I was seven when I was first called fat by my family member. She didn’t say the word “fat” directly, nor did she sound condescending when she uttered the words that stole the floor from beneath me. Her face was sombre, in fact, a worried line cast across her forehead when she took in what I was wearing, traditional Indian clothes – loose navy-blue embroidered trousers patterned with sequins and a rose-coloured cropped blouse, along with a net dupatta (a long shawl worn to cover your head or shoulders) that my cousin had secured with a safety pin on my shoulder – before sitting me down to have “a talk”.
My cousin was wearing the same outfit, but in a different colour. It was her mum, my aunt, who bought the matching clothes for us from Southall, a suburban town in greater London with a significant South Asian population, a few days before for a family friend’s wedding. She was thrilled when we tried the clothes on upon our return home, her face splitting into a wide grin when we both twirled in our crisp new party outfits.
We always went to Southall to shop for Indian attire, and the outfit I’d worn that day was my absolute favourite. Although I was born in India, I’m actually of Afghan Sikh heritage, a community that not many people are familiar with. But I’ve never visited Afghanistan myself and only know of the dusty lanes, pointy hills and vast villages through faded photographs and the stories that my dad and aunt have told me. After the Taliban rose to power in the late 1980s, thousands of Hindu and Sikh minorities were forced to leave their homes and flee for their lives. My family, and thousands of others, carved their way by immigrating to the West, including the UK, and now the town of Southall boasts shopping centres, shops and boutiques of all sizes that are run mostly by Afghan Sikh retailers. It’s amazing to see how far we’ve come from where we were.
As a child, I loved visiting Southall. My aunt would take all six of us – four of her children, along with me and my brother – almost every weekend after visiting the Gurudwara, the Sikh temple. I thoroughly enjoyed those days. The streets would be filled with pedestrians, shopping bags in hand as they shuffled in and out of neon-signed shops lining the wide, traffic-clogged street. Bollywood hits would roar from speakers perched in the corners of open-mouthed stalls, the waft of fresh jalebi and pakoras luring us in as we passed. But instead, all us kids would go directly to the sweetcorn stall, warming our hands over the cooker as my aunt bought us £1 hot sweetcorn pots to share.
For over a decade, I spent almost every weekend at my aunt’s house and developed a close bond with all her children. As a result, me and my cousin grew up like sisters. We wore the same clothes everywhere we went, and we basked in the compliments we received whenever we’d parade in with our matching dresses, shoes and identical hairstyles, as though we were twins instead of first cousins. I couldn’t imagine that there was anything wrong with what we were doing.
That is until a family member enlightened me at the young age of seven.
“Why are you wearing that?” she asked with a serious look in her dusty brown eyes.
“What do you mean?” I frowned, patting down the fabric with my hands.
Her eyes flickered over me once.
“This cropped blouse doesn’t suit you.”
I was confused. My cousin was wearing the same outfit. “Why not?” I asked.
“Because…” Disbelief clouded her face at my cheek to ask such a question. “Your cousin is beautiful,” she went on. “She’s fair, skinny and can wear anything…” She paused, giving thought to her next few words. “I’m sorry, Ruby, but you’re a little overweight. This type of outfit doesn’t suit girls that look like you. I’m only trying to help,” she added, softening the blow.
But my self-esteem was already shattered.
Conversations like this became more frequent after I turned seven, or perhaps they were always common but it wasn’t until then that I could finally process what was being said to me. Whenever my family got together, my cousins would joke about my weight. Mentioning the food on my plate was a part of their regular chitchat, as though they were talking about the weather rather than what a young girl was eating.
The moment we would sit down for dinner, a traditional Afghan tablecloth spread out across the floor, flanked by mattresses and cushions, with an array of salads, yogurt, chicken, rice, fritters, naan and dal spread out evenly across the large space, the digs would start. They would say things like, “Ruby, isn’t that too many pakoras? Leave some for the others,” or, “Who wants ice cream? Not you, Ruby, you’ve already had enough to eat. You don’t want to get fat, do you?” before noticing the fallen expression on my face and correcting themselves. “Go on, then. You won’t get fat,’ they’d chuckle.
My extended family constantly compared me to my skinnier, fairer cousin, the one I loved as a sister, and they often took turns making jabs, turning my appearance into the focal point of all their humour. I was also the butt of all jokes because of my excessive facial hair (a blessing from my South Asian heritage), and the colour of my skin. I was darker than my cousin, that much was clear. But my family never failed to point this out to me, as though I would forget if they didn’t vocalise it often.
The worst part is I don’t think they realised what they were doing. They were just having a laugh. They didn’t know what their words were doing to me, and, frankly, I didn’t know either until years later.
But regardless, I spent my entire childhood hearing such negative words about my weight and appearance. There wasn’t a week when my round cheeks weren’t squeezed with an exaggerated, “Aww, you are so cute,” or questions about my weight weren’t tossed back and forth across the dinner table like a game of tennis.
Being a parent, my dad felt bad seeing me being spoken about in this way. He felt sorry for me. He started to overcompensate at home. He bought me takeaways every weekend and cooked mouthwatering (but heavily fried) food, all the while reassuring me that I was “not fat and should eat more”. But my brother responded differently. He thought that the only way to shut everyone up would be by changing me. Even when I was as young as eight, he would take me running around the park on the weekends. Sometimes he joined me on the field and other times he would ride his bike and urge me to run after him – just like those TV shows about “fat camps” where heavily overweight people are pushed beyond their comfort zone to lose weight.
My brother always said, “Lose weight so that no one makes fun of you.” His belief, and the belief of many of us who have been made to feel like this, was that if the world treats you a certain way, you should change yourself rather than those around you. He was a child, and he didn’t know any better. But we do.
While both these men in my life – in their own obscure way – did their best to make me feel better, their actions did the opposite. I felt so, so much worse I shouldn’t have to, but I’m conditioned by society and all the experiences of my nearly 30 years to clarify that I was never overweight. I can show you a childhood photo to prove it (again, I shouldn’t have to). I was short and on the chubby side, but it was the kind of childhood chub that melts away when you enter adolescence. Or at least it would have if it wasn’t for the unhealthy relationship with food that I eventually developed.
No culture is without its faults and South Asian culture, in particular, is known for fat-shaming and colourism. For decades, some of the bestselling skincare products in countries such as India have been aimed at dark-skinned brown women who are reminded daily by society about how desirable fair skin is.
Do these skin-lightening products work? Absolutely not.
But do they profit off the insecurities of marginalised brown women? Yes, sir!
Looking further into history will tell us that colourism and fat-shaming are norms that have been perpetuated by Western ideology, colonisation and widespread media, but let’s not talk about historical blame for a second and instead focus on the topic at hand.
After being criticised for my weight over the years, I became extremely self-conscious. I developed low self-esteem and I had this feeling that always lingered at the back of my mind, one that told me that I was never good enough. This bled into my adulthood, affecting my self-confidence when it came to my personal and interpersonal relationships.
It was only when I began my healing journey and adopted self-love that I recognised how harmful those words had been, and I noticed the toxic relationship patterns in my life that were a result of those early experiences.
The form of fat-shaming that consumed my childhood is an example of emotional abuse, which is one type of trauma that you can experience, and trauma – as you’ve seen already – starts new healing journeys. But before I dive into the rest of my story, I want to make sure that we’re both aligned when I say “emotional abuse”.
Excerpted with permission from The Path to Self-Love: Heal Your Heart, Set Healthy Boundaries and Unlock Your Inner Strength, Ruby Dhal, Penguin India.
