March 2003 Issue - Essay # 5
Sarees
and Slingback Shoes
By Mona Dash
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It
was raining in . Lazy rain, this And
here was I, two days old in I
looked down at my feet and the tall boots some women walked in--black
leather, snakeskin, short heels, high heels, sports shoes--a world of
shoes. Some looked at my mule-clad feet as they moved amidst the boots,
and then quickly at my face as if to understand what kind of a person
would wear mules in weather like this. I
wanted to tell them that someone could, someone would if they had grown
up in the heat of the sun, used to wearing flowing clothes which do not
stick to the body and its curves, but hide all the tyres on the stomach
and the largeness of the thighs. They would wear open slippers bought
from roadside shops for 100 Rupees only, black with a flowered strap on
it, easy to slip on and slip off--often when you entered people’s homes
or God's temples. I
imagined the tall woman in front of me trying to take off her
knee-length boots, zipped at the sides if she walked into the Shiva
temple near my house in But
I would go in, even if I ever bought one of those tall Faith boots one
day. I would enter the temple, struggle with my shoes standing up, pull
off one and then the other, and finally shake them off.
I would go in like I used to when I lived in She
would be immersed in her surroundings, carefully selecting the coconut
she would buy for the 'puja', making sure it was a good one which she could use at home later--but only for the vegetarian dishes. A coconut
used as 'prasad' for the God could not be cooked with the fish. She
never noticed that her waist had long since disappeared, that there were
folds now appearing over the tightly tied petticoat. The folds would
show stretch marks, too: silvery lines, spidery, sometimes thick. Her
sari would sometimes be tied in a hurry, above her ankles, but as long
as she was covered she did not mind. Sometimes she did not know that she
wore a green blouse with a brown saree--the colours discordant and
clashing--and she would walk to the altar, stand in the crowd and fold
her hands. She would offer the incense, the prasad, pray for her family,
and go back home, to reheat the lunch and serve it in time for her
husband and children back from school. No questions, no demands, never
wondering why she did this, instead of thinking once about herself. I used to go to the Chidambaram temple in Chennai sometimes. In the centre of the courtyard was the altar of the main deity, Lord Shiva. The Shivaling was washed, worshipped and begged to render many a miracle; whether it was to find a good husband, a son to pass his exams, the husband to get a pay rise or her grandson’s fever to get cured. The
smaller temples stood circling the main structure, the Naba graha (Nine
planets), who could choose to bring ill luck or fortune to whom they
smiled on--a small Goddess Kali, Lord Ganesha, they all smiled
benignly, and accepted the 'sindoor', the 'chandan', the incense
everyone placed in front of them without restraint. Here there was no
semblance of order or politeness; blind faith, commercialism, noise and
mysterious beauty lived as one. I
watched her act her sacrifices and prayers in the temple. Sometimes she
walked around the main deity very fast, counting her steps. Once, I had
seen her rolling on the floor, round and round, all round the three-metre diameter of the altar. She had her hands folded and rolled
on, not caring if her saree went up her knees or thighs. But others
would stop by, gently pulling it over her, step out of her way, and
carry on. No one batted an eyelid, they remained unfazed for this was
usual. I
would sit on the wide veranda overlooking the main altar, behind the
huge column, looking at them, my countrywomen. They looked at me, sitting in my striped shirt and jeans. Perhaps they thought I
was a college girl, but I could could have told them they were wrong.
Some of them would perhaps be younger to me, but had learnt to think
old. I wasn’t sure why I felt like an onlooker there, why I watched
all this with curiosity when I was also a part of it, when I had seen
this all my life. But
looking at
Savitri, I had known that I could never become like her. Armed
with a few lessons, she started on her life. Taught to sacrifice, to
suffer, to pray and fast for her husband. She had no other way I felt,
no other options but hope that her devoutness would keep her family
together. I
had to know my options; not believe that women were born with the intent
to hold a home together, that it was all that mattered. So I had moved
on. Away, further away. Away from the temples, the familiarity, the
colour that was In
this city which I live in now, I still have my habit of watching. And I
can see that here, women laugh, jog in parks, they ride horses, they go
swimming in the sea in the summers and ski in the winters. They plan
holidays, learn combat sports if they want, have children if they want.
They have no fetters to bind them, none inherited as someone's aunt,
someone’s daughter-in-law, someone’s wife. They ask for their rights,
and they get them. Jane, my neighbour, walks down escalators with her
week-old baby boy held on her front, and a large backpack on her back,
sometimes alone, sometimes with her boyfriend. She had no model of
virtuousness to live up to, she doesn’t need to be a 'Sita.' Watching
Jane, I have learnt to put on my boots and walk straight, shoulders
squared, tummy tucked in. I have learnt to walk fast, look up at people
and smile as I walk past, to look down at menus and order what I want to
drink with my meal. I have learnt to go for a walk, a jog in fresh green
parks, hair in a headband. Now I can tell my colleagues, "Let’s
get a drink after work," knowing that for some of my countrywomen in
And
one day, months after my walk in I
also see that Jane is always trying to look good. The shop shelves
advertise yet another hair colour to streak her hair, yet another sale
of high slingback shoes and petite smart tops on hangers. Take me, they
scream, look good or be forgotten--and she falls for it. She is a slave
as well, and I feel sorry for her when I see her bondage. I remind
myself of Savitri, who knew she was worth more than what she looked on
the outside. So
somewhere in between the sarees and slingback shoes, between Savitri and
Jane, there exists someone called me. Thinking, watching, wondering, trying--loving both, learning from both and hoping I
don't fail
either. |
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Author's Biography I
am an Indian, currently living in I have published a collection of poems
in E-mail
Mona at dash_mona@hotmail.com
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Essay
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