Pretty

I told him that I wish I was pretty, he told me he was not in this for my looks, he liked me for the person I am. It was the best compliment ever but I couldn’t stop feeling bad. Guess all I wanted him to say was “No, my love. You’re very pretty.”

-A diary entry from a year ago

In 12^th standard I told my mother about a piece I had read online titled 5 Signs You’re Not Pretty. My heart bled as I explained that I had experienced all these signs in my day to day living, and henceforth I was not pretty. She said something along how looks don’t matter (a smart response) but I was deafened by the screaming inside my heart that said TELL ME I’M PRETTY!!!

Five years hence, I’m still running away from my skin. Still constantly shamed by people who tell me not to worry about things as trivial as physical appearance, still constantly reminded by every inch of space around me that I’m supposed to look pretty. I dislike the fatness of my nose, the shortness of my structure, the plumpness of my hands, the crookedness of my teeth, and fastness of my body hair growth. I hate it. I hate it so much that if a genie would grant me any one wish, I would probably ask for the perfect body. Such a strong feeling from deep inside that prettiness can solve everything, and yet all the prettiest actresses I have seen keep going for cosmetic surgeries themselves. So who is the prettiest of us all?

Today I read an article that so clearly points out the problem that I’m surprised at not having noticed it before- that we talk to girls mostly in terms of their appearance. That’s the first compliment we give to them. I do it too. Once I watched an excellent film by Nandita Das called Between the Lines which brilliantly depicts the gender dynamics in today’s society; you know what are the first words that come out of my mouth while talking to a friend about it? Nandita Das is so pretty! In that one moment I dismissed all her acting, directing, and script-writing skills to the structure of her face and body. Slow claps for myself.

And then there’s me, once a girl so terrified of her upper-lip hair that I would refuse to get out of the house without visiting the parlor. There is another me that walked around with full body hair-growth and didn’t give a damn. There is a me that refuses to get eyebrows done, but a me that wants a liposuction so badly. There is also a tiny me trying to love the skin she’s in.

But they say look pretty if you want to get married, it might even help you get a job, all the women in the magazines and the movies are pretty, do this to look pretty, do that to look pretty, look pretty when you party, look pretty when you poop, pretty, pretty, pretty.

So what’s the plan then? I will reclaim my body today. Today I’ve decided to pause my body hair removal till it shifts from being a mere obligation to a conscious choice. I got myself waxed for the first time in eighth standard and from then on it’s just been happening. I can’t stop, I hate my own hair. But why? Because it looks dirty? But then why does it look alright on a guy? I need answers before I unpause. Who knows, I might end up like this (I sure hope I do).

One last thought- I know when you’re done reading this you’ll want to run to my facebook profile and see what I look like. You’ll want to tell me (and yourself) that there’s nothing wrong with my appearance. But I request you to hold back that thought and instead read my poems.

"no one ever taught me how to apologize to my own body. how do i make amends with someone i spent half my lifetime trying to break?” —marina v., how do you forgive and forget with yourself?

That’s all, folks!