Year of the Chick (2 page)

I quietly shuddered.

I continued along the corridor, its walls sparsely covered with professional family photos, which marked my parents’ better days and their offspring’s awkward youth. The closer I got to the family room and the kitchen, the louder and louder the squeaky-voiced singing became.

Here we go
.

It was my dad’s favourite channel: All Bollywood, all the time. I could still remember the days when my dad would insist we watch every Bollywood movie ever made. I had tried my very best to develop an interest, but three-hour films complete with cheesy songs and even cheesier fights were simply too much to handle.

“Are you here?” my mother asked from somewhere in the kitchen.

I answered “yes” in the typical robot way as she continued on.

“Bring me all the dishes!”

I quickly turned back to retrieve the crate of dishes which were sitting by the door. When I finally made it to the kitchen, my eyes travelled straight to my father, who was lounging in the nearby family room. He seemed engrossed by the Bollywood singer on the screen, who was skipping around joyously in the fields of wheat. Wearing his typical beige-coloured “dad pajamas,” his socks were on the floor in a pile, and his curly hair looked tattered. It seemed like it was time for him to get another perm, like he’d been doing twice a year since before I was born.

Though my father’s perms were all I’d known of him in person, the black and white pictures on the mantle told a different story. These ancient shots showed my dad and his older brother, right before they came to Canada. In the pictures they were sporting turbans and beards, since proper Sikhs are never even supposed to cut their hair. Then again, it’s not like their beards were hanging right down to their bellies in the photo, like Gandalf from “Lord of the Rings.” That style was left to the orthodox Sikhs, whereas my dad and his brother looked more business-like in this photo, suits and ties complete with freshly-trimmed beards.

Next to those pictures was a different set of black-and-whites. In these the two had clean-shaven faces, complete with their own versions of Elvis Presley hair (as in the Elvis before the weight gain and glittery jumpsuits). My dad had always said that turbans didn’t fly in nineteen-seventies Canada, at least not for those who were hoping to find a job (and not get their asses kicked).

So turbans and beards simply fell off the list of priorities, as it had for many Sikhs in the last few decades. Meanwhile my parents would stab us or have mutual heart attacks, if their children didn’t end up getting married to Sikhs.
Sure, that makes sense.

Leaving my dad in his “wheat-field, sing-song” trance, I turned to see my mother who was bustling away at the stove. I was constantly humbled by her skills in the art of Indian cuisine. It was natural and effortless, or so it seemed. My feelings for my mother would rotate between this sense of awe and a general fear. It was the way her eyebrows would narrow in the shape of a “v,” even when her mouth was turning upwards in a smile. It was also the way she would tightly clench her teeth when she was angry, a five-foot-four-inch fireball of fury.

All intimidation aside, my mother had a head full of chemical curls just like my dad, a result of the perms she’d been getting for the last twenty years. For thirteen of those years she’d been getting these perms from me. Yes, I’d been an at-home perm artist since age fourteen. It wasn’t something I liked to talk about, as it would only remind me of the odour of perm solution, and the endless hours rolling strands of hair on a fussy and impatient mother. I could only hope that karma saved a special reward for all the daughters forced to “perm up” their moms twice a year.

Twenty-six perms and still waiting…

I handed my mother the crate of dishes, careful not to stand too close to the kitchen light. It was always important to avoid strong lighting if my mother was around, for fear of being judged on any facial flaws.

Her eyes looked me up and down, as her lips pressed together in an almost-frown.

“Hmph. Hurry up and change so you can make a big salad. Dinner’s almost done.”

Just like that she returned to the steaming pot of curry.

I was surprised by the lack of critique, so I scurried to my room with a smile of relief. As I thumped my way down the basement stairs to my own little corner bedroom, I stopped to observe an unattractive scene in the den. It was my younger brother Sonny in the midst of a
“Guitar Hero” showdown, against a backdrop of light pink walls and moss-coloured carpet. I remembered how my parents had built the basement themselves, and also chosen these colours themselves.
Wow
.

I didn’t say hello to my brother, nor did he attempt the same. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever said “hi” to my siblings. This was as true for my sister/roommate as it was for Sonny, the twenty-two-year-old Internet-addicted grease-head. It must’ve been because the word “hi” was loosely tied to affection, and affection was our sibling kryptonite.

Instead our opening statements went about like this:

Sonny-to-Romi: “Is that how nasty you look when you go to work?”

Romi-to-Sonny: “You have a nose-hair that’s touching your teeth.”
 

So with myself and my brother sufficiently re-acquainted, I slammed my bedroom door and changed into my precious comfy flannel.

***

I passed the bowl of salad to my dad, as I nervously awaited the dinner conversation. It was less a conversation and more a quiet war between the parents and the children: how much could they possibly ask us? And how little could we possibly reveal?

My father kicked it off: “Sonny, did you send out your résumé to that company I told you about? You need to find a job before you graduate.”
 

The answer was always the same indiscernible grunt.

My mom tried to bark up a different tree: “Neema, did you e-mail the boy whose marriage profile we sent you?”

Marriage profiles? Thank goodness I’m the younger one.

“I will,” she replied, never shifting her gaze from her plate.

“We sent you the profile two days ago, what are you waiting for? You’re already so old.” My mother finished off with a disapproving shake of the head.

“I SAID I’ll reply, just let me do it myself!” In a matter of seconds, my sister had transitioned from confident twenty-nine-year-old to defensive-sounding teen.

All throughout the inquisition, I stuffed my face with mouthfuls of rice drenched in glorious chicken curry. It was liquid gold, without ever being too thick or too runny. I considered it an automatic drug, as it eased any stresses around me. But it could only be my mother’s curry. Anything else was pond scum.

“Romi, how much will your next raise be?” asked my mother. “Is it coming soon?”

Great, it’s MY turn now
. I did some instant math in my head, with the figure I’d used when I’d last lied about my salary, plus a number on top of that.

When the dinner and its dialogue finally came to an end, I stacked up all the dishes for my sister to wash (
haha
) and wiped the kitchen table clean.

My parents were now in the family room, set in their evening lock-down positions. My mother I could see with some newspapers on her lap, as she quietly drifted off to sleep. Dad was digesting his dinner on the opposite couch, with a Bollywood action/adventure keeping him enthralled.

Down in the basement a similar scene was in progress. Sonny lay on the longest couch, with the third installment of
 
“Spiderman” just beginning.

I walked right past and headed for bed. It was only ten o’ clock but I was pooped, and Tobey Maguire’s man-boy chest was not exactly worth staying up for.

If it ain’t Daniel Craig, it just ain’t right…

***

I took the first sip of my morning tea and twisted my face in disgust.

Aside from my father’s special lukewarm tea, I was mildly repulsed by the hard-boiled eggs as well. I blamed my parents and their strange obsession with seasoning. It wasn’t even an Indian spice, just a bottle of grocery store seasoning. Orange in colour and strong to the taste, my parents had been bathing our eggs in this crap since 1998.

I stared at the orange eggs with contempt, but the voice of my mother broke into my narrowed gaze.

“You’ve gotten fat.”

Well that didn’t take very long.

I’d been hearing the “fat” conversation almost monthly since I’d lost my “skinny-boy” teenage figure.

“Fat?” I said. “I’ve been the same weight for the last six months!”

“Ha! Your arms look like they’re stuffed with cotton, and your face is getting bigger and bigger. Look how thin your sister is! Now you’re double her size.”

The update was definitely blunt but I wasn’t fazed. I would simply wait it out like I always did. Either that or someone else would come downstairs and create a distraction.

But it’s not even half past ten.

And why is she still staring?

Feeling a sudden pang of fear, my eyes rested squarely on my father who had suddenly appeared. He was the ultimate shield to attacks against his little princess.

He took a seat, cleared his throat and began: “We want you to be safe and healthy. But if you keep gaining weight you’ll have to go to the hospital.”

That doesn’t really sound like a daddy-defense.

This had all the makings of a fat intervention.

As I recalled how the contestants in “Extreme Makeover: Weight-Loss Edition” were weighed in on an industrial-strength scale at the loading dock, my eyes fell upon our own bathroom scale.

What’s the bathroom scale doing in the kitchen?

My dad rose solemnly from his chair, going straight for the sinister scale.

Meanwhile the blood quickly rushed to my face. I was angry. And scared.
 

“What are you doing?!” I sputtered.

“If you don’t believe us, we’ll have to show you.” My dad placed the scale on the middle of the kitchen floor.

I fought back the tears as I considered how a grown woman could be forced into a weigh-in by her parents. I imagined how I’d later share this story with my friends, only for them to exclaim: “You’re twenty-seven! Why don’t you just tell your parents to screw off?”

There were so many times when I wanted to say “screw off!” or maybe even just say “no.” But right when I would open my mouth to say the words, my tongue would get all floppy and I’d fail. They had a hold on me like only eastern hemisphere parents could.
Those scary eyes.

The only thing to do was face this head-on.

I walked towards the scale with newfound inner strength. What was I even afraid of? I’d already told my mother that I hadn’t gained a pound in the last six months. So now I could prove her wrong.

The problem of course was that I hadn’t weighed myself in a year.

I thought about the snowman cookies from the day before, not to mention the delicious foamy latte. Or the fact that I hadn’t done a cardio workout since last November, right around the time that Peter broke the news about his girlfriend.

With inner strength officially gone, I nervously mounted the scale.

The scale blinked on and off as it processed my weight. Meanwhile I attempted to stand on the sides of my feet. I wasn’t really sure how that would lessen the number but I tried it all the same.

The scale turned on for good with the final answer.

Holy Hell and God. I’ve gained fifteen pounds in the last twelve months.

On its own, one hundred and fifty pounds wasn’t anything to cry about. But in an Indian culture where a stick in a sari was the only acceptable standard?

I’m officially the family fatty.

I stepped off the scale with tears forming quickly in my eyes.

“See?” said my mother and father all at once.

I didn’t say a word but the tears were actually helpful, as they managed to soften my mother’s tone.

“I’ll take you to a herbal doctor next week,” she said. “You’ll lose that twenty pounds by June.”

Since when did fifteen pounds turn into twenty? And voodoo doctors? I don’t like the sound of this.

“I’ll just join a gym and eat better.” I meant those words, despite the obvious quiver in my voice. “I’ll lose all the weight in a year, maybe less.”

No one objected so I stepped off the scale and returned to the table. Once through with my now cold tea and repulsive orange eggs I raced from the kitchen in a flash, trying to guess how many other family mornings included public weigh-ins.

***

Later that afternoon, as I knelt on the bathroom floor and self-loathingly leaned over the toilet bowl, I started to consider my spiral into fatness. I’d never even noticed the pounds being added to my frame. I mean it wasn’t harder to walk, nor had last year’s entire wardrobe become obsolete. And yet, fifteen pounds was a lot of weight. Fifteen pounds was the same as fifteen solid chocolate Santas.

How did my body get bigger by fifteen Santas?