I’m 18. And I’m dragged from school to the hospital. And I’m made to look at myself. (MUSIC PLAYING) I weigh 56 pounds. “Do you find you’re too skinny?” “Yes, I am too skinny. But what does it matter?” I had turned my body into a project, a revolt against nature — Mother nature, my mother. A revolt against womanhood, adulthood. My biggest enemy? Time. “And am I — am I the skinniest person you’ve ever seen?” (MUSIC PLAYING) Let’s go back before time, before the clock struck midnight. I was a chubby Punjabi raised in Trois-Rivières, Canada, my home. This is the place where the rebel was made and the project began. “One, two, three.” My sisters — “Can you laugh? Can you laugh into it?” “Well, only if you tell me a good joke.” Amita, my big sister, the goddess, the queen, my idol. My little sister, Seema, practically my twin, my mate, playmate, my rival. My dad, my hero, my eternal hero. My mom, a passionate teacher, a teacher with an accent no one would hire, the reluctant housewife stuck in the house and missing her home. (PUNJABI SINGING) The cook, the housewife who got sick with homesickness, the sickness of sadness. And I caught her illness. Mom knew girls had to turn into women. She knew girls had to turn over and die and be born again to the other side. Caterpillar turns to butterfly. Caterpillar turns to butterfly. (GENTLE MUSIC) All I wanted was for time to stop. For my body to stop. (SINGING) “Pull away” Then the period comes — pads and blood, more blood, everywhere, blood. Shock on Mom’s face. Shock and shame. What’s happening? Am I a monster? Caterpillar turns to butterfly. (MUSIC PLAYING) I didn’t want to turn. I escape in magazines. Fashion, models, beauty, fantasy. Oh, so free. Free. Carefree. Could never be me in those magazines. The chubby Punjabi gets chubbier. “So that’s what happened to me.” The models get dreamier. “Make your fantasies come alive.” “Was to fit into my old jeans again.” My jeans no longer fit me. My jeans no longer fit me. My jeans no longer fit. (MUSIC PLAYING) Mother cooks, feeds. Chubby swallows her pain. (SINGING) “Happy birthday” (UPBEAT SYNTH) Skinny was born inside a pair of jeans, the jeans of my dreams. I wanted the look. Everyone wanted the look. Seema, my little sister — hey, let’s go on a diet together, our summer project, a way to run away, a getaway from Mom, the cook, her food, the Indian, the housewife, her homesickness. Seema was skinnier, smarter, faster, cuter, bolder. Two daughters from one mother and worlds apart. She, eager to grow up, push past the clock, while me — when will it stop? “Trick or treat!” My sister, my rival, twins on one mission: to fit into those designer jeans. Rule No. 1: No snacking. “Chocolate cake.” “On any stomach.” “Only 620 calories!” “Oh, my God. Oh.” Rule No. 2: Limit your calories. “Great legacy.” “Six, seven and eight.” Calories, calories, calories. “You look lovely, dear.” Rule No. 3. “One, two, three, four.” Say no to dessert. “Bring it up. Two, three ——” Say no to sugar —— “And chest.” “Saying no most of the time is as simple as this.” “No.” Good girls say no. Don’t have it; be it. Be the sugar, the spice and all that’s nice. “Boys and girls all over America.” Rule No. 4: Don’t fuck up. You cheat, you lose. “Don’t you know that it’s rude for a lady to finish everything on her plate?” “OK, that’s enough.” We became sisters all over again, not two, but one, twins on one mission, one goal. We’re in it to win it, together forever, sisters, twins. “Hello there. I’m Seema Marjara.” “Sure. Yeah. Yeah. She’s an imposter, really.” “Right. My name is Mildred.” “Hi. Yeah. It’s true. I agree totally.” “Seema, help me. Seema.” (MUSIC PLAYING) Then Seema woke up one morning and something had changed. She was weak. She was sad and dizzy all the time. This had gone too far. It was time to stop. who me? Don’t stop. Can’t stop. Beat the clock. (MUSIC PLAYING) She bid me bye-bye and left, made her way back up the rabbit hole and turned into a butterfly. She had turned, as Mother said girls must — turn over and die and be born again into women. My sister, my little sister became my big sister, the one who turned. (GENTLE MELODY) She didn’t need to prove anything. I fell deeper into the hole. Fell deep, deep into my new jeans. “It’s hard on my back, I have to admit. It’s hard to stay straight.” I’d pace by the nurses’ station, waiting for that ring. Mom called every day without fail. “Hello?” “Hello?” Did I eat? Did I shower? Did I need clean underwear? And ended up telling me to gain weight and to come home. “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.” My skinny jeans ended up being too big for me. And guess who walked in wearing them? (POP MUSIC) Just what I needed, to have little sister strutting down the hall like a Fabergé commercial with her bouncing and having hair. (SINGING) “She’s got it” She hopped into my bed and I brushed her hair and told me about Greg, a boy she was crushing on. She was excited about her prom, her dress, the shoes, the makeup, the boys. More boys. Here they are at the party. (SINGING) “Take a little chance ’cause she’s got it” “Pretty good.” “Later, Friday night.” “Yeah.” (SINGING) She’s got it.” “I don’t know.” (SOMBER MUSIC) “I don’t know.” But she didn’t look at me with pity. It was as though we were home and not in the hospital. The medical smells, the patients screaming down the hall didn’t faze her. Then, as I brushed her hair, I saw something. I saw her neck. Her skin was shades darker from her face that was fair from her makeup. Her hands, mocha brown like the rest of her. Then I realized. To me, Seema was skinnier and bolder. But to her, I was whiter and prettier. We were sisters, twins. And not worlds apart at all. She said Mom and Dad missed me and couldn’t wait for me to be home. And neither could she. She knew she wasn’t perfect. She knew life didn’t always add up and shit happens. And she kept going. Just kept going. And knew I would, too. (SPEAKING FRENCH) (MUSIC PLAYING)
