For most of my childhood, my mother dressed me in these beautiful clothes that she herself had meticulously stitched and in many cases, also embroidered. There were pants and shirts and rompers and frocks and even dhoti-cut pants and kurtas. Everything stitched from scratch. Incredible workmanship, comfortable fabrics, and really cute clothes. From what I recall, I wore these well into my early teens. Eventually, my mother started using her sewing machine more for repair and restoration of ready-made garments and ready-made garments were more readily available to buy. Even so, I recall the last of the pieces she made for me was this dark red spun Indian-style kurta, which she also embroidered with glass beads both spherical and tubular. I was probably 24 years old by this time.
I suppose I took all this for granted and only in retrospect can I begin to understand just how much effort and love she was pouring in – and not just with my clothes. She has also always been this insanely meticulous homemaker. I saw her work herself to the bone, with her aim-for-perfection, bordering on OCD. I always told her that she needed to chill, and her response was, and continues to be, “Then nothing will get done.” While that’s a whole different can of worms that I am not ready to write about just yet, it did give me a heavy lean in the opposite direction. I pretended to be more carefree and “I don’t care” became a leading motto of my life.
I had zero control over what I wore. I probably did not even know that I might have a choice in the matter. I never knew when a slap would come flying my way.
Even when I did feel that I had some control, I became a conservative dresser, because I was led to believe that my clothing affected the behaviour of men around me. I would wear baggy, multi-pocketed camouflage pants that I’d borrowed from my father’s closet, loose t-shirts and DMS boots to college. I developed a hunched back posture, because I wanted to protect my breasts from being grabbed by strange men. Whether it was public transport, house help, public queues or crossing a street, it seemed an outstretched arm was always there to grab a breast. Regardless of how old I was – I have memories of someone or the other assaulting me sexually, beginning when I was 5 years old.
No one told me that there was anything I could do about it, except the usual, “Don’t wear those capri pants, there are creeps out there.” The onus was always on me. I had to cover myself up, or else. But, in my experience, coverage meant nothing. Men assaulted regardless of whether I was wearing a full-sleeved Indian salwar kameez or jeans and a tee. It made me feel angry, helpless and frustrated. I am told that I was always a rebellious child. Now that I think of it, I wasn’t being rebellious, everyone else was being an idiot.
Social media came along, and I found that I felt I had more agency, more control, more consent. I could write whatever I wanted, on my blog. I could post whatever I wanted, on Twitter and Instagram. At 30 years old, I was still being questioned, “Are you going to wear THAT?” and I was afraid of posting anything online, that could be misconstrued as an invitation to sexual assault. Now it was me putting the onus on ME.
Today, at 44 years old, single, child-free, financially independent working independently for two decades, two abortions and two divorces later, I feel that I truly do not give a fuck anymore. I am told that I will give even lesser of a fuck as I get older and I cannot fucking wait. I will not only post photos of myself, poolside, wearing a bra and chaddies, I will also wear whatever the fuck I want, including that dress with a slit up to my crotch and I will jump and squat and dance in the damn thing as well. And I will shop for more garments that let me show my cleavage, my bare arms and my bare legs and even my bare tummy, even if the tummy isn’t flat.
No longer am I willing to make myself invisible and “decent” because “there are sickos out there”. There are murderers out there too – am I supposed to never step out of my apartment? If I leave my apartment door open for 5 minutes, is that an invitation for a murderer to kill me? Why is the existence of my body then, an invitation for sexual assault? I don’t know the answer and nary do I care. Am I going to post naked photographs of myself? Maybe not – but maybe yes – I don’t know yet, what tomorrow holds.
A strange feeling has come over me, especially over the last couple of months. It isn’t that I have not worn what are considered “revealing” clothes previously. I have. But at some level I have always been a bit uncomfortable wearing them. Is the slit riding up too much? Are the breasts popping out by any chance? Is my “paunch” showing too much? Should I suck it in more? Are my arm pits too dark? Is the hair on my arms too long? Should I have shaved my crotch a bit more before going swimming? Now, I don’t even notice the slit or the cleavage or the bra strap showing. I have a body; I wear stuff on it. If I wear it and walk amongst fellow humans, I can also photograph myself in it and post it online. It makes some people uncomfortable; some people might think it’s unprofessional, some might think it’s permission for them to masturbate. I have always failed and continue to fail to see how that is my problem.
You are uncomfortable, so I am supposed to edit my life to change how you feel? You are hiding behind the guise of “I’m only saying it from a place of caring about you”. When somebody cares, they ask questions and have a conversation. They don’t tell you to edit your life. “The rest is up to you”, is the most passive-aggressive shit ever. It is already up to me.
What is a female body supposed to wear poolside anyway? Do you think I was alone by that poolside? That there weren’t dozens of other people who had a real-time view of my bra and chaddies clad body? Perhaps, you prefer burying your head in the sand – if you didn’t hear the tree fall, did it actually fall? Suddenly, I post a picture of the tree falling and shit becomes real? “You have sex but you don’t post photos of you having sex do you?” Firstly, what makes you think that I don’t? Secondly, it is my choice what I post – I’m posting a photo of me, not of someone else, without their consent.
I wouldn’t post the bra and chaddies photo to LinkedIn or even to Facebook and Twitter – I felt comfortable posting the series on Instagram. The way I feel about it is that it is my page, and I will do whatever the fuck I want with it. Similarly, it is my body. I draw my boundaries, not you. I would think that the only other party that has a say in what I post on Instagram, is Instagram. I am not violating their Community Standards by showing areolae, which men are allowed to do by the way. Another can of worms.
There is so much pornography available freely – I don’t have enough self-importance to assume that my photo in bra and chaddies is even an iota of a blip on anyone’s radar. Besides, I am not defined by one photo wearing a bra and chaddies. I am a whole person. I continue to be a professional photographer and artist regardless of what I wear. If you are unable to understand that, how dare you attempt to try and make that MY problem?
Control is an illusion buddy. You do not control me or my body.
Beware.
I hold four decades of bottled-up rage.
I am not 5 years old anymore.
