I am 165 centimetres in height. Before you start feeling bad for me, please understand that 165 centimetres is not short. It is average Indian male height.
In India, the national average adult height is approximately 5 feet 5 inches, or 165 centimetres, for men and around 5 feet, or 152 centimetres, for women, and these figures are based on the National Family Health Survey, which was conducted across the country between June 2019 and April 2021.
So technically, I am not short. I am exactly where lack of protein in middle-class childhood would get you.
Even in northern states like Punjab and Haryana, where men are generally taller and frequently reach 5 feet 7 inches (170 cms), they are only around 5 centimetres taller than me.
That is hardly any difference – that’s literally the height of one idlee when it is placed on a plate. And I gobble up four of them for breakfast on most days.
Yet, all my life, people have made me feel as if I am a bonsai version of a man.
The tragedy is that when I was in class 9, I was as tall as I am today. After that I just stopped growing.
Back then, I was one of the last three boys in the assembly line of my class.
If my life had continued in that direction, I may have become one of those men who look over crowds, reach overhead shelves without a stool, and say irritating things like, “Legroom is a problem for me.”
Why, I may have even won an Olympic Gold for India in an athletic event.
But India’s bad luck…somewhere in the middle of 9th standard, I stopped growing.
It was almost as if my body told itself, “ We have reached national average. Let us be modest…we Rajans don’t like to show off.”
By the time I reached class 12, I had moved from being one of the last three boys in the assembly line to the fourth from the front.
Boys who were puny in class 9 suddenly grew into monsters with moustaches. My classmates who were once stopped from entering the Vijay Lakshmi theatre which used to show adult movies started walking around with deep voices, hairy arms, and could also lift a cycle with one hand.
Meanwhile, I remained 165 centimetres. At this point it is important to note that I did have a moustache worth mentioning.
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Despite my small build I was a decent kabaddi player in school. In fact, I went to the Kendriya Vidyalaya kabaddi nationals three times – in 10th, 11th and 12th.
The last time, I captained the Tamil Nadu team and took them to Jaipur for the nationals. That sounds impressive because it was impressive.
At the nationals, we would play against teams from Punjab, Haryana, Jammu and Kashmir, and other places where boys seemed to have been grown using fertiliser meant for sugarcane.
They were six-footers with massive muscles, and proper moustaches and beards. And then there was me…Tamil Nadu’s captain…just 165 cms tall.
I was only a decent raider because of my small size. A raider in kabaddi needs to enter enemy territory, touch someone, and come back alive while saying kabaddi-kabaddi-kabaddi without breathing.
As you may have guessed…for that, long arms, long legs, height etc help but I had none of these.
What I had was excellent reflex, which I for some reason still seem to have. Even today, my reflexes help me on the badminton court, and when I play football with my kids’ friends. But more on the football later.
In kabaddi, I was a very good right-in. For those who don’t know, the right-in is one of those positions where you have to watch the opponent raider’s footwork when they come into your court, wait for the exact moment when they think they are safe, and then go for the kill.
It requires timing, sharpness, and courage. I was good in that position. So good that I was selected for SGFI — the School Games Federation of India.
But even this achievement has a humiliation attached to it.
At the kabaddi national meet where I was selected for SGFI, the six-footers from Punjab, Haryana, and Jammu and Kashmir gave me a nickname.
They called me ‘gilehri’…which means ‘squirrel’ in English.
Now, I am not against nicknames. A good nickname can build an image, which I think is good for sportsmen.
A nickname such as Lion, Tiger, Rhino, Panther…why even a Cobra…would have been amazing. These names mean power, danger, dependability. Opponents will think twice before coming near you.
But squirrel? What image does squirrel create? A small nervous creature holding a nut.
And whenever my team lost the good raiders and I went for a raid, I would hear chants from the other side: “Gilehri! Gilehri! Gilehri!”
Imagine the emotional damage to a kabbadi player when you are representing Tamil Nadu and trying to look fierce…but then they end up calling you “cute.”
At that age, it hurt. Today, of course, I have matured. Today, I tell myself that they called me squirrel not because I was small, but because I had fast reflexes. After all, a squirrel is one of the fastest and most agile animals on land.
So maybe it was not insult but a recognition. But I was immature to misunderstand it.
Over the years, I have also realised that the world around me is actually built for people of my height.
When I sit in economy class on flights, I am comfortable. I don’t have to pay ₹1000 extra for extra legroom like my taller friends do.
Even in buses – though it has been a while since I travelled by bus and I am not proud of it – I don’t have to crouch the way my taller friends do.
When I climb up to the upper berth in 2 AC, I have space to keep my laptop bag and also stretch my legs. I can even walk under low doorways without hitting my head.
In short (pun intended!), I am the height India was built for. So it is not that I am short…its just that those guys are taller.
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I thought by fifty, either I would have forgotten about my height of 165 cms, or the world would have moved on. But the curse of being considered short has not left me even at this age.
I used to think that by 50 people would stop discussing height and start discussing more mature things like cholesterol, retirement plans, and knee pain, but no.
For the last few years, I have been playing football regularly with my son Ritwik’s friends. They are five-six of them, all between ten to twelve years old.
When I come back home around 6:30 p.m., they are already warmed up and ready.
Before I can park my car, I get waylaid and pulled straight into the small open area that serves as our football field.
Now, because these are children, I decide whether I want to win or not.
Sometimes, when I am in a generous mood, I let them win so that their childhood confidence remains intact. Sometimes, when I have had a bad day, I beat them….and that’s usually the first win of my day.
Doesn’t go well with the kids, but it helps me sleep well.
Anyway, a few months back, I had had a bad day…so when I was dragged into football, I decided there would be no mercy. I marshalled my team of three footballers and won the match 6-3.
After the match, as is tradition, the winning team started teasing the losing team. There are very few moments in life when a fifty-year-old man feels like a champion….and beating his son’s friends at football is one of them.
That is when one ten-year-old boy from the losing side stepped forward and said, “Uncle, you should be the last person teasing us. You are the biggest loser.”
I was shocked.
“Bro, why would you say that? Your team just lost the match 6-3.”
He looked at me with the confidence of a child who has discovered his Brahmastra.
“I have seen your marriage photo in your house,” he said. “You are shorter than your wife.”
Now I am not the kind that brings personal matter into public space. Ok, maybe I am wrong there…else I won’t be publishing this. Let’s reword that. Now I am not the kind that brings personal matter into the sports arena, but then, I was compelled to defend myself.
I said, “No, I am not.”
He said, “Yes, you are.”
I said, “No, really, we are the same height.”
He shouted, “No, you are shorter.”
And suddenly, all the kids joined hands. Even those who played in my team.
All of them started shouting, “Yes, you are! Yes, you are!”
I tried to defend myself but with each passing minute their shouts were getting louder. I bet some adults were also looking down on me from their balconies.
Then the boy who started it all got wings. He said, “And any man who is shorter than his wife is a loser.”
I wanted to tell him that the most handsome men in the world have had taller wives or girlfriends.
I wanted to tell him about Charlize Theron who is is taller than Sean Penn, about Cameron Diaz who is is taller than Benji Madden, and about Katie Holmes who guess what…is again taller than Tom Cruise.
I wanted to explain that height has nothing to do with masculinity, marriage, love, or confidence. Wait…maybe we should erase confidence from that list.
But would they understand? They wouldn’t have because at that moment they had the energy that a mob from one religion has when it attacks innocents from the other religion. Unfortunately, every time a few have to die before the stupidity of it all comes to an end. In this case it was my confidence that died.
After I came back home, I did what any self-respecting husband would do. I went straight to check the marriage photo and looked at it for more than a minute. And I promise, Rekha and I are of the same height.
Maybe she is standing slightly straighter…having married a Rajan.
But I am not shorter – at least I don’t think so.
As cruel as kids can be, they can also be amazingly genuine. The next day, as my car entered our apartment complex they stopped playing, surrounded me, and pulled me into the game.
I was still thinking of the previous evening, but they had forgotten and moved on. There was no mention of the height.
But then, I don’t trust these kids….so haven’t won a match since then. Why win and reopen old wounds?