The politically incorrect. All beautiful people.

   
                             "The politically correct" was a new boundary set up to limit the wildness of our words, an outgrowth, our parents in their days, could enjoy. Those were times when a white man was a white and a black man, a black. They would just call a blind man, a blind man and an old man, an old man. And those were times when it seemed that no one really took offense for being called white, black, old, fat or thin. At least, so it seemed. I am still wondering if in those days, people just accepted being what they were or were they as hurt as anybody today if they were told they were fat or black, however true that may or may not have been.


                               The whole neighbourhood seemed to laugh over Mr Midget. They could go to the extent of saying what would seem cruel today: " He was so short that when called, he could come running under the table to meet you, instead of going around it", was one of the jokes that made every one laugh, even Mr Midget. The ‘rat-tail aunty’ was a nickname given to that unfortunate lady whose plait got thinner by the day to the point of comparison to the rat's tail. Rat-tail aunty seemed to take even more care of her weeny little plait, the more people mocked her hair growth. Fat aunty and pot-belly uncle were that lovely cheerful couple, who kept laughing all the time. Call them fat, call them pot-belly, they could laugh it off with you and look mirthfully beyond their over growth of fat and belly. They even seemed to rejoice in it. Yes, there was a time, not so long ago, when fat aunty was not so fat and uncle's belly was not so potty and rat-tail aunty had luscious, long, black hair and Mr Midget was a beautiful toddler.

                               All these people, Mr Midget, Mrs Rat-tail, Mr Pot-belly and Mrs Fat had become part of a whole picture, living in the same neighbourhood. I'm sure they all had some Christian, Hindu or Muslim names, but no one seemed to care. All that mattered was the mirth around their new identities. Fat aunty took as much pride in her fatness as her husband in his belly. He even stroked it tenderly, from time to time. Mr Midget just darted from one end to the other of the room, as if to prove that his neighbours were right about him. Rat-tail aunty spent hours plaiting those ridiculously thin strands of hair till the very tips and proudly let it hang down, instead of putting it up or chopping it off. Each one of them seemed to nurture their own trademark, as if this new identity they had grown into had to be lived up. After all, everybody had something to grow into or live up to. The blind old man next door, had just become the blind old man and nobody knew since when. He too was an extraordinarily beautiful baby when he came out of his mother's womb, one day not so long ago.

                             These were people who lived by their trades, their values and their means, whatever that might have been. They did not seem to be reduced to these new identities that they themselves least expected to grow into one day. They could have all done better with more or less growth of different parts of their bodies. But these differences made them unique and earned them their nicknames. They meant to keep them by even overplaying these new identities. And yet they never were reduced to just being these differences. They were just names, like any other and did not define their entire being. Of course, they could do a lot more things other than just being short or fat. Most of all, they could afford a lot more sense of humour than we can boast of, in our "politically correct" times today. 


                          These differences were a part of their genetic heritage. And they simply chose to deride their own genes that they can hardly be blamed for. It did not seem to be a matter of serious reflexion to call upon surgery to fix these terrible genetic failings. In today's rat race for winners, there seem to be a set of rules by which we shall be measured and rated : A social manipulation leading us to believe in how we should look. And if you can afford it, you can to a certain extent, buy some "good looks". If you choose to be a winner, you would! Because you will have the power that comes with the money to be able do so. You could get yourself some hair transplant, get your belly sliced off, your fat sucked out, your skin colour changed, your nose reshaped and so on and so forth. The possibilities are endless on your way to looking like today's Barbie dolls.

                     My baby girl brought me one of my greatest moments of joy, when she was born. I still find her fascinatingly beautiful. I guess all mothers feel that way towards their children. We just love them, don't we? She came up to me and asked if I thought she was fat. I said, 'yep, way too fat next to Barbie! In fact, I'm going to call you fatty from now on! So that has got to settle in and we can deal now with the rest called life.'

                     On our way to becoming Barbie dolls, we have not only banished all the so-called flaws, but also the words pointing out at them, by being politically correct. Instead of laughing them off and eating and drinking merrily our way through life, we have become robots of perfection hoping for longevity and everlasting youth. 

                     Having said that, I do believe that there are still a lot of us, not wanting to be those winners, laughing off our so-called imperfections, having given up our strife towards reaching robotic perfection… Are we losers then?   

                  I should add that according to statistics, people had splits of laughter on an average of over 25 minutes a day compared to today's under 5 minutes of laughter per day!  Does that surprise you? Perhaps, we shall all be uniformly monotonous and boringly stupid Barbies and Kens to the joy of our equally stupid mirrors and onlookers. Is that a modern pursuit of happiness?  Who wants to be benched with me and watch them run the race and have some politically incorrect fun. Oops, I'm sorry.