Biplab Deb may be in the running for Everest Masala’s lifetime achievement award, but I can’t understand why people are getting their langots in a reef knot about his remarks. I refer to his comments on Diana Hayden. What is so scandalous — or new, for that matter — about what he said?
Or a dear old parliamentarian remarking to a rival: “My simple suggestion is, reduce your weight, and make efforts to increase the weight of the party”.
They are Indian, dammit. And it’s their birthright to comment on a person’s appearance. I could be mistaken, but I think it’s in the Constitution. Or the Upanishads, at the very least.
Which is what makes Indians — from Tripura to Tiruparapu — the ultimate experts on looks.
Making pronouncements about the height, weight, BMI, fat content, follicular density, skin pliability and tonal variation of random folk is a skill we learn even before we can say ‘Mummy, kakka coming’.
And, mind you, this is not a man thing. The average Indian — man, woman, transgender — is a fine-tuned, ultra-sophisticated, super-sensitive instrument built to detect the tiniest change in the exterior of any human being (except himself), dead or alive, and present a short, unsolicited report to the subject at the first available opportunity.
Be it parties, parks, parlours, protests, potti kadais or passings (sometimes their own), the average Indian’s appearance-analysis antenna is working harder than an NRI on the brink of a green card. Twitching to pick up perceived changes in compatriots, transmit findings thereof to his filter-free mouth, to be disseminated to the drive-by victim with no time lag whatsoever. Before someone else does it first.
The other day, on my evening walk (just a euphemism for buying sodas), I was analysed impromptu by one such pulchritude-variance detector.
“You seem to have aged, man,” he hollered. He was a good 10 metres away. The general populace skidded to a halt to stare at my ancient visage.
“Er... true,” is all I could come up with, my famed half-wit abandoning me. “You look the same, though.”
He did, actually. There was still no sign of a chin.
Here are some of the diagnoses you may have been presented with in your life. Or, be honest, may have delivered yourself, to some poor sap going unsuspectingly about his business.
‘You seem to have put on weight.’ ‘You seem to have lost weight.’ ‘You seem to have regained your lost weight.’ ‘You seem to have lost your regained weight.’
‘You have gained colour.’ ‘You have lost colour.’ (I have never known which one is the compliment between the two. Because ‘white’ is the preferred colour, as we know. But does one get ‘whiter’ by gaining colour or losing colour? Because, white, technically, is the absence of colour.)
‘You seem to have lost some hair’ — to men. ‘You seem to have gained some hair’ — to women.
‘You seem to have aged’ — to anyone between 11 and 93.
Considering the emptiness of my life (save this fortnightly column I write), perhaps it’s time I gave back to society.
So here it is, Dear Fellow Appearance-Detective Victims: a set of ready-to-use, copyright-free comebacks for you all. Use them with abandon when you are shamed next.
‘Your loins seem to have sagged a bit.’
‘Why didn’t you bring your chin along today?’
‘You look so much like your father... when he was being cremated.’
‘Your wig seems to have developed dandruff.’
‘So cool of you to go bra-less, man.’
‘Your paunch seems to have a double-chin.’
‘Nice to see you’ve extended your bald patch evenly over your head.’
‘I like that whole asymmetrical glutes thing you’ve got going.’
‘Are you wearing those trousers ironically?’
‘You need to get out less often.’
Krishna Shastri Devulapalli is a satirist, humour writer and co-editor of the anthology Madras on My Mind: A City in Stories .
