The long and short of a daily struggle

The criteria, you may ask? The slab cannot be higher than my tummy. The bottom shelves of the cabinets — the ideal place to store everyday masalas — should be easily reachable, at the most with a bit of stretching. Points to plug in the grinder, the microwave, etc., should all be placed at easily accessible spots that don’t require much hopping around the kitchen. For inaccessible spots, there is always a tall wooden stool on standby.

If it sounds like I have an obsessive-compulsive disorder, believe me, that’s not what I am dealing with here. Standing at a cannot-be-missed height of 4’11”, these are a prerequisite given the foodie I am.

I couldn’t even reach the 5-foot club despite gulping down two glasses of milk daily with a “growth booster” that promised good height while I was growing up. Be it skipping or hanging on a rod or swimming — nothing woke up my dormant height gene.

One thing I dreaded most while in school was being made to stand in the front row during the morning assembly. Being in that cannot-be-missed spot, I always had to be up to date on the daily news since the morning prayers were followed by the much-feared news reading and quiz sessions. The “problem” has persisted since then.

From standing on my toes daily for the office attendance biometric, since the machine is placed at a certain height, to being the smallest in my friends’ circle — being short is a daily struggle. At my suggestion to someone from HR to lower the biometric machine “a little”, I was advised to “carry a stepping stool”.

With time, I have realised that a short girl’s best friend is often a tall person. Who else do you think can put up or take down the curtain for me or get suitcases out of the loft? The fact that I smoke makes matters worse at times. People often give me a second look — a judgy one at that — at a restaurant and even in the airport smoking lounge.

I have reached a point in my life where the children of my close friends are taller than me. My college-going nephew looks like my boyfriend when we pose for pictures. If that is not enough, when we go out drinking, I am served an alcoholic beverage only after I furnish an age proof, whereas he acquires it without flashing any ID card.

While shopping at every girl’s paradise — Delhi’s Sarojini Nagar, Lajpat Nagar and Janpath — shopkeepers often quote a much higher price, betting on my short stature and assuming that I am a child. In hindsight, this has taught me to keep my guard up and with time, like my friends say, I have mastered the art of bargaining.

When all things fail, one often tries to find a way to manoeuvre the problem. For me, that has been my “locks”.

While height evades me, my salt-and-pepper strands give me the required weight, and are often enough to make me invisible to the judgy eyes around me. Not colouring my hair not only saves me those much-needed bucks, keeping the greys also gives me the intellectual look that my profession requires.

Now that I look back, I realise, not all is after all that bad with being short. While some may think of me as someone in her late teens with premature greys, I am also often bombarded with phrases like “oh you are still the same” or “you haven’t changed a bit” when I catch up with old friends or meet relatives after years.

Another plus side of my “short problem” is that old clothes still fit me. On some lucky days, while cleaning up, I lay my hands on an old pair of jeans and voilà, it still fits perfectly. Then there is the fact that my dog, an Indie, is “taller” than me while on his hind legs

From morning assembly at school to taking a group photo with colleagues, I still occupy the front row. Ask me now how that has turned out? With acceptance, comes relief, a full profile of me and a wide smile.

The writer is a Senior Assistant Editor with The Indian Express