Inspiration: Klimt’s Mother and Child
Padma from Bangalore shares about her wondrous breasts.
“I was that girl who got her periods later than the other girls in school. I was 14. So breasts were slow in showing up. While the girls with round breasts were busy playing girlfriends I ran on tracks with abandon. I yearned for fuller breasts but I also knew that girls with bigger breasts weren’t allowed to run around or were conscious of their bounciness.
I was called carromboard, tennis court and whathaveyou – I laughed along. What else could I do? I was smart, intelligent but I had no boobs. Add to this, curly hair that was impossible to tame meant there were more nicknames and jokes. And oh I wasn’t fair either.
When I saw in the mirror, I always saw a beautiful girl. I loved my curly hair, my small boobs, my angular teenage body. I also saw my nose that my mom called ambode (one type of deep fried vada) or the left eye that is smaller than the right (I would have married you if not for that, said one young man).
This dichotomy meant that I had no clue how to be myself. I wore defiance on my sleeve and challenged people. It did not protect me. It only made me feel angry. I didn’t hide instead decided to fake confidence. That advice – fake it till you make it? Take it with a pinch of salt. Because it can deepen that impostor syndrome.
I had no trouble with men either. Boobs weren’t the only sexy thing in a woman’s body. I knew it. And soon the men discovered it too. But who will tell that to men and women making small boobs in big hands jokes? Easier to ignore.
The first sight of cleavage had to come post 30, when I was pregnant. Boy, was I thrilled. I flaunted the cleavage merrily. I was warned the boobs will sag. I didn’t care.
Post delivery, my boobs were at the forefront yet again (pun very much intended) My baby was skinny. And the world worried that my tiny boobs (never mind my bra size had gone up) will not produce enough milk to fatten the baby. Advise rained in from all corners. I was angry. Because I had more than enough milk. Enough to express for days ahead if I needed to step out. I felt terrible on the days I had to throw away excess milk. Yes I also felt like a cow but that’s another story.
I was proud of my breasts. I was fascinated at how well it worked much against the world’s view of them.
Now with age my breasts sag and point in different directions. I am still proud of them. I have come to accept the roundedness of my once angular body. I let down my curly hair to the evening breeze, I don’t really think about my skin colour. I am finally able to tell the world to go fuck itself. And totally, unabashedly love the beautiful woman I see in the mirror. “
