text: Disclaimer: This story may be triggering to people who have body image issues. The concept of obesity was very different in South Asia, where I was born and raised. The number on the scale was proportional to the number in the bank account-- wealth and happiness would reflect on your body. Hence, me being slightly on the heavy side was not a stigma or a thing to worry about. On the contrary, it made me proud of my beauty. Relatives would fawn over my curves when I visited, and I was satisfied knowing that my parents were not worried about my lifestyle. They had enough to worry about: my dad’s business falling apart, my sister’s marital problems, and me living away from them. Without the ease of communication that exists today-I had to wait for months to receive my father’s hand-written letter and vice versa- they were bound to worry for me. At least my weight reassured them that I was happy in the foreign land. I hadn’t linked weight and fitness in my mind. To be honest, I just never gave it much thought. I was a mother, wife, daughter and sister- and each of those connections kept me busy each day. My weight, and its possible effect on my health, never crossed my mind. All this changed on the day of the incident. It was the year 1998. Back in the day, during my vacation, I would visit my parents and family in India. This was the highlight of the year; I would carry exotic treats like almonds, dates, figs and gifts for my relatives. It was the unsaid rule that any time you visit family, you need to take gifts for them. Thus, when I visited my family in the countryside, all the children would swarm the car when I went, knowing that I brought gifts for them from abroad. It was also established that summer equals weddings. Every time I visited India, I would be invited to all the weddings in my family, and sometimes I would attend up to four in a week. During that visit to India, I had gone to meet my sister who was living in Chennai, which was slowly evolving into a busy metropolitan city. The new concept of nuclear family was creeping into the city, which accelerated the apartment living. My sister had moved into a five-floor building and her apartment had all the comforts of a modern home but in “petite” size. The elevator in her building was considered a luxury in India. Though the amenities were not novel for me, I appreciated that my family too could enjoy them as I had been during my stay abroad. My sister came to the airport to pick me up, and during the entire car ride to her home, she updated me on all the events that I had missed over the year. My heart felt happy and my soul felt refreshed. I was ecstatic to be back in her presence. The sibling I didn’t appreciate growing up with, due to the close gap in our age, became one of my closest confidantes. The long distance between made us cherish the precious moments together as we navigated the challenges of adulthood. As we approached her apartment building, I was eager to freshen up- the excitement to arrive started wearing off and the exhaustion began settling in. While waiting for the escalator to arrive at the ground floor, my mind was processing the information I knew on these types of escalators. They were referred to as birdcage elevators since it resembled a bird cage- one was able to look out of the elevator car to the surroundings. This was different from the modern elevators with solid doors that I was used to in my building. The novelty of this elevator, and the loud noises it made as it came down, ignited a spark of trepidation but I couldn’t do or say anything. This was the usual route of transport to my sister’s apartment, and I was not ready to climb the stairs. Besides, how would I be perceived if I, the one who lived abroad and rode elevators daily, claimed to be afraid of this contraption? I got into the birdcage elevator, and rolled my bag into the gap. Since there wasn’t space left for my sister, she asked me to wait in front of her apartment, and told me that she would take the elevator when it went back down. I couldn’t show my hesitation so I just smiled and said “ok”. Before I knew it, I was closing the safety scissor gate and pressing the button for floor 5. I immediately reassured myself that this was a safe machine. I watched as the scene changed from the ground floor, to cement, to apartment 102’s entrance, to cement, to apartment 202’s entrance and so on. I turned to check if I had my passport in my bag when suddenly I heard a loud “THUD”, felt a strong jerk and the elevator stopped midway between floor 3 and 4. My heart stopped. I was in panic. I jingled the inner door of the elevator and it started to open. Then, it struck me-even if I get the inner door open, there wasn’t a way for me to leave. I couldn't climb up to floor 4 and wouldn’t fit in the space below to floor 3. I could feel the disbelief and desperation setting in. How do I get myself out of this situation? I quickly pressed the alarm and let out a scream for help. I don’t remember what I said, but it definitely sounded desperate. I kept shouting until I could hear a reply. My sister and a few tenants heard my shout and came rushing with the watchman (security guard was called this) to see the commotion. They were shocked to see me yelling for help in an elevator that was dangling halfway between floors. The security guard tried to bring the elevator down to the third floor but he couldn’t move it any further. So he opened the outer door manually, and placed a high ladder at the edge of the elevator. A ladder that I had to climb down. I could feel tears of humiliation gather at my eyes as I watched the many curious people gather to watch the dramatic scene. My struggle to climb down the ladder seemed amplified to myself and soon became an embarrassing tale that changed my life. It opened my eyes to the realities that life can throw on us at any moment. That was the first time I realized the value of being fit and healthy to overcome difficult situations such as these in life. I was thankful that it was not a more serious one. Neither fitness instructors nor Google existed at the time. I navigated my fitness journey by reading lots of magazines and through lots of trials and error. Two years after that incident, when a similar incident happened, I was able to laugh it off and was able to navigate it smoothly due to my better fitness. The number on the scale became a good indicator of my success- the kind I am proud of.