Ma and Papa didn’t know the reason when they rushed me to the hospital, where I was put on IV. But the doctor understood that something was wrong and referred me to the psychiatrist.

Even then, my parents didn’t figure out that there was anything wrong. I did not look anorexic. Ha ha. I wish, I used to think. I did not have bulimia. I wouldn’t have been able to hide that from my parents. Of course, it was also because I couldn’t imagine forcing myself to throw up.

The psychiatrist was a kindly middle-aged woman who asked me all sorts of questions, which suggested she figured out what was wrong. But I refused to go back to her. I didn’t want to talk to someone who might want to make me to stop hating my body. Because hate kept my anger alive. Hate made me remember those words that were seared into my memory, words that still had the power to hurt me immensely.

Fat Ananya.
Ugly cow.
Thick ankles.
Ms Piggy.

Hating my body was the only way I could stop hearing those words from others ever again.

My parents didn’t push me to keep meeting the psychiatrist because I convinced them I was fine. I just became more careful at making sure I wouldn’t faint again. So, instead of starving myself, I became obsessed with healthy eating, exercise and yoga. The kilos didn’t melt away magically and getting on the scale every morning was still a painful thing to do. But I had kept my love of food at bay and I was on my way to becoming the Ananya I wanted to be.

‘Work in progress,’ I muttered under my breath softly.

Aunty V, who was still waiting for me, cocked her head. ‘What?’

I shook my head, not wanting to get into it.

I followed Aunty V out of my room but didn’t go to the dining room. I went to the kitchen and quickly put together a salad, taking the bowl with me to the dining room. The aroma of the biryani wafted in the air and made me feel sick with hunger.

Papa looked animated as he wolfed down the food and Ma talked to Aunty V as they ate. I was glad no one was paying me any attention.

Then, before I could say anything, Aunty V leaned across and spooned some biryani on to my plate. I stared at the rice grains that were beautifully separate and not clumpy as they sometimes were when Ma made biryani. Not that I had tasted any recently.

I continued eating my salad and as I listened, I realized that they were talking about Raghu.

‘I need him to get serious now, Chitra. This can’t go on,’ Aunty V was saying.

‘Yes, but aren’t you being too hard on him?’ Ma asked her. ‘He’s just eighteen!’