I guess nothing is more comforting than coming back to family after many years apart and many more miles away, to our very own comfort zone with familiar smells and sights, complete with voices and laughter we were once accustomed to. Like birds who have migrated tirelessly across the globe to be one with their brood. In a safe and wonderful place called home.

This time the reason to fly back to India was my parents’ 50^th wedding anniversary, a far happier event as compared to our previous unplanned and harrowing one, to attend my grandfather’s funeral.

In our house, it is the most common thing to celebrate every significant occasion like birthdays, anniversaries in the biggest possible way, leaving absolutely no scope for anything that was not kingsize, including family members. They usually called for a huge celebration, with music, a lot of food, dizzying amounts of alcohol, gossip and photo albums making a million rounds around the room. This time too, it was no different. Things had barely changed since I left.

It is my children’s first trip to India and they seem to be enjoying all the attention they are getting from cheek-tweaking aunties and back-patting uncles at the airport. After a round of hugs and distribution of American gifts, the excitement of the great family reunion has slowly waned as everyone retired to their chambers for their afternoon siestas. So that left just me and my jetlag in my former bedroom. The windows still wore the yellow curtains that my mother had tailored and my bed, the same lavender sheets. It looked exactly like I had left it on my wedding day, only cleaner and more organized. I sat on the floor and rummaged the drawers of my dresser to find pieces of long ago.

Little trinkets and keepsakes emerge, each wrapped in a special story or memory that seemed to have been lost somewhere in the layers of my mind. A Quality Street candy tin that contained my prized collection of green veined marbles, a deck of playing cards, a tattered autograph book, a wooden jewellery box.

But the one that makes me sit up and take notice, is a picture of me and my first love, Sandy, on Valentine’s day. I picked up the photograph and wiped away the dust that laced it. It was a picture taken in the garden of my college.

There he was, looking dashing in a navy blue suit and a brilliant smile. And there I was, in a black dress that had taken me ages to zip up, visibly obese with an awful hair style and acne dotting every square inch of my face. Back then I could easily be called ugly. Actually I was called that, every single day of college by mean boys and girls who whispered and snickered behind my back.

As a child, I escaped that trauma because somehow, ‘chubby’ was equated to ‘cute’. But sadly the equation was just obsolete once I grew up. Atleast to those who outcast me on a daily basis.

Every night I would cry myself to sleep and ask God why he made me good at biology and not at looking beautiful. The night would pass and the next morning I would still be the fat dork who weighed a hundred and fifty pounds and had incurable zits. Eventually I found no option other than to hide myself behind anything I could find.

Behind my beautiful sister during family get-togethers. But only until my mother would whisk her away to show her off to everyone.

Behind a big, fat book in college so that people would not notice me enough to break my heart.

I was so sure that if things never changed their course, I would be a lonely, bitter old woman for the rest of my life. It was on one of those days when I was growing tired of hiding, that I met Sandy.

‘Oh look, here comes the ‘Titanic’! Is she big or what?’, said one guy to his friends as I climbed the bus. I pretended to have not heard their cruel remark and kept my gaze on the floor. They snickered and watched me waddle sadly and take a vacant seat behind them.

I pursed my lips very tightly to hold in my sobs. I had been insulted before, but this one really nailed the coffin. As I let a tear or two spill onto my lap, I realized I was being watched by the person sitting beside me.

‘Hey, you know what else the Titanic was?’, he whispered to me.

I prepared myself for another taste of spite as I looked at him.

‘It was beautiful.’, he said and smiled. I was speechless and smiled back.

Ever since the day Sandy and I became friends, the tears slowly dried and wounds slowly healed. I began to see myself like the way he used to see me. As a person wasting her time and energy, running away from reality. The way he accepted me like I was, put me to shame that I had not done that for myself all those years. What others thought of me, bothered me very little. We started studying together, then slowly moved on to travelling together and before we knew it, falling in love together.

A lot of people, including me would often wonder why a perfectly handsome man like him, was with someone who looked like me. Whatever the reason may have been, I was overwhelmed to discover that there was so much more to me than what met the eye. And there were people in the world who could see beyond the concept of perfect bodies and flawless faces. When I started being comfortable in my skin, I began to make more friends and my attitude towards life really got a facelift.

It pains me that at this very moment there may be a million other overweight and unattractive people being picked on by school bullies or nagging parents and spouses. We fail to realize that by discriminating them on this basis, we are slowly killing the flame that burns inside them. It may be the flame of confidence, self esteem, happiness or even their very perception of beauty. After all who are we to decide what is beautiful or not, when nature already has bestowed it equally on every creation. It is a pity we all have not been given eyes that can find it.

Now as I look at myself in the mirror, I feel so fortunate, not only that over the years I lost all my excess weight through careful diet control and with a lot of TLC, but also that I found a soulmate like Sandy during the darkest time of my life, who stood by me through thick and thin. Literally!

I now flip the dusty photograph and find faded handwriting on its ventral side. It says-‘Dear Sarah,

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Love always,

Sandy.

P.S: You look amazing to me in this picture. Don’t worry about the new pimples on your face. Too many stars never make the sky look ugly.’

Now there’s a keepsake worth keeping!