~BBW, ~~WG. When her Indian mother suggests she should gain extra pounds for her upcoming wedding, Karina is outraged, only to find herself gaining weight anyway as soon as the wedding is over.
A Change for the Fatter
by Swordfish
“You’ll never guess what my mum just asked me,” Karina said as they left her parents at the station car park and headed for the train trip back to London.
“I saw her whispering in your ear…”
‘Oh, it was ridiculous.” The dark eyes of the mixed-raced beauty seemed almost on fire, further tightening her slim features, lending extra lustre to her light brown skin. “She actually asked if I could gain some weight before we got married.”
Tom stopped dead in his tracks. “WHAT?”
Karina dragged him along. “We’ve got to keep moving. We’ll miss the train. It’s this Indian thing. A rural tradition. Family pride. If a bride looks chubby and well-fed it’s supposed to tell the in-laws that she’s wealthy and healthy.”
“But – ”.
“Tell me about it. I said it was ridiculous. For one thing my mum’s been in England for decades. She’s in hospital administration for God’s sake. And my father’s a doctor. And he’s bloody English. We’re thoroughly Westernised. Why is she bringing up this stupid old thing from her family’s past? Oh God, what’s our carriage?”
They hustled aboard, conversation dropped in the hurry to claim their reserved seats. The train was crowded. Talk was only resumed after their weekend suitcase was stowed, with the train moving off, rain speckling the windows as it emerged from the station into the open.
“But what exactly did she say? Was it like a command?”
“A suggestion more than a command. And to be fair she did say it would probably sound silly. Didn’t stop her saying it, though.” She glared briefly out of the window at the rain and the landscape beyond. Warehouses, railway sidings, a canal. “Look at it. This is Leeds. The north of England. Not deepest India.”
“How did you – I mean, what did you say?”
“We were saying our goodbyes. I didn’t want to make a fuss. I think I said something vague, like ‘I’ll bear it in mind’. Well, I’ll bear it in mind by ignoring it completely. I mean, when did I last gain weight? Never!”
“Absolutely. It’s just not something you do, is it?”
“And I’m not going to start now. Mothers!” She raised her eyebrows in a gesture of despair.
“It’s unbelievable.” Meanwhile, Tom’s memory bank retrieved images from seven years ago – their marriage had been a long time coming – when they’d met as university students. The ‘bridge’ photo immediately came to mind: a photo snapped in Cambridge when Karina, Tom, and Clive, collectively known as the Three Musketeers, always together, always intermingled, were larking about one of the river bridges, friendship and youth personified. The slim physique and chiselled features with a slight hollow under her cheekbones; her tousled shoulder-length black hair and dusky skin; her lustrous brown pupils, standing out brilliantly from the whites of her eyes; her winning, slightly wry smile: all these had barely changed.
Since those years, the threesome had spun off in different directions, pursuing their goals (Karina, Clive) or twiddling their thumbs (Tom), before reforming as just two, Karina and Tom, first living apart, then living together, and finally deciding in their mid 20s to get respectable and tie the knot. Initially, at Cambridge, it was Clive who seemed in the running to win the magnetic Karina’s favours. He was the one who was pin-up handsome; Tom was more ordinary, and shorter. Clive was boisterous; Tom was quiet.
But it was Tom who persisted, while Clive spun off, determined to chase his ambition in natural sciences and spend a life abroad wearing cargo pants, working on wild life programmes for TV. Meanwhile Tom, who wanted to be a writer but could never think of anything worth writing about, filled in time at a literary agency. Karina, for her part, furthered her music studies, played the violin, never put on weight, often skipped breakfast, went to the gym, and stood on the scales at a steady 118 lbs.
“Did she go through this rubbish herself? Before she got married?”
“I don’t know. She’s plumpish now. But that’s just life, I suppose. Well, her life. Not mine.”
“Certainly not. It’s never going to be yours.” They clutched hands, and Tom moved in for a kiss. “You’re my slim angel.”
“That’s right.” She looked out of the window again. A field with cows. Neat hedgerows. A gentle river. It still didn’t look like India. “And besides,” she marched on, “the thing only makes sense in India if it’s an arranged marriage, and the bride only turns up on the wedding day. But your parents have known me for years. Having me suddenly turn up at the altar all chubby isn’t going to impress them a bit, is it?” She continued fulminating, on and off, for the next twenty-six minutes.
***
The months before the wedding found them busy and sometimes distracted. Karina’s career as a violinist was at a critical stage, as the new music ensemble she played in – indeed helped form – was just starting to get a reputation in a competitive market. There were eight core players, with add-ons where necessary, and to mark themselves out from rivals they had chosen a distinctive name, The Fire Brigade. Someone unhelpfully pointed out that fire brigades put out fires, while musicians, speaking metaphorically, should ignite them. But by then the name had already gained traction, so they felt they should stick with it.
There were hours of practice, rehearsals, some concerts, and planning for a provincial tour. Tom didn’t see much of her in their small rented flat. Nor was he much there himself. The agency he worked for, Wisdom Associates, a name he thought inappropriate, had landed him the unappetising task of trying to winkle a book of memoirs out of the experiences of a woman who suffered from a neurological disorder that meant it was physical hurtful for her to be near anyone with a switched-on cell phone, or any other kind of active device. With his phone safely off, he’d sit in her house, and commit her talk to an ancient cassette recorder. Inbetween, the pair made their plans – registry office ceremony, a reception at the Blind Curate, a neighbourhood pub, a honeymoon break in America.
On the day itself, Karina wore a clinging white dress, specially bought. After some weeks of rushing about and not eating much, she had lost a couple of pounds, and cut a particularly slim figure, hips barely showing, breasts petite, tummy flat. Clive, fitting in the wedding between important work assignments (he didn’t have any other kind) gave her a string of compliments at the reception. “Stunning as ever, Kari. You never change!”
“I try not to,” she said.
“Of course, you know you’ve married the wrong bloke. I’d be a much better match.”
He was being jocular, but he also meant it.
“Oh well, Clive, my loss. I have years of regret ahead of me.”
And with a sweet smile she excused herself. She saw her parents and in-laws knotted together in conversation, and joined them. None of them looked visibly disappointed that she wasn’t carrying any surplus fat, though her mother was good at acting and told her daughter, with proprietary pride, that she was “the picture of happiness”.
Some of Tom’s work colleagues were there too. One of them, Dave – there is always a Dave – jokingly said that he’d expected Tom’s cell phone woman to be there as well.
“Impossible,” Tom told him. “With all the live gadgets in this room, she’d be puking away in a corner.” He was glad to be going on his honeymoon break, away from his absurd assignment. He was equally glad that the reception speeches by his best friend Dirk and, not least, his own, were done with. Nothing to do now but to chat, drink, feel happy, and finally have their own sliver of the wedding cake they had ceremoniously cut before.
“Here,” he said, handing Karina an accidentally thick slice of powerful fruit cake and buttercream icing. She suddenly realised she had skipped lunch and most of breakfast and pounced on it like a long-lost friend. “M’m. This is delicious. Really good.” She said it again: “Really good.”
***
A Change for the Fatter
by Swordfish
“You’ll never guess what my mum just asked me,” Karina said as they left her parents at the station car park and headed for the train trip back to London.
“I saw her whispering in your ear…”
‘Oh, it was ridiculous.” The dark eyes of the mixed-raced beauty seemed almost on fire, further tightening her slim features, lending extra lustre to her light brown skin. “She actually asked if I could gain some weight before we got married.”
Tom stopped dead in his tracks. “WHAT?”
Karina dragged him along. “We’ve got to keep moving. We’ll miss the train. It’s this Indian thing. A rural tradition. Family pride. If a bride looks chubby and well-fed it’s supposed to tell the in-laws that she’s wealthy and healthy.”
“But – ”.
“Tell me about it. I said it was ridiculous. For one thing my mum’s been in England for decades. She’s in hospital administration for God’s sake. And my father’s a doctor. And he’s bloody English. We’re thoroughly Westernised. Why is she bringing up this stupid old thing from her family’s past? Oh God, what’s our carriage?”
They hustled aboard, conversation dropped in the hurry to claim their reserved seats. The train was crowded. Talk was only resumed after their weekend suitcase was stowed, with the train moving off, rain speckling the windows as it emerged from the station into the open.
“But what exactly did she say? Was it like a command?”
“A suggestion more than a command. And to be fair she did say it would probably sound silly. Didn’t stop her saying it, though.” She glared briefly out of the window at the rain and the landscape beyond. Warehouses, railway sidings, a canal. “Look at it. This is Leeds. The north of England. Not deepest India.”
“How did you – I mean, what did you say?”
“We were saying our goodbyes. I didn’t want to make a fuss. I think I said something vague, like ‘I’ll bear it in mind’. Well, I’ll bear it in mind by ignoring it completely. I mean, when did I last gain weight? Never!”
“Absolutely. It’s just not something you do, is it?”
“And I’m not going to start now. Mothers!” She raised her eyebrows in a gesture of despair.
“It’s unbelievable.” Meanwhile, Tom’s memory bank retrieved images from seven years ago – their marriage had been a long time coming – when they’d met as university students. The ‘bridge’ photo immediately came to mind: a photo snapped in Cambridge when Karina, Tom, and Clive, collectively known as the Three Musketeers, always together, always intermingled, were larking about one of the river bridges, friendship and youth personified. The slim physique and chiselled features with a slight hollow under her cheekbones; her tousled shoulder-length black hair and dusky skin; her lustrous brown pupils, standing out brilliantly from the whites of her eyes; her winning, slightly wry smile: all these had barely changed.
Since those years, the threesome had spun off in different directions, pursuing their goals (Karina, Clive) or twiddling their thumbs (Tom), before reforming as just two, Karina and Tom, first living apart, then living together, and finally deciding in their mid 20s to get respectable and tie the knot. Initially, at Cambridge, it was Clive who seemed in the running to win the magnetic Karina’s favours. He was the one who was pin-up handsome; Tom was more ordinary, and shorter. Clive was boisterous; Tom was quiet.
But it was Tom who persisted, while Clive spun off, determined to chase his ambition in natural sciences and spend a life abroad wearing cargo pants, working on wild life programmes for TV. Meanwhile Tom, who wanted to be a writer but could never think of anything worth writing about, filled in time at a literary agency. Karina, for her part, furthered her music studies, played the violin, never put on weight, often skipped breakfast, went to the gym, and stood on the scales at a steady 118 lbs.
“Did she go through this rubbish herself? Before she got married?”
“I don’t know. She’s plumpish now. But that’s just life, I suppose. Well, her life. Not mine.”
“Certainly not. It’s never going to be yours.” They clutched hands, and Tom moved in for a kiss. “You’re my slim angel.”
“That’s right.” She looked out of the window again. A field with cows. Neat hedgerows. A gentle river. It still didn’t look like India. “And besides,” she marched on, “the thing only makes sense in India if it’s an arranged marriage, and the bride only turns up on the wedding day. But your parents have known me for years. Having me suddenly turn up at the altar all chubby isn’t going to impress them a bit, is it?” She continued fulminating, on and off, for the next twenty-six minutes.
***
The months before the wedding found them busy and sometimes distracted. Karina’s career as a violinist was at a critical stage, as the new music ensemble she played in – indeed helped form – was just starting to get a reputation in a competitive market. There were eight core players, with add-ons where necessary, and to mark themselves out from rivals they had chosen a distinctive name, The Fire Brigade. Someone unhelpfully pointed out that fire brigades put out fires, while musicians, speaking metaphorically, should ignite them. But by then the name had already gained traction, so they felt they should stick with it.
There were hours of practice, rehearsals, some concerts, and planning for a provincial tour. Tom didn’t see much of her in their small rented flat. Nor was he much there himself. The agency he worked for, Wisdom Associates, a name he thought inappropriate, had landed him the unappetising task of trying to winkle a book of memoirs out of the experiences of a woman who suffered from a neurological disorder that meant it was physical hurtful for her to be near anyone with a switched-on cell phone, or any other kind of active device. With his phone safely off, he’d sit in her house, and commit her talk to an ancient cassette recorder. Inbetween, the pair made their plans – registry office ceremony, a reception at the Blind Curate, a neighbourhood pub, a honeymoon break in America.
On the day itself, Karina wore a clinging white dress, specially bought. After some weeks of rushing about and not eating much, she had lost a couple of pounds, and cut a particularly slim figure, hips barely showing, breasts petite, tummy flat. Clive, fitting in the wedding between important work assignments (he didn’t have any other kind) gave her a string of compliments at the reception. “Stunning as ever, Kari. You never change!”
“I try not to,” she said.
“Of course, you know you’ve married the wrong bloke. I’d be a much better match.”
He was being jocular, but he also meant it.
“Oh well, Clive, my loss. I have years of regret ahead of me.”
And with a sweet smile she excused herself. She saw her parents and in-laws knotted together in conversation, and joined them. None of them looked visibly disappointed that she wasn’t carrying any surplus fat, though her mother was good at acting and told her daughter, with proprietary pride, that she was “the picture of happiness”.
Some of Tom’s work colleagues were there too. One of them, Dave – there is always a Dave – jokingly said that he’d expected Tom’s cell phone woman to be there as well.
“Impossible,” Tom told him. “With all the live gadgets in this room, she’d be puking away in a corner.” He was glad to be going on his honeymoon break, away from his absurd assignment. He was equally glad that the reception speeches by his best friend Dirk and, not least, his own, were done with. Nothing to do now but to chat, drink, feel happy, and finally have their own sliver of the wedding cake they had ceremoniously cut before.
“Here,” he said, handing Karina an accidentally thick slice of powerful fruit cake and buttercream icing. She suddenly realised she had skipped lunch and most of breakfast and pounced on it like a long-lost friend. “M’m. This is delicious. Really good.” She said it again: “Really good.”
***
