26th June, 2017.
'No, for the last time, you're not wearing shorts and going out.'
We were in our ancestral home in Aliganj, Lucknow. All our cousins, uncles, aunts, nephews and nieces had congregated to celebrate Eid-Ul-Fitr. After a hearty meal of mutton korma and sheermaal (flour kneaded with milk and baked like pita bread), we were all stretching our legs and letting our stomachs stretch themselves.
Me, my parents, my aunt and my niece stumbled upon the topic of libaas - clothing. Specifically, the religious and social context of it.
'I simply fail to understand why clothing is such a big issue in so many institutions. What is wrong with wearing comfortable clothing? Why are so many girls instructed to wear ankle-length clothing and cover every inch of their skin?' My niece grumbled.
'Cause most men are pigs, I thought silently.
I didn't say anything though. My aunt looked like she had an entire speech ready.
'See, the thing with clothes is - yes, we should definitely focus on comfort first. That is how clothing as a concept evolved in the first place. But, humans being the complicated creatures they are, mutated it into something we now call fashion. It has become a means of expression. And what you wear sub-consciously suggests what you're trying to express about yourself.' My aunt uttered sagely.
'You mean what men think women are trying to suggest when they dress a certain way,' my niece grimaced.
I kept chopping the garlic, watching the exchange with keen interest and mild amusement.
The intriguing fact was - both my aunt and my niece were rebels in their own right. I had seen old photos of my aunt in her childhood and adulthood. She had travelled all over the world - of both geography and fashion. There were pictures of her in a shirt and jeans, saree, a dress and even a biker gang jacket.
And as for my niece - well, she started the conversation, didn't she?
'That is a different issue.' My aunt waved her hand dismissively. 'I've never really been conscious of unwanted attention on the streets. But I do believe this - everyone should dress such that people do not keep stealing glances at you; men and women alike.'
Then we all need to get plastic surgeries, I thought with a smirk. Me and my brother were used to stares and glances on the streets owing to our outlandish looks. We didn't need a one-piece or a nip slip to garner attention. But I was pretty sure that for most men, this was just entertaining - perhaps even mildly flattering.
Even both my teenage nieces were extremely pretty, and I was sure they received an uncomfortable number of lecherous leers they would never describe as flattering.
'So we are dressing simply so that men don't stare at us?' My niece was aghast.
'Why just men?' My mother piped in. 'Everyone stares at you if you show more skin than normal.'
'And the definition of normal changes from place to place,' my aunt rallied, finding a new point to add to her argument. 'I'm not even talking about skin show. I will never recommend wearing a burqa in France, just as we ask you not to wear shorts in conservative Indian cities.'
Ask, I chortled.
'But this is something that needs to be changed, right?' My niece rebutted. 'If it's a hundred degrees outside - which it actually is - I want to wear shorts without having to worry about men looking at me like I'm a sports car they can't afford.'
Ouch.
'That is why I always advocate clothing as a personal choice.' My mother quipped, vying for a middle ground. 'I grew up in Delhi. I can't even begin to describe how it was - it felt like the men there were trying to molest you with their eyes.' My aunt cringed at the imagery. 'Being fully clothed was almost a sub-conscious shield. And I understand, sensitivity to such lechery can vary. It all boils down to self-censorship.'
My youngest nephew rushed into the room and jumped onto my stomach, excitedly showing me the new Minion watch he had just received. 'Danish chacha, it has a projector also,' he chirped, flashing it right into my retinas. I wrestled him off and threw him onto my back, lying on my stomach like a high school cheerleader thinking about whom to take to the prom.
'But Mama,' I couldn't hold back any longer. 'Men will stare whatever women wear, right? And the really dangerous ones, the predators - I don't think the clothes are a factor in how they choose their victims.'
'Yes, that's what I'm saying. It is just psychological security for the woman - which is very important. When it comes to actual tangible, physical protection, more drastic measures are needed.'
'Yeah. Self-defense classes and pepper sprays.'
'To hell with that. Carry a machine gun. Drive a tank to work. See who whistles at you then.'
My niece laughed heartily. My mother said such awesome things sometimes.
'But the real danger is from people who are close to you,' my mother said gravely. 'Your teachers, neighbours, your boss and colleagues...why, your own relatives.'
'Muahahahahaha...' I laughed evilly, brandishing a knife at my niece, who burst into another fit of giggles.
'It's not funny,' my mother scowled. 'Young girls and boys feel really helpless in such cases. These are the ones that go unreported because the family or the workplace itself covers everything up. At least in workplaces there is some system to combat this - in families it's a nightmare.'
'Well, so it is no one else's business what I wear, right? Self-censorship, as Neema said.'
My nieces called my mother Neema, a corruption of the word Nani Amma, because she refused to answer to anything that made her feel old.
My aunt and mother were silent. This discussion was now veering towards 'Listen to your elders' rather than 'Protect your legs like it's Bakr-Eid.'
Though the latter applies more to goats.
My father rose to the challenge. 'I agree, with some disagreement.' My niece's smug smile fell. Victory had been so close. 'Sometimes, you may not be very sensitive to unwanted attention, but your parents and elders could be. In a sense, vicariously, they're safeguarding their own peace of mind. Now it is up to you whether to respect their wishes or not; whether that slight discomfort or the feeling of being ordered around is worth their approval.'
My niece was silent. Dad had gotten her into a tight spot.
'Correct me if I'm wrong, but most youngsters wear clothing that either conforms to the latest fashion or rebels against it. Very few are choosing clothes for no reason but comfort.' My father concluded.
I raised my hand, but I don't think anyone noticed.
'So, don't listen to religion, or your elders, or the society. Think for yourself and act accordingly. Most people follow a lot of customs and rituals. but don't know the real meanings or applications of them. All religions teach you are a few ways of life that worked - it is up to you to find your own. In the end, as the Quran says, la ikraha fiddin - there is no compulsion.'
All of us nodded in unison, and I looked down at the chopped garlic as my nephew played Twister on my back. We were all a little wiser from this talk, and a lot more tolerant. For the umpteenth time, I marvelled at how diverse human experiences can be. Perhaps conversations are the closest we can come to walking in each others' shoes.
Talk to you later.
'No, for the last time, you're not wearing shorts and going out.'
We were in our ancestral home in Aliganj, Lucknow. All our cousins, uncles, aunts, nephews and nieces had congregated to celebrate Eid-Ul-Fitr. After a hearty meal of mutton korma and sheermaal (flour kneaded with milk and baked like pita bread), we were all stretching our legs and letting our stomachs stretch themselves.
Me, my parents, my aunt and my niece stumbled upon the topic of libaas - clothing. Specifically, the religious and social context of it.
'I simply fail to understand why clothing is such a big issue in so many institutions. What is wrong with wearing comfortable clothing? Why are so many girls instructed to wear ankle-length clothing and cover every inch of their skin?' My niece grumbled.
'Cause most men are pigs, I thought silently.
I didn't say anything though. My aunt looked like she had an entire speech ready.
'See, the thing with clothes is - yes, we should definitely focus on comfort first. That is how clothing as a concept evolved in the first place. But, humans being the complicated creatures they are, mutated it into something we now call fashion. It has become a means of expression. And what you wear sub-consciously suggests what you're trying to express about yourself.' My aunt uttered sagely.
'You mean what men think women are trying to suggest when they dress a certain way,' my niece grimaced.
I kept chopping the garlic, watching the exchange with keen interest and mild amusement.
The intriguing fact was - both my aunt and my niece were rebels in their own right. I had seen old photos of my aunt in her childhood and adulthood. She had travelled all over the world - of both geography and fashion. There were pictures of her in a shirt and jeans, saree, a dress and even a biker gang jacket.
And as for my niece - well, she started the conversation, didn't she?
'That is a different issue.' My aunt waved her hand dismissively. 'I've never really been conscious of unwanted attention on the streets. But I do believe this - everyone should dress such that people do not keep stealing glances at you; men and women alike.'
Then we all need to get plastic surgeries, I thought with a smirk. Me and my brother were used to stares and glances on the streets owing to our outlandish looks. We didn't need a one-piece or a nip slip to garner attention. But I was pretty sure that for most men, this was just entertaining - perhaps even mildly flattering.
Even both my teenage nieces were extremely pretty, and I was sure they received an uncomfortable number of lecherous leers they would never describe as flattering.
'So we are dressing simply so that men don't stare at us?' My niece was aghast.
'Why just men?' My mother piped in. 'Everyone stares at you if you show more skin than normal.'
'And the definition of normal changes from place to place,' my aunt rallied, finding a new point to add to her argument. 'I'm not even talking about skin show. I will never recommend wearing a burqa in France, just as we ask you not to wear shorts in conservative Indian cities.'
Ask, I chortled.
'But this is something that needs to be changed, right?' My niece rebutted. 'If it's a hundred degrees outside - which it actually is - I want to wear shorts without having to worry about men looking at me like I'm a sports car they can't afford.'
Ouch.
'That is why I always advocate clothing as a personal choice.' My mother quipped, vying for a middle ground. 'I grew up in Delhi. I can't even begin to describe how it was - it felt like the men there were trying to molest you with their eyes.' My aunt cringed at the imagery. 'Being fully clothed was almost a sub-conscious shield. And I understand, sensitivity to such lechery can vary. It all boils down to self-censorship.'
My youngest nephew rushed into the room and jumped onto my stomach, excitedly showing me the new Minion watch he had just received. 'Danish chacha, it has a projector also,' he chirped, flashing it right into my retinas. I wrestled him off and threw him onto my back, lying on my stomach like a high school cheerleader thinking about whom to take to the prom.
'But Mama,' I couldn't hold back any longer. 'Men will stare whatever women wear, right? And the really dangerous ones, the predators - I don't think the clothes are a factor in how they choose their victims.'
'Yes, that's what I'm saying. It is just psychological security for the woman - which is very important. When it comes to actual tangible, physical protection, more drastic measures are needed.'
'Yeah. Self-defense classes and pepper sprays.'
'To hell with that. Carry a machine gun. Drive a tank to work. See who whistles at you then.'
My niece laughed heartily. My mother said such awesome things sometimes.
'But the real danger is from people who are close to you,' my mother said gravely. 'Your teachers, neighbours, your boss and colleagues...why, your own relatives.'
'Muahahahahaha...' I laughed evilly, brandishing a knife at my niece, who burst into another fit of giggles.
'It's not funny,' my mother scowled. 'Young girls and boys feel really helpless in such cases. These are the ones that go unreported because the family or the workplace itself covers everything up. At least in workplaces there is some system to combat this - in families it's a nightmare.'
'Well, so it is no one else's business what I wear, right? Self-censorship, as Neema said.'
My nieces called my mother Neema, a corruption of the word Nani Amma, because she refused to answer to anything that made her feel old.
My aunt and mother were silent. This discussion was now veering towards 'Listen to your elders' rather than 'Protect your legs like it's Bakr-Eid.'
Though the latter applies more to goats.
My father rose to the challenge. 'I agree, with some disagreement.' My niece's smug smile fell. Victory had been so close. 'Sometimes, you may not be very sensitive to unwanted attention, but your parents and elders could be. In a sense, vicariously, they're safeguarding their own peace of mind. Now it is up to you whether to respect their wishes or not; whether that slight discomfort or the feeling of being ordered around is worth their approval.'
My niece was silent. Dad had gotten her into a tight spot.
'Correct me if I'm wrong, but most youngsters wear clothing that either conforms to the latest fashion or rebels against it. Very few are choosing clothes for no reason but comfort.' My father concluded.
I raised my hand, but I don't think anyone noticed.
'So, don't listen to religion, or your elders, or the society. Think for yourself and act accordingly. Most people follow a lot of customs and rituals. but don't know the real meanings or applications of them. All religions teach you are a few ways of life that worked - it is up to you to find your own. In the end, as the Quran says, la ikraha fiddin - there is no compulsion.'
All of us nodded in unison, and I looked down at the chopped garlic as my nephew played Twister on my back. We were all a little wiser from this talk, and a lot more tolerant. For the umpteenth time, I marvelled at how diverse human experiences can be. Perhaps conversations are the closest we can come to walking in each others' shoes.
Talk to you later.
