“Because of our shared trauma,” the professional singer, actor and model tells us, “the atmosphere was one of camaraderie and not competition. Instead of being starved to fit into a glittering gown, we were taught about nutrition. If someone hadn’t eaten, we’d pack her off during rehearsals to go grab a bite. We weren’t weighed every day. Instead of sample-sized clothes to squeeze into, a former contestant—Priyanka Miglani—custom-made my gown. It was more about personality development—to amplify our gifts.”

Dutta was raised in a Bengali household of music, arts, with working parents who shared chores. Her father is a Tai Chi instructor and she was always active. So all the qualities associated with weight—laziness, un-fitness, over-eating, unhealthy eating—baffled her. Her body facilitates play. Also, she sings. She was signed on by the athleisure brand Aastey, after they spotted her at a gig. She has sung a song in Haddi, a transgender-centric film starring Nawazuddin Siddiqui.

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“I looked around for idols and found Usha Uthup: A majestic kanjeevaram and large bindi-wearing performer who belts out jazz,” she says. “Like her, I also do power vocals, but I would be rejected for gigs because of how I look. But I’d turn it around in my favour by telling corporates, ‘Don’t you think if your employees see a woman like them on stage, it would be good for team-building?’. I come from a very supportive ecosystem of blood and chosen family, and am committed to living my every truth—I am pan-sexual and non-binary, but don’t mind being called she/her.”

She also found strength in fellow Bengali and beauty queen Sushmita Sen, who said in an interview once: “If you hold on to your rejections long enough, they turn into acceptance”.

So what is the cost of living in, and building, a society that fears fat? It’s not being able to admit publicly that you are attracted to a chubby person… to the point that you may marry one who society deems beautiful, but you have no desire for. Discontent in the intimate world can seep into every other. “By the time I was in college, the male attention I drew told me I was attractive, but it’s not a linear journey, no? They would not admit in public that they liked me.” Dutta had a boyfriend for three years, in her early 20s, who did not want to hold her hand in public. “My parents knew about him,” she says, “but he didn’t tell his parents because you know what [unevolved] parents look for in a bride.” She’s now married to a man who has been her best friend for 14 years. Both gamers, date night is playing First-Person Shooters like Counter Strike and MMORPGs side-by-side on separate PCs.

But there were years she would not eat in public, afraid of being shamed. Because what else do we say to a person like her with a plate, but “Bass kar! Kitna khayegi!” “Even as a child, relatives would say to me: Don’t eat so much. Then came a time if I was offered a second helping as a guest, I would refuse, even though I love eating and cooking! C’mon! I’m Bengali!” And when you don’t eat in public, you shame binge in private. The turning point came in 2016 when she met with a road accident and was afflicted with multiple organ dysfunction. “After seeing death up so close,” says, “I just decided I just wanted to be happy; I didn’t want to miss out on any fun.”

What happens when you recognise that beauty is a social construct—a creature confined to time and economy—and harnessed to sell tools of self-hate and oppression? It could be ironic that though a genetic roulette decides how we look, society makes it the first quality we assess a person by.

If you are Dutta, you make inroads into the system: Show that thin is not the only way to be fit. To represent the various shapes within the plus-sized spectrum: “I am a plus, petite”. Or refuse to play the heartbroken and stuffing-her-face-in-every scene BFF to the heroine. Take part in a beauty pageant so that you get a foot in the door to model for beauty brands, fashion, and be in movies. “I want roles where my talents fit into the script—my singing, for instance,” she says, “Why can’t I play a musician? A normal person?”

Because you, dear, are XXX-ordinary.