I am sharing what I wrote a few weeks back. I feel this is relevant now in the light of the Tamil Nadu High Court ruling on dress code in temples.
I just got back from Sharira (the body).
Confused? How can one come out of “the body”? Well, one can if one is in an introspective mode. Why can't we see ourselves, our body from outside, as an outsider. Perhaps, we will get a clear idea of what we are, who we are, where we are.
I will end this confusion, Sharira was a dance performance, a breath-taking one, for lack of a better word. This spectacle had been choreographed by the late danseuse, Chandralekha.
This is not a critique of the show. I am no connoisseur of art and art forms. I love watching various art forms and more than delving on the theme or concept, I like to understand the emotions behind them. Sharira, for me, was not just a theme. It was an emotion, a feeling of comfort, a feeling of self-worthiness, a feeling of wellness.
Till I reached puberty, I was “allowed” by a patriarchal set of people to roam around in frocks. Once nature gifted me the beautiful feeling of becoming a young lady, my wings were clipped. The frocks were, rather drastically, replaced by long skirts and sleeved blouses. One stray sleeveless shirt or a short skirt was not welcome at home. “You are growing up now. Wear clothes which are safe,” I was told.
“Safe? Now what was that?”
“There is no room for arguments. But if you insist on knowing, you must not be wearing clothes that attracts attention from boys.”
As a young girl, isn't it natural to want to feel good about oneself, and feel attractive?
I was asking impossible questions that had no answers, but only dirty glares and dirtier chides. I was a young girl and had to behave like one. I had to bind myself to the conforms of patriarchal prudishness.
As I went to college and was at an age when I wanted to look good, not merely because I felt I must make at least one boy “turn around once more to see me”, but because I wanted to feel good about myself.
“Don’t wear T-shirts. You will attract unnecessary attention. No, not sleeveless either. Your arms have to be covered; they are not something to show. Oh no. Change into something else. This is plunging low and showing a hint of cleavage,” were the constant checks. “Stick to safe clothes. There are wolves all around. This is for your good,” was the constant reminder from my “benevolent” elders. This was the toll tax I had to pay before leaving home.
With every step I took towards adulthood, I was monitored. One “wrong move” of wearing a seemingly inappropriate attire, something that I felt was befitting my casual demeanour, was invariably shot down rudely, my rush of confidence ripped apart with a pair of puritanical scissors.
So I began hating my body. I hated the way I looked; I hated my bosoms that, I was told, would attract unnecessary attention; I hated my arms as I was told they were fat and not worthy of showing to anyone.
So that left me with, sorry for a politically incorrect term, with a dowdy dress sense! I was a woman, carrying the burden of a false sense of virtue around her fully-clothed neck.
I got married, which meant I sleepwalked into another sententious household.
“Your kurta is too tight. Wear a dupatta,” I was told. “Oh no, you cannot be wearing a sleeveless shirt while visiting an elderly person.T-Shirts? Donate them!”
The messages were the same, the voices were different.
My body was tired of being constantly under probe. It was rather ironical that in the course of the sartorial diktats from puberty to motherhood, I realised my body was constantly being subject to gaze.
Why must I be the subject of someone else’s gaze? I asked myself. My body is mine and I have a right to make it a subject of my gaze, my expression and my emotion. I have a right to love my body, express myself the way I want to.
One cloudy morning, I realised “that was it”. The change was not really a overnight one. It took days of anger and helplessness and nights of introspection. I had to snap out of the manipulative restrictions that taught me only to hate my body, to be ashamed of it, so ashamed that I had to keep it covered all the time.
I realised loving my body is no different from loving my soul; Sexuality and sensuality are not dirty words; and Sex is not an unpronounceable three-letter word that never dares step out from the confines of the bedroom.
And, when I watched “Sharira”, I found that it reiterated all that I felt. It gracefully whispered in my ear; it reinforced my faith in the fact that being a woman meant feeling beautiful inside that would manifest outside. And unless I freed myself from feeling guilty of my body, I would never feel beautiful.
Today, I am unapologetic about expressing my sexuality. I am no longer envious about another beautiful woman or rue about what my body lacks. This also means I never allow a man to force himself on me and I exercise the choice to say no.
Finally, I gifted myself my femininity.
