No neat endings here

What makes this work utterly compelling is the author's ability to tell her story truthfully, even when it’s tangled in hurt and shame. It made me want to be kinder to my body.

The opening chapters of Roxane Gay’s Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body are nothing like I’ve ever read. I can’t begin to imagine what it took for someone to be so brutally honest with their readers. It’s never easy for us to talk about our bodies, especially if we have had a conflicting relationship with it. Most of us have secrets around our body, parts of it we try and hide, and yet, here is Gay revealing the very source of much of her shame, giving us the most humiliating details of what her body has been put through. I was hooked, and could already sense that I’ll never see my body the same way again.

I’m not even 20 pages in, and as a woman with a large appetite, I already want these sentences to seep into my stubborn brain. “This is what most girls are taught — that we should be slender and small. We should not take up space. We should be seen and not heard, and if we are seen, we should be pleasant to men, and acceptable to society. And most women know this, that we are supposed to disappear, but it’s something that needs to be said, loudly, over and over again, so that we can resist surrendering to what is expected of us.”

I would say that Hunger should be read by anyone who is interested in ideas of beauty and gender, but I should also tell you this. While Gay’s writing is powerful and moving, it’s also devastating. Because it’s not possible for her to talk about her hunger and her body without speaking about her rape, and the impact it has had on her. Gay’s writing made me think of why we write, the power in framing our own narratives, and the strength we get from learning other people’s truths. Hunger reminded me of why I turn to stories when I feel alone, and how it has never failed me.

Tracing the journey of her own body, Gay asks if it’s possible for us to even look past a person’s frame. In a culture that’s obsessed with thinness, do we have it in us to understand a story like Gay’s with genuine empathy? She also brings in the aspects of being from a Haitian family, and how being overweight makes your body everyone’s concern. How is it that when someone is overweight, everyone’s allowed to offer unsolicited advice?

Beyond our bodies

Every time I’m in Kerala, where I grew up, I’m made aware of my body again, no longer being thin like I once was. Here, your weight is discussed casually, almost like the weather. And as I re-read Gay’s memoir, it hits me harder: will we ever be seen for who we are, beyond just our bodies? And, when others insist on telling us who we are, and who we should be, is it still possible for us to hold on to our sense of self, on our own terms? So much of Hunger is about Gay convincing herself that she’s worthy, worthy of affection and simple pleasures, in a life that’s otherwise defined by denial.

One of the most poignant bits in the book is when Gay lets her best friend paint her fingernails, after much protest. “Finally, I surrendered and my hand was soft in hers as she carefully covered my nail in a lovely shade of pink.” But then, when she gets on an aeroplane, she’s suddenly self-conscious, tempted to hide her fingers —“as if I had no right to feel pretty, to feel good about myself, to acknowledge myself as a woman when I am clearly not following the rules for being a woman — to be small, to take up less space.”

What made Hunger utterly compelling for me is Gay’s ability to tell her story so truthfully, even when it’s tangled in hurt and shame.

It made me want to be kinder to my body, and find the courage to listen to my own voice, even over the worst kind of chatter. We owe ourselves that.

Unbound is a monthly column for anyone who likes to take shelter in books, and briefly forget the dreariness of adult life.

The author is a Bengaluru-based writer and editor who believes in the power of daily naps. Find her on Instagram @yaminivijayan