Navigating the Pakistani entertainment field as a ‘conventionally unattractive journalist’

I want to preface this by saying that I don’t think I’m unattractive. Sure, I’d call myself chunky and funky and sure, I’ve had a pretty tumultuous relationship with food and my body — but that’s not what this is about.

I’ve been a journalist for nine years, six of which have been spent in the camera and talent-facing entertainment field. My height has remained constant at 5’4, but my weighing scale has experienced bodily highs and lows with me. Given that I experienced both ends of the spectrum — one where I fit the cookie-cutter “thin and fair” bounds and the other where my body became offensive to many — it’s been a wild ride of expository revelations.

I entered the field as a medical school drop-out — naive, dangerously introverted, self-conscious, and unknowingly battling body dysmorphia. Despite being labelled ‘skinny’ when I diligently skipped meals, I thought I was bordering on obese, and my diet suffered as a consequence. Unfortunately, so did my self-esteem.

Skipping biryani Fridays at work didn’t go unnoticed. I hated eating publicly. As if I needed another reason for people to pointedly say, “Yep, that’s why you’re fat” — taunts with which I was all too familiar. Given my bespectacled visage, I deviated from conventional beauty standards. I was a lot younger too, and at this young age, I was blissfully unaware of any positive attention, with a hyper-fixation on the negative.

I could not accept compliments, but “fun” jabs aimed at me always found a spot in my subconscious. I still vividly remember when I ordered a breakfast sandwich at work once and was ‘jokingly’ told by a male superior, “You’ve started eating a lot. I can see your love handles.”

In the wake of that blow, I guiltily gobbled up the sandwich, vowing to cut my intake even more. It is only now, while writing this, that I realise how inappropriate this was, and given that it took place almost a decade ago, the fact that I can still see exactly how it played out is an angering reminder of just how impactful these words were.

This wasn’t just limited to my immediate work environment. Despite my overt anxiousness at approaching public figures, many initially found my awkward demeanour amusing or endearing. It seemed as if I could get away with nervously stuttering through questions. When part of shoots, I got away with giving stern orders. Interviews were easier. I was the cute, nerdy, bumbling kid.

However, slowly but surely, my age, intake, and weight increased, and given that I spent most days sitting in front of a laptop screen, my movement was restricted too. These weren’t conscious choices — I just slipped into a routine of eating things I could not previously afford and spending all day throwing myself into work.

This was a stark deviation from my previous routine, where I survived on six cups of green tea a day and worked out using the bare minimum energy I had.

Then, Covid-19 hit. With no basic information about stacking calories and unhealthy eating habits, the weight gain during lockdown was rapid and sudden. I noticed it first when attitudes around me began changing. The few times I had masked encounters at a six-foot distance, some acquaintances from the field began remarking on how “different” I had started to look.

Securing interviews for a live Instagram show I was doing became intriguing and my WhatsApp display picture was used as a screening step. “You’re starting to look a little chubby,” one actor remarked while on call with me. Another shared, without any provocation, “You got married recently, no? The post-marriage weight gain is real.”

My changing “aesthetics” became a concern. I was once pulled aside by a musical aspirant who lectured me relentlessly on the importance of maintaining a sleek physique. “You just don’t look good anymore,” they lamented. “It’s just sad. Imagine what others will think. You have to look presentable in this field, you know?”

Another actor liberally gave me unsolicited gym advice. “You should be in the gym at least five times a week,” they shared. “Don’t overdo it and become bulky. But, as a friend, I am telling you, you need to lose weight.” I did not know that we were, in fact, friends, but I did know the advice was anything but friendly. I accepted it nonetheless with a simple note of gratitude.

As the world moved away from working solely from home, the changes in my body became more pronounced. Those who previously smiled now looked me up and down grimly before greeting me with firm courteousness. “You’re looking a little rough, jaan,” one voiced. “All okay at home, na?” Another probed, “Are you…you’re pregnant and not telling, na?”

Even my previously self-proclaimed “friend” refused to acknowledge me at a public event. As I moved to greet them with a smile, they wagged their fingers subtly to say “no,” and moved away. When I tried to greet them after the event, they simply glanced over, looked at me from head to toe, and said, “So I take it you didn’t take my advice.”

It was then that it hit me. I realised that, in this world, I was only seen when I was adhering to some form of conventional beauty. I wasn’t in my “ugly” phase. I was simply invisible, with any acknowledgement of my being in this state seen as a favour.

I fell quite ill during the Covid years and when I recovered from my sixth bout of the virus, having spent two weeks in agony, unable to eat or taste food, I was told by an actor and two separate employers, “You’ve lost weight. Whatever you’re doing, keep at it.” When I replied, “I had Covid, actually,” I was told, “At least you got something good out of it.”

In retrospect, I never stopped and realised the toll this took on me as a person. But I also never stopped to think about the blurring of lines in a field such as this, where so much pertains to aesthetics that those lines bleed into other aspects of the job.

Does this knowledge make us sympathetic to those who opt for drastic, invasive measures to conform? The fillers for plumper lips, the botox to eradicate all signs of ageing, and the surgeries for rapid, Ozempic-assisted weight loss — what does one make of these choices?

Does it make us look fondly at those who have delivered exceptional work without falling into these moulds, thereby allowing a glimmer of hope to seep through? Or does it simply mean that all those who enter this industry in any capacity must harden their shells to persevere despite the remarks?

Perhaps this has been an anomalous experience. Or, perhaps the global outcry over pretty privilege is a reality. If I looked the way I did at 19 today, would I receive such comments? Or would the focus shift to finding other insecurities? Would my teeth be too crooked, or my lips far too thin? Does proximity to the spotlight automatically ensure being put under a stern lens of scrutiny?

Perhaps others have better boundaries and have learned to let things roll off. Or, perhaps there is a grave issue here — one that points to a rigid beauty standard that exclusively celebrates being fair-skinned and thin. That beauty standard is also promoted on screen, which in turn dictates the need for even the most talented artists to undergo massive changes to fit an archetype, be those in the form of surgical procedures, weight loss regiments, or other methods that change the very essence of who you are.

Zara Noor Abbas Siddiqui previously addressed being labelled “too broad” and “too big” in an Instagram post. “A very prestigious brand didn’t want to work with me because I was not ‘petite,’” she revealed. Hareem Farooq has spoken about the same dilemma. And let’s not pretend that female actors who are publicly pregnant do not face similar vitriol. After all, motherhood may be sacred, but a pregnant belly is not safe for public viewing, apparently.

It also raises the question: if toxicity exists at such levels on the peripheries, what must it be like at its core? And what can be done to undo this cyclical form of abuse that has penetrated our society, rearing its ugly head time and again? Does the responsibility lie on those in the know, who must take it upon themselves to showcase diversity on and behind the screen? Or are we, the collective public, responsible for blindly worshipping beauty in a way that only creates a cycle of endless damage?