Body beautiful: How I found fat acceptance at the workplace

For as long as I can remember, my mission in life, as a fat girl in small town India, was to somehow invisibilise myself. I am an extrovert and reaching out to people comes naturally to me. But more often than not, I would work against my instincts and hesitate talking to people. Because I knew that no matter what I would want to talk about, the conversation would somehow be diverted towards why I was so fat followed concern about the horrible things that life would subject me to if I did not do anything about my “health.” As if I was solely responsible for it and had nothing to do with how I was born.
I learnt to suppress my first instinct of saying yes to any social invite, mostly confining myself to my circle of immediate family members and select friends who, despite their concerns, allowed me some moments to breathe easy. It was far from ideal but still my best chance at being myself, albeit a little apologetically.

Another thing that I remember is that I have always wanted to work. Although books interested me, academics did not and I could not wait to go to office. “Do you think anyone is going to hire such a heavyweight personality? Won’t they worry about their chairs breaking apart?” wisecracked an elderly relative to my aunt. “No. On the contrary, we are trained at work to judge people only through their work and nothing else,” my aunt shot back. I was glad for the support but also wondered, “Would they?”
Around 2010, fresh out of journalism school, I applied for a trainee sub-editor’s job at the Lucknow office of an English daily. As part of my writing test, I was asked to pen down my bus journey from Kanpur, my hometown, to the state capital for the meeting. I was not hoping for much but no sooner did I board the bus back home than I got a call from the editor’s office: “You have cleared the test. Would you be available for an interview tomorrow?” And that’s how I landed my first job: No placement, no hand-holding; just sheer merit and a lot of luck.
Few days shy of my 23rd birthday, I finally got a chance to live my long-cherished dream: Going to work. I wore the best clothes that I had, boarded a full auto instead of a shared one (a luxury at the time) and gingerly made my way into what would be my workplace for half a decade to come.

With no scope of any concession for a beginner in a short-staffed office, I was given copies to edit, assigned pages to design. It was a good feeling, to be finally part of the workforce. I was financially independent, my mother could hire a house help instead of pretending that she liked doing household chores. Everything was as I had expected it to be, but there was also something else, a pleasant surprise that I was not prepared for – no one cared about my looks.
Day after day as I went to the office, no one reminded me that I did not fit in the conventionally attractive mould, no one expressed worry that I was not “healthy”. The only thing they cared for was what I brought to the table – not my three-tier tiffin box, but the work that I delivered.
I deep-dived into my work completely and enjoyed every bit of it. It was almost like having two lives: One outside my office where I was cowering down, worried about who would say what about my appearance, and then another, inside office, where I could finally breathe easy, walk with my head held high, because I was good at what I did and was told as much a bunch of times. And that was all that mattered.
I remember my first appraisal letter and the accompanying remarks my editor on the quality of my work. Not even a passing mention of my health, not a single comment on my looks: Just a generous assessment and appreciation of my work.
My workplace became my sanctuary, where I could finally be myself. I didn’t have to run away from anyone, hide myself to look slimmer or not be seen at all. I was assigned challenging tasks one after the other – heading a team at 25, representing the regional office at the Delhi headquarters for a month-long assignment, anchoring the front page – and I managed to, well, at least not embarrass myself anywhere.
Twelve years on, I have reached a stage in life where I have become very accepting of my looks. My body confidence is at an all-time high (though, as is my weight) and it would be very hard to bring me down. I know I am not exactly “pretty”, but at the same time I am aware of my appeal. I am grateful to everyone who has helped me reach this frame of mind, who told me I was attractive so many times that I starting believing it myself. I am also glad that I live in an era where body positivity is a legit term and fat shaming is frowned upon. But I am also immensely thankful for the place – my workplace — that, without explicitly setting out to do so, showed me that none of it mattered at all. What counted was how I performed at my job.
And about the “concern” that my relative expressed? Well, that came true too. I did break chairs at work, thrice. Not like broke them apart or turn them into debris but in the sense that one wheel or the other snapped off, rendering the rotating chair unusable. But you know what? No one made a big deal of it. The chairs were promptly replaced, and I seamlessly got back to work. Every single time. Because that was all that mattered.