Beautiful Women Unite

This day was full of firsts. I walked with trepidation to the Perambur Loco train station, clutching my purse and covering my head with my dupatta. I missed the first train because I didn't see any identification as to its destination--little did I know that trains in India hardly have physical cues for where they are going, most of the time you have to count on strangers to tell you the way. After riding to Central Station in a men's cart, seeing as I didn't know there were women only carts, I had my blank poker face on like I knew what I was doing, but there's nothing more unnerving than 100+ eyes following your every move when you aren't sure of where you are headed. I traced my zig-zagged way from Central to Park--the suburban train track, called Devi numerous times to make sure I was in the right direction, and finally found her at the Egmore bus stop. 

Cities can be so overwhelming when you have no earthly idea of where you are or how to get around. I am very pleased to say that I feel comfortable getting just about anywhere in Chennai at this point via public transport and if all else fails---there's always auto-rickshaws. And hey, even if you get ripped off, at least you aren't getting groped on an over-capacity city-bus. By the way, there is a women's side on the bus as well--when in doubt, find the huddle of ladies and they will most certainly be glad to protect you and help you on your way. Every woman in a saree will most likely treat you like a demanding mother, correcting your posture or removing pieces of jewelry she doesn't approve of, even if you are a stranger! That said, women's camaraderie extends especially to foreigners here. Most ladies are just concerned that I am so far away from home, my family, and they want to show me hospitality and ensure my safety. 

One time, on a bus, which looked like a mechanical centipede, with a melange of human limbs and carry-ons poking out of every door and window, I saw a woman being subtly groped by a greasy dude, who was taking advantage of the crowd to rub up against her. I tried to make room and motion for her to move closer to me, away from this dude. My attempts caught the attention of some ladies in front of me, who immediately understood the situation and seethed. They started shouting and beating the man off the bus with their tiny purses, shuffling the young lady under their silk wings. I've found this to be such a contrast to my society, where women see every other female as a competition or simply cast strangers off as 'dumb bitches' because of their outfits or mannerisms. 

This was my rumination as the 27D bus roared down Chennai's streets with unsettling speed. Devi put her arm around me, "I am glad Kand, to teach you these ways so you can go freely," she smiled broadly, turning up her Hindi-jams on her tiny Nokia and did a mini-shoulder dance, "I'll show you all the tricks, na? And when I come your place, you show me all the things. So we can go happily, isn't it?" 

"Without you Devi, I dunno what I would do," I said in between jarring stops, the bus slamming on brakes, missing pedestrians by a arms length.

"And me too, without you Kand. We make it a cheerful life, na?" She was interrupted by a lady who dropped her purse in Devi's lap, for safekeeping. "The women at the Vigilance Home will be so glad to meet you." 

The first time I went to the Vigilance Home, a woman's prison in Chennai, I was nervous. I was about to interact with women who had been arrested for sex work, most of them trafficked into the trade. I didn't know what to expect. I had prepared in my head a list of games and activities in case things got awkward. I spent the whole morning practicing my key Hindi phrases, since Devi told me many of the women come from North India. 

We walked down the tree lined driveway leading to a dilapidated building, with bars lining the walk-ways and cats everywhere.

"The warden treats her cats better than the women," Devi whispered, nodding to a gang of kittens devouring a giant plate of pongal. I smiled and observed some women peaking through the bars on the second floor, giggling. After taking my prints, passport sized photo, and letter from the Executive of MCCSS requesting my passage, the gates were unlocked and we entered. Devi led me upstairs to the common room, where the women spend most of their day doing crafts, sleeping, playing games, or primping each other. 

All of the ladies greeted Devi, a group of Hindi women fluttering around her, "Devi-didi! Devi-didi!" For many of these ladies, Devi is their sole hope, as the only social worker in Chennai who visits the Vigilance Home who speaks Hindi. They were all prying here with questions about court dates, petitions, if she could contact their boyfriends and babies. 

She introduced me, "Kendall se mi-li-ye." And they immediately flooded upon me, pinching my face, stroking my arms, asking me questions too fast for Devi to translate.

"Ye larkee bahut sundare naa? This girl is so beautiful, no?"

"Which country bahen?" 

"Tum ka kaam kyaa ho? What is your work?"

"Kyaa tum hindi le-tee ho? Does she speak Hindi?"

"Paribar? Family? Marriage? Boyfriend?"  

  They pulled me down and engaged me in a game--the Indian version of checkers. We all clicked immediately. Over the next few weeks, every Tuesday and Friday, Devi and I would bounce our way to Santhome to visit with these ladies. We would play games, share life-stories, teach each other songs, make up silly dances--sometimes I would listen to their pains as we held hands, sorrow never needs to be translated. They spoke of their babies left in the brothels, their boyfriends far away, their sex-work, their sicknesses, their girl-fights, their loneliness--how their broker calls them in jail, how their parents were murdered in religious riots, how they bribe the guards to use their mobiles to call home, how they hate the prison food, how they are beaten, how they feel like dying. 

"Life achaa naheen bahen, life is no good sister" one woman, Lakshmi lamented, "come prison, life stop." Lakshmi had been in the Vigilance Home for almost two years. She got into sex-work in Mumbai when she had limited options to help get her crippled father out of debt with some slum-goondas. 

Every time I came, she would have some new infection or scary high fever. She can't walk properly anymore and has lost half her weight since being there. Despite her problems, she was more worried about her pregnant sister, who recently joined the  VH and was due soon (no one knew exactly when). Lakshmi and her sister had to deal with their health problems on their own since doctors never came to visit. They would bribe the warden and guards to sneak them tablets; I would often inquire on their behalf, telling those in charge how sick these ladies were and how pregnancies need to be carefully watched over, especially in the last trimester, but to no avail. The ladies stayed sick, and the wardens stayed indifferent to their pains. Devi told me that Hindi girls are treated the worst in the prison because of widespread prejudice Tamils have against Northerners. 

One day when I was sitting with Lakshmi, she was telling me about her boyfriend in Mumbai, how he was the same color as me.

"He's American?" I asked, grinning. 

She smiled, "Amereecain naheen bahen. But white, bahut sundare! So beautiful!"

I continued by telling her how beautiful she was, and she shook her head in disgust,

"Naheen sundare, not beautiful" She tugged at her skin. "Me black-- you white. Black--bad, white--good." The women around her clucked in acquiescence. "Me, thin. I want be fat, naa? Thin naheen sundare. Thin isn't beautiful." 

At this point I called Devi over to translate for me. I continued to tell the ladies how women in the west try to darken their skin, and how they starve themselves to be thin--because they think this is beautiful. Giggles and tisks resounded; they would ask again and again, "Kyoo? Why?" They were incredulous as to how women would actually want to have darker skin or not love their curves.

On our way back to MCCSS, I couldn't help but ponder the true malleability in societal conceptions of beauty. Coming from a woman who used to have an eating disorder, and whose close friends and family members have also struggled with self-love/body acceptance/eating and weight issues, I was literally flabbergasted by the polarity of my culture compared to theirs. Think about how ludicrous it would sound to a group of 20-something American girls if you told them that being pasty-white, having love-handles, and wearing at least three layers of cloth over your breasts was considered exquisitely beautiful. Think about how much easier our lives would be if we wore moo-moos every day and eating carbs wasn't sacrilege. 

Every morning when I open the paper, over a pot of sweet chai and biscuits of course, I am fascinated by the ads and Indian tabloids. There are ads for skin-whitening cream and snapshots of hit-movies, with voluptuous dancers lined up around a greasy hero-figure. The articles speak of how Bollywood stars are hounded about being too thin. That this or that lady is always told by her producers to eat more. "She couldn't walk the catwalk because she was swimming in her saree. A woman has to have some substance." Don't get me wrong, Indians aren't into obesity, they just like a little substance on a lady. I have a theory that it is because this is a country where people still do literally starve everyday and having the means to have a little pudge in your belly is a signal that you are well-off. Plus I have heard personally from Indian men, who are all thin as sticks, that they want something soft to cuddle up to. "See Kand? Bones aren't beautiful," a friend, Dinesh once told me while we were watching a Hindi movie.

I recollect having a conservation about ideas of beauty with Rachel, a lovely lady from Arkansas who was working at Premavasem, the orphanage earlier mentioned. We were on the train to Bangalore, sitting across from a muslim family. The mother in her black dress with her head covered in a colorful scarf, her daughter fully covered except for her eyes, even with gloves and socks despite the tepid heat. We were talking about how some folks back home view conservative cultures or religions as oppressive towards women. And certainly there is a part of me that advocates free-dress for all! Come on, man. I'm a feminist, I'm all for owning your body and working whatever club-wear you rock. But being in a place where the more covered you are, the more respect you receive, I have come to appreciate the reasoning behind modesty. 

"I mean think about it, when we 'dress-up' in the West, we don't leave much to the imagination," Rachel mused amidst the roaring train engine and intermittent wallah-drawls for dosai or masala chai, "but women here, they keep parts of themselves sacred--its like their own beautiful little secret." She continued to tell me about an article she read where a burkah-clad woman was questioned about how it feels to be oppressed by her religion and she wisely replied,

"Frankly, I feel that women in the West are oppressed in that their are treated like sex-objects by their society. People view woman in terms of their bodies and clothes instead of who they really are as humans. I will take being modest in public any day over being objectified by those around me." 

At that very moment, the little muslim girl sitting across from us who had been sharing her hot-ground nuts with us and inquiring about our countries, lifted up her black overdress to reveal an vibrantly beaded hot-pink kurta, with chiffon and intricate flower designs. She pointed to herself with pride, communicating that she did the bead-work. She was startled by the conductor calling out the next stop, sweeping her fashionable secrets up in her traditional covering--she waved with her black gloves and smiled with her eyes, following her mother out of the carriage. 

Being in a culture where the norms and expectations of women and sexuality are so mind-bogglingly opposite, where women save the most intimate parts of themselves for their private life, and being around such amazing women in the Vigilance Home who inspire me with their strength and resilience, yet who are dissatisfied with the very skin and figure that would land them on the cover of Elle magazine in the states, has made me realize, however cliche this sounds, that beauty is something you create in your mind--it is something you own. If you look outwards for validation, you will always find something to dislike, because everyone is so unique and different. Random societal norms, which cause so many awesome women to hate themselves--literally loathe their god-given figure and form, should not be the fucking baseline from which you measure yourself. So many of the internalized beauty ideals are deleterious to self-love. You have to surrender to the idea that beauty is something that you live, and practice, it is not a goal or destination and has to be embodied by your very own unique self.