SOJOURN OF A SIX FOOTER…

          I’ve already written about how difficult it is to survive as a six-footer here. It is a clear misconception that being tall is a perk; it’s more of a pain. And especially for someone like me who is abnormally slim for my height, this is the ultimate bane. Such is the intensity of this abnormality that I am forced to think of LOL as Looking Over-Lanky rather than the obvious Laughing Out Loud.

          A day never starts off well in most of my tours because most of the bathrooms in even the luxurious hotels aren’t designed to accommodate the lifting of hands by a six-footer while taking bath. And then, I have also had this embarrassment of being forced to bend down in an awkward fashion to take bath at one such ‘posh’ lodge, as the shower was placed at some 150 centimeters from the ground level.

          I can’t run enthusiastically to hug my friend when I see him at his house after a long time. I need to slow down a bit, accelerate my thoughts to be far more impulsive and stop before the entrance so that my head doesn’t get this hammered feel due to the entry’s height of just above five feet.

          Rarely do I get a chance during a group photo session to stand at a position which would cover my torso fully. And seldom do my legs come into the frame. It’s like, “If you want to be in the photo, show your head or leg. You cannot have the cake and eat it, too.”

          During bus travails, I am pushed to the limits of exhaustion and anger due to the inadequate spacing between consecutive rows of seats. I try to extend my legs in front and it collides with the legs of a girl in that seat. There is a humongous, beast-like human being, who turns and shouts, “Aren’t you people ashamed to board the bus to tease and touch girls like this?” So I then attempt to expand my legs in a V Fashion and the person beside looks at me as if I am pissing on the seat itself. I pretend to be normal and try to sleep as if nothing has ever happened. Now, I can’t rest my head in the seat because its height can accommodate till my neck only.

          After some time, the bus stops for a break and I try to stand up in a hurry so as to get rid of that awkward sitting posture. Bang! My head butts on the luggage placing area. “You got to remember that you are occupying the window seat, mate”, I say to myself, rubbing my head with my right hand.

          When the bus starts again, I try to make myself comfortable by sitting in an inclined position, as if suffering from scoliosis. My butt dashes against the adjacent person and he mistakes me for a gay. “What’s your problem, brother?” he asks, and I know he thinks I am suffering from piles or something more terrible.

          In order to avoid all these conflicts and embarrassments, I book a ticket in a sleeper class bus. I enter with a sense of pride and relief, smile extruding all over my face as if I have represented India in some international event and all the leaders have appreciated my efforts. Alas! Even the berth is of 165 – 170 centimeters long and I am nudged to the brink of exasperation.

          I always sit at the last bench in classrooms because of two reasons. Firstly, I am fucking tall. Secondly, I go late to classes and the other benches are already occupied. It’s not that someone scolds me if I position myself in some middle row (I am not a fucking first bencher), but I am made to play hide and seek between the benches because the people at the back aren’t able to see the board till the bottom. I am made to lean, bend and kneel like David fighting Goliath, and I never think of going to one of those middle rows ever in my lifetime again.

          Using mobiles during really boring class hours is the tradition of college goers, especially engineers, but I am denied that boon forever. If I keep my mobile under the desk and try to operate it, I have to bend a lot which evidently results in me getting caught red-handed.

          Costumes! Whether I use it or not, even the most stylish and costliest pants in my collection has to go to some underprivileged person’s hands after a year or so from the date of purchase, because the length doesn’t fit me; or rather, I don’t fit its size.

          My heart pounds with uncontrollable happiness when I mention to my friends that I don’ burst crackers during Diwali, because I am conscious about the environment, having scored an A in Environmental Science (Sometimes or always, I try to boast like crazy. Never mind!) But reality is that I didn’t abstain from this cracker-bursting activity as a green enthusiast, but my height forced me to back out. I had to bend a lot to ignite a cracker, which would be placed at the floor. My comfortable attempt to light a cracker with relative ease by placing it in the compound wall boomeranged like hell when the wall experienced a small crack, unable to tolerate the explosive effect of this Lakshmi Vedi.

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          There’s an unwritten rule that a boy and a girl should have lesser height difference in order to get married, and I have heard stories about horoscopes being rejected even after all other prerequisites are found to be okay. But given a chance, I would always marry a far shorter girl than me so that at least my child doesn’t suffer from this ‘tallness tantrum’.

          Negatives apart, I have a fair chance of making it to the assembly of the Southernmost state of India, where the subordinates always bend to welcome the spearhead. I have an edge because my natural stance itself has become inclined due to the hunch that normally develops over a period for all lanky people. Name is Giridharan. Good luck!