I am six feet six inches tall. In a country of malnourished short people no taller than five feet five inches, I tower over the average Indian and stand out everywhere I go. People laugh and point at me on the streets. Kids shout "Khali", likening me to the famous wrestler and actor. I overhear stray remarks such as “must be at least 10 feet tall” or “he is definitely taller than Amitabh Bachchan”. I am also forced to laugh at many bad jokes, from the clichéd “How’s the weather up there?” to “Are you a Complan boy” or “Be careful, the ceiling fan may give you a free haircut”. There’s also funny quips such as “A3 looks like A4 in your hands”.
There are many perks of being tall. In job interviews or social situations, it helps to have people remember you. My height works to my advantage on local trains, too, as I manage to evade the multitude of armpits and the fog of body odour. Also, I like not being scared of anyone on the streets and being in a position of authority.
Lately, everywhere I go, people turn around and stare. I can see their eyes following me. My gait suddenly becomes awkward and gangly as I feel conscious of the strangeness of my proportions – my oversized limbs and undersized torso. I am no longer a confident 20-something man. I am the guy who needs to slouch under the shower to wash off the shampoo. I begin to remember that I fit nowhere – not in bathrooms, buses, trains, taxis or offices. I am uncomfortable everywhere I go.
There are times when I think I’ve seen someone taller than me. My pace quickens as I attempt to catch up. As I pass the person, I glance over my shoulder. However, more often than not, the person will be a few inches shorter than me. “I’m six feet four,” they will say, before asking, “How tall are you?”
Pleasantries completed, we discuss the usual problems of people our size. “Aren’t you tired of listening to the stewardess tell you what to do in case of an emergency?” or “There’s a new size out in the market. XXXL always fits me.”
Fitting in
In The Tall Book, writer Arianne Cohen says that the Netherlands is supposed to be a haven for tall people. Clothing companies across the world used to manufacture items as per the 10-90 rule, which means that only sizes fitting 10% to 90% of the population were produced. Anyone outside that bracket was ignored. In the mid-1990s, tall people in the Netherlands realised that many of them did not fit into this category. They began campaigning for their rights and forced clothing companies to incorporate sizes for taller people. Furniture companies followed suit.
At night, when I am finally comfortable in my custom-made bed, I have visions of Sweden and Norway. I dream of comfortably taking public transport, of fitting in chairs and under desks in schools and universities, of hugging people as tall as me. I also dream of meeting people who will not look at me with slightly raised eyebrows and curious stares. But then the dream is shattered. For I realise that I will be a brown Indian in a sea of white. Of course, they will look at me.
Maybe it’s a trivial problem. “What’s the big deal if you are so tall in a country of short people?” I tell myself. “Don’t worry about all this while so many other minorities, in greater need of help, are neglected by the country all the time.”
But the problem still occupies my every waking moment. I’ve paid my taxes, so why can’t I have proper access to public transport? Why can’t schools and universities make chairs and desks that suit my size?
The Dutch are not innately tall – they have just reached their full gene potential following years of wealth and prosperity. As the standard of living improves, and with greater access to food and medicine, each generation of Indians is becoming taller. My father was six feet tall and I’m six inches taller than him. My children will be even taller. With people growing taller and fatter, the existing infrastructure will be overburdened, before it collapses.
Creating curiosity
The elderly are often quite intrigued with my proportions. I was already over six feet tall by the time I was 15. My uncle would often say, ”Boy, if I’d had your height, the things I’d do.” What exactly would he do? Touch ceiling fans? Bang into low branches and other low-hanging objects in the street. I was baffled.
Once, I was waiting at a bus stop when I noticed an elderly man staring at me for quite some time to get my attention. I ignored him as I was not in the mood to have a conversation on a particularly hot and humid Mumbai morning. Finally, he approached me and said, “It is going to be difficult to get your married. How will your parents find a tall enough bride?” The observation was spot on. The first girl I professed my love for had sought her friends’ advice. “Think about it properly,” was their response. "We think he is too tall for you."
Reminders of my unusual height continued after I board the bus. On Mumbai’s buses, there were only two places where I used to fit comfortably. The first was the two seats at the centre of the huge seat at the back of the bus. The second was the seat opposite the rear entrance which was slightly slower than the seat in front of it. I used to consider it a metaphor for my life: two places where I truly fit, two places where I would find meaning. Sweden or Norway? The Netherlands or Germany?
But that was until the new buses were introduced. I had a new place for my oversized, bony knees: the seat just behind the rear entrance. Maybe all hope was not yet lost. I could still call Mumbai home.
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There are many perks of being tall. In job interviews or social situations, it helps to have people remember you. My height works to my advantage on local trains, too, as I manage to evade the multitude of armpits and the fog of body odour. Also, I like not being scared of anyone on the streets and being in a position of authority.
Lately, everywhere I go, people turn around and stare. I can see their eyes following me. My gait suddenly becomes awkward and gangly as I feel conscious of the strangeness of my proportions – my oversized limbs and undersized torso. I am no longer a confident 20-something man. I am the guy who needs to slouch under the shower to wash off the shampoo. I begin to remember that I fit nowhere – not in bathrooms, buses, trains, taxis or offices. I am uncomfortable everywhere I go.
There are times when I think I’ve seen someone taller than me. My pace quickens as I attempt to catch up. As I pass the person, I glance over my shoulder. However, more often than not, the person will be a few inches shorter than me. “I’m six feet four,” they will say, before asking, “How tall are you?”
Pleasantries completed, we discuss the usual problems of people our size. “Aren’t you tired of listening to the stewardess tell you what to do in case of an emergency?” or “There’s a new size out in the market. XXXL always fits me.”
Fitting in
In The Tall Book, writer Arianne Cohen says that the Netherlands is supposed to be a haven for tall people. Clothing companies across the world used to manufacture items as per the 10-90 rule, which means that only sizes fitting 10% to 90% of the population were produced. Anyone outside that bracket was ignored. In the mid-1990s, tall people in the Netherlands realised that many of them did not fit into this category. They began campaigning for their rights and forced clothing companies to incorporate sizes for taller people. Furniture companies followed suit.
At night, when I am finally comfortable in my custom-made bed, I have visions of Sweden and Norway. I dream of comfortably taking public transport, of fitting in chairs and under desks in schools and universities, of hugging people as tall as me. I also dream of meeting people who will not look at me with slightly raised eyebrows and curious stares. But then the dream is shattered. For I realise that I will be a brown Indian in a sea of white. Of course, they will look at me.
Maybe it’s a trivial problem. “What’s the big deal if you are so tall in a country of short people?” I tell myself. “Don’t worry about all this while so many other minorities, in greater need of help, are neglected by the country all the time.”
But the problem still occupies my every waking moment. I’ve paid my taxes, so why can’t I have proper access to public transport? Why can’t schools and universities make chairs and desks that suit my size?
The Dutch are not innately tall – they have just reached their full gene potential following years of wealth and prosperity. As the standard of living improves, and with greater access to food and medicine, each generation of Indians is becoming taller. My father was six feet tall and I’m six inches taller than him. My children will be even taller. With people growing taller and fatter, the existing infrastructure will be overburdened, before it collapses.
Creating curiosity
The elderly are often quite intrigued with my proportions. I was already over six feet tall by the time I was 15. My uncle would often say, ”Boy, if I’d had your height, the things I’d do.” What exactly would he do? Touch ceiling fans? Bang into low branches and other low-hanging objects in the street. I was baffled.
Once, I was waiting at a bus stop when I noticed an elderly man staring at me for quite some time to get my attention. I ignored him as I was not in the mood to have a conversation on a particularly hot and humid Mumbai morning. Finally, he approached me and said, “It is going to be difficult to get your married. How will your parents find a tall enough bride?” The observation was spot on. The first girl I professed my love for had sought her friends’ advice. “Think about it properly,” was their response. "We think he is too tall for you."
Reminders of my unusual height continued after I board the bus. On Mumbai’s buses, there were only two places where I used to fit comfortably. The first was the two seats at the centre of the huge seat at the back of the bus. The second was the seat opposite the rear entrance which was slightly slower than the seat in front of it. I used to consider it a metaphor for my life: two places where I truly fit, two places where I would find meaning. Sweden or Norway? The Netherlands or Germany?
But that was until the new buses were introduced. I had a new place for my oversized, bony knees: the seat just behind the rear entrance. Maybe all hope was not yet lost. I could still call Mumbai home.