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| Photo courtesy: Mala Kaur |
They made
for a pretty picture. Three generations of Indian women and from one gene
stock, faces aglow in the pensive gold of a porcelain lamp. Steaming mugs of
caffeine marked their vintage; a milky, a green and a strong black.
Setting
her needle point aside, Raninder Kaur mused “I used to recognize the men around
me only by their shoes. Beeji would not let me look at their faces.” Her
daughter Harleen nodded wanly, tatting shuttle poised mid-air, “But you and Daddy
were ahead of your times Ma; you would insist that I bring all the boys who
were my friends home.” Tia looked up from fingering the tattoo on her wrist,
amusement writ large on her young face, “Not boyfriends, is it? Boys who were
friends!”
The three
sat as though adrift, the debris of a social convulsion lapping around them.
Harleen laughed softly as she shared with Tia the acute discomfort it caused
everyone to have a bra strap peak the slightest. It was considered bad form to
tuck it away in view. The offender would hurry away to privacy, shamed by the
narrow piece of elastic. “My mother had to wear a heavy lehenga over her salwar,
every time she stepped out of her home,” Raninder Kaur called to memory
Tia’s great grandmother.
The
sartorial mishap that had the women in a huddle had to do with Tia’s fondness
for the racer backs. At a party the night before, a page three reporter
had clicked her picture and copies of the rag were ruffling on dining tables
across the extended family. “Spotted, a neighbourhood hottie!” the family was
squirming as much over the caption as they were at the offending shot of Tia’s
ornate halter neck. That it sat well on her toned body and she radiated joy had
evidently escaped everyone.
Raninder
Kaur held the newspaper up to get a clearer look, “She looks rather nice in
this dress, whatever they call it…the color suits her.” Harleen shook her head
resignedly, “You know how conservative our clan is Mother. They will pick this
bone for years.” Their family of highly educated and staunch Sikhs tolerated
diversity but brooked the barest of adventurism from their women.
“Checks
and balances make sense for social order, I guess,” the two seniors turned towards
Tia, their eyes widening. She had eventually lifted her shiny head from
the WhatsApp screen “I don’t know Mum! What is so scary about an exposed
shoulder blade? It is wrong to sexualize the female dress. I wear clothes for
myself. The gender power imbalance in our society we talk about…I think many
women internalize that and feel forced to commodify themselves through
exposure. How about we shift focus to the men and their ‘boys will be boys’
mindset?”
Stung
into silence, the adults stared at their progeny. “Oh, and before I forget,
there is a letter for parents from the discipline committee at school. They are
convening over the dress code at school functions. Some of us wore tank tops to
the senior jam session and believe it or not, there is talk of expulsion by way
of setting an example. Would you call this reasonable? I mean, the weather is
so warm these days!”
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