Teenage is supposed to be the most turbulent time in one's life. When I, the eldest of three sisters, reached it, my mother braced herself for the worst years of parenting. Besides having a complex about my height and indulging in a little rebellious behaviour now and then, I don't think I posed much of a challenge to my mom, who handled me with an iron hand in an iron glove. A few memories stick out like a sore thumb though, with reference to my wonderful height. I am a good few inches above the average height of Indian women. Everybody expected me to stop growing at his or her command when I was 13. Believe me, I tried to. But I just couldn't. My grandmother was the most alarmed of all. When it was not 'How will I hunt for a boy for you?', she exclaimed 'If you keep on growing like this...' And if it wasn't that, it was 'Oh, Lord, what will I do with this girl!' and 'When will she ever stop growing!' I don't really remember my response to those rhetorical queries. Probably I must have muttered 'Being a spinster isn't so bad' or something equally depressing. Introductions by mom to long lost relatives were a real ordeal. Their first remark would be 'Oh! She is so tall!' or something equally unqualified. Then would come eloquent vocalisations about the doubts they harboured about finding the perfect soul mate for me, height and all. If I was really unlucky, and they did not know my age, they would say: "So where do you work?" At 13, let me assure you, that is not funny. Usually I would blurt my age out and excuse myself from the room. Buying shoes was another hideous ordeal. On one hand, I had to cope with my darling mother, who regularly lost her patience because my feet would not confirm to the limited selection available. Like Cinderella's stepsister. Ugh! Then there was the impatient sales person. He would tire yelling out sizes and specifications to the little boy who handed shoes out to him from the miniature stocks department upstairs. One sales man even ventured: "Japanese women tie their feet, madam. Maybe you could..." I didn't let him complete the sentence. Just stopped him there with the most venomous look I could produce at short notice. My dear aunt allowed me the honour of being her bridesmaid. That was a high point in my life. You see, the bridesmaid isn't supposed to be taller than the bride. At that point, I was slightly taller than my aunt, but she had a kind heart and let me be. I had to return the pair of formal white patent leather shoes thrice. I would rather have trailed behind her, barefoot, up the aisle than wear those tight shoes. I was one of the most unpopular customers that shoe salesmen ever had to endure, I am certain. Back then, I was so very tempted to start a club for the protection of the feet of tall people. But all these pale when compared to attending weddings and being picked up to dance by someone who is much shorter than you. I still remember sitting close to my cousin Julian -- he matched me for height and would, if grandma threatened him and I begged hard enough, dance with me -- in the second row of the reception hall. And then this short guy sauntered up and with an exaggerated gesture said: "May I have this dance, please?" I gulped, looked around. It seemed more complicated to refuse, with all my cousins staring at me. So I got up. "Yeah, sure." His next two questions were "Are those your friends looking at you?" and "Is this the first time you are waltzing?" Well, it was my first time dancing in public. Inexperience made my motions all jerky. Plus, I had a grand view of my man's crown. I mean, it isn't very easy adjusting to the steps of a short-legged partner. To make a long story short, he was not exactly pleased with our dance. And neither was I, what with all my friends and family looking on with amusement glinting in their eyes. We politely parted ways soon. But the worst was yet to come. My entire family and friends were in splits when, at the postmortem of the wedding a week later, they recalled my dance with Mr X. And that spurred my I-Am-Too-Tall complex even harder. The growth phenomenon finally stopped, but 15 years of it did enough damage. I had a huge complex. I struggled with it till I was about 18. I kept blaming my mom for sometime. She used to make me drink this multi-vitamin syrup with the picture of a camel on the bottle. "It will make you grow nice and tall," she used to say. Sure it did. I sighed at what had become of me. Would things have been any different, had I not gulped that down every time mom glared at me across the breakfast table? Once in college, I got selected to the basketball team. Guess why? The coach decided that having me play would be "psychologically good for our team". That again was not exactly great for my self-esteem -- to have people selecting me just because I could scare the other team. But I must admit that I enjoyed the respectful glances I received on the court. The stars in our team were not very tall. Fortunately, they were so good that I, a reserve, never got called to play. I must say that I also enjoyed handing out glucose and shouting at the top of my lungs from the sidelines. Later I was dragged into college fashion shows. Size -- read height -- does matter sometimes. Unfortunately, it was my bossy cousin -- Julian, skip this bit! -- who used to choreograph most of the shows. My walking style was constantly criticised, but by then I was well on my way to loving myself. 'Lambooji' and other such names did not hurt anymore. And I had learnt to carry my tall lanky self with more grace and less awkwardness. I was especially proud of my height when dusky Sushmita Sen became Miss Universe. Then, when people asked me how tall I was, I used to get away with a broad and pompous grin and "About as tall as Ms Universe". Nowadays when I go to a dance, I could not care less if my partner is tall or short. I am used to looking down on people, literally. In fact, I usually get a complex when someone tall walks past me. I do not know if other tall women feel the same way, but I do cast admiring glances at tall ladies at railway platforms or elsewhere. And there certainly is a bonding on the centimetre-inch-feet level. There are many advantages of being tall. Like you get used to people looking up at you (and looking you over), and you get to be the dahina darshak (right marker) during NCC parades. Then there is the downside. You meet a cute guy, have a crush on him and realise that he is excessively short for you. Unless, of course, you don't give a damn what grandma thinks, or don't mind skipping such compliments as 'Oh, what an absolutely charming couple you make'. Your feet tend to stick out of most beds -- custom-made furniture is a solution, thank god -- and you have to avoid the side berths in trains. You also get elected to place heavy parcels, bags etc on the luggage rack. Worse, if you go shopping for the latest hipster pants, unless you are very lucky, you will find them stopping short way above your ankles. But what the heck. It feels great when people ask, "How is the weather up there?" The weather, dear folks, is a state of mind. And it is usually great up here, nice and sunny. Cleona Lira isn't above burying her head in the clouds often. Tell us what you think of this diary
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