Home Truths

on June 26, 2008

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Crimson

The youngest aunt descended upon me as soon as I entered the room. “Oh my God, your hair is so short,” she said. “And you’ve lost weight.” She looked to my grandmother for confirmation while I forced a smile and prepared myself for the barrage to come. “Is it asking too much to see a young girl eat well?”

“They pick up all the wrong habits,” interjected another aunt. “Look. The shoes she is wearing are so inappropriate for her age.”

There were no greetings, no words of welcome, just a cold assessment of my appearance. I was eight years old. Even now, at 22, it’s impossible to imagine how I was supposed to defend the choice of one shoe over another, much less withstand the onslaught of judgement that took place every time I was in the company of my large extended family. It was always the same, even though the focus might shift. It could be the growth of my fingernails, and whether or not I’d chosen to apply polish. If I had, the shade would be debated. Or my grandmother would step forward to feel the fabric of my T-shirt or comment on my use of accessories or, more pointedly, the lack thereof. No matter what needed looking into–dinner half-prepared, grandfather’s requests for more tea, my youngest cousin screams for attention–the spotlight seemed to zero in on me as I stood like a mannequin in front of the women in my family. Finally, having had their fill, they would turn away, leaving me to my tears and the feeling that I would never measure up.

Even now, I am not sure why I was the focus of so much negative attention. I was not unloved, and surely I was not the only cousin with grievances. Family dynamics played a part in why I was singled out, but I was also; then and now, someone who did not fit the mould of the ideal daughter, especially in my traditional, patriarchal family. I chose jeans over feminine pastel dresses. I said what I thought. And there was more: in many Indian homes, beauty is a virtue possessed by the fair-complexioned. I was dark. And so the most stinging comments were reserved for my dark skin, over which I had no control. I was never told directly, but I got the message: it would be difficult to arrange a match for me when I became of age.

My parents, for their part, chose not to make of spectacle of the situation. My father, in particular, believed the scenes to be womanly indulgences from which I should step aside. He hoped I would learn to defend myself, rather than he doing it for me. My mother made a conscious effort to shield me from the scrutiny whenever she could. When that was impossible, she advised me to be low-key, to avoid attracting attention– which was one thing in theory and another in practice. My mother, to her credit, believed (and taught me) that true beauty lay not in the curve of an eyebrow or the bridge of a nose, but within, and that an individual was worth far more than her physical appearance. But her reassurances were not enough to turn the negative tide. I began to perceive myself through third-person eyes. It pricked me that I didn’t ‘belong’ in my family. And if belonging meant negating your personal choices, then I was almost prepared to do that.

When I was ten, my parents decided to enroll me in a residential school several hours from my home in Mumbai. I reacted with mixed feelings, but the looks on my parents’ faces when they told me were enough to let me that I wasn’t just being sent away because they did not love me. To the contrary, I knew it was the right thing. However, the prospect of boarding school did not go down well with the extended family. My grandparents questioned my mother’s maternal instincts, conveniently ignoring the fact that my father was backing her. My parents stood firm, and I went off to school.

There, away from critical eyes, I slowly started to accept myself. I began to understand how to actively defend my choices, which was a good thing because when I went home for breaks, things still were not easy. As time went on, the gist of the comments shifted from my physical appearance to less tangible matters. There was concern as to what my next step would be. Amid the warm smells and otherwise hospitable conditions of family gatherings, I would be peppered with questions: If I insisted on a career, then why not a traditional one? Why not an engineer, a doctor, a lawyer? As for my personal life, nothing would have pleased them more than to see me turn into a meek, dutiful homemaker. In marriage; to a man of their own choosing, I still had the chance to become an ideal daughter and granddaughter.

To them, it was near blasphemy when I decide to pursue a Master’s degree abroad. But by the time I received my acceptance letter, I cared less about what they thought and more about what the future might hold for me. The move might strain my already difficult relations with them even further, but I wasn’t about not to go.

At this point in life more than ever, I have become conscious of what I want and how I want it. And now that I am half way across the world, I feel more removed from the negativity than ever. It no longer stings the way it did. To my extended family, no matter what I do, it won’t be right; not because they have impossibly high standards but because I happen to possess a mind of my own and choose to exercise my will.

The process hasn’t been easy. I’ve paid a price in the physical distance from the people I love, particularly in being far from my mother and father. Yet, as the tears dry and the sting of the barbs fade, I find myself a stronger person. To keep myself this way, I am cautious about sharing details of my personal life with family. The notion of detachment has been reinforced in graduate school less because I’m not sure how they will react and than because I am no longer all that hungry for their acceptance. I am no longer the small eight-year-old girl who stood frozen in front of them.

So when my grandmother calls me one icy winter morning to see how I am doing, I have no idea what to tell her. A piece of my heart warms upon seeing her number on my caller ID, but all that come out are superfluous utterances: I am fine, thankyou, I hope everyone at home is good.

“Have you eaten breakfast?” she asks. “With some hot milk, I hope.”

I reply yes, but she persists, “What will you be eating for lunch? What progress have you made with your culinary skills?”

I can fix edible food for myself. Not tasty, but edible. I mumble a response: “I’ll probably make some rice and soup.”

“Have you spoken to your parents lately?”

“I spoke to Mummy and Papa yesterday.”

An uncomfortable silence ensues at both ends. My grandmother is too removed from my present life to be able to ask questions, and I am too guarded to fill her in. In a hasty attempt to cut short the difficult conversation, I croak out an apology. “Ma, I am a little busy now,” I say.

She understands, she says. Her last words before she hangs up are, “Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.”

I put the phone down, sad, but really not so sad. Is this what letting go means?

 

Note: The author has requested for her name to be withheld.


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