this job hunt keeps on getting more interesting.

The boy who cried revenge

"Revenge is a dish best served cold" are the words that kick off Kill Bill. And as you watch Uma Thurman hack and slash her way through her past to avenge the wrong done to her, you perhaps agree with the purported ancient Klingon saying (the saying actually goes back to at least the 18th century and was perhaps Afghan in origin). Anyway, I had written a poem some years back which had a line "the smell of revenge, sweet, ain't it sweet". So I suppose one could say I agree with the Afghan-Klingon saying too.

There are also the arguments about how revenge is not a good thing, about how it hurts the avenger too. I have never put much faith in this side of the picture, except when it comes to a few specific people. These few, I really would rather not get vindictive with, because well, I know how totally shit it will make me feel like if I did indeed manage to cause them hurt, distress or any of the other things that vengeance is supposed to cause.

So then, how am I supposed to react to something that I did not do when that something smells like it must have been me out seeking revenge? It is a bit like some mystery movie where someone commits the perfect crime and someone else gets caught and the someone else can't prove his innocence only because very strong motives can be ascribed to him. Much as I may savour the taste and smell of revenge, I refrain. And then, I get blamed for doing the exact things I pointedly did not do. And then, despite not doing anything vengeful, I still have to live with the taste of shit in my mouth which accompanies hurting one of those precious few.

So I often beat my chest in the past, talking about the wonders of vengeance. Now, it seems my words have overtaken my actions and it's perhaps time to stop beating the chest and making loud proclamations. One never knows where and how one will get persecuted for one's beliefs without even having any thought police.