#CelebrateingtheRainbow at the workplace – share your stories of Pride!
Society tells women to wear a Saree and be a good girl so that no one can rape you. But the truth is- dress has nothing to do with any form of sexual abuse.
Society tells women to wear a Saree and be a good girl, so that no one can rape you. But the truth is- dress has nothing to do with any form of sexual abuse.
I scrub, I re-scrub, I soap.
I soap, I scrub, I wash again.
Till I feel I’m squeaky clean.
The groping in the rain.
Must come off.
I towel myself.
Stop midway and scrub again.
The indecent brush of fingers over my Saree clad navel.
I must scrub again.
Scrub. Scrub. Wash.
Soap. Scrub. Clean again.
Rid my body,
Of bad grime.
Wear a Saree, they said.
Like a woman should,
Not jeans, not tees.
A decent Saree.
I wore a Saree, as decently
I was rewarded with stares,
And incredulous glances.
No Saree could change the already seasoned mind.
I stooped, and their eyes stopped with me.
I stopped and their eyes raped me.
Pawing me in between flesh,
Between the folds of my Saree.
Scrub. Scrub. Scrub.
Wash. Soap. Scrub.
It lathers well and washes clean,
Says the label.
No miracle soap can wash my skin from the grime that has settled on,
Like second skin almost.
I wonder if I should use a body wash.
Snaking hands in between the cottony,
To gather flesh.
What did my saree show?
Didn’t it wrap me up in good girl light?
Like a girl who wears Kum Kum and goes to temples like all good girls?
Didn’t it conceal my flesh?
A rush of bile to my mouth.
Poison spitting vampire stares.
Know not to treat a good saree wearing woman.
A saree wearing good girl.
Why was I touched in places that made me cringe?
Was I not human underneath my Saree?
Was I not human enough to wish for pride,
Of being a woman and not a zombie.
Underneath my good girl saree?
I’m ashamed of my saree, actually.
It failed to conceal my sex,
Like a good black burqa.
It failed to mask my body,
My hidden lush, my beauty.
It failed to protect me like they all said it would.
It failed to be my saviour in disguise.
Showed my curves,
Showed my naked vulnerability,
And put me prey before hungry hunting eyes.
But they said it would project me in good light.
With a saree, I’d be spared.
A saree would be my saving grace they said.
All of them.
With their wide cheshire cat grins.
Can it change seasoned minds to not sin?
Burnt and shredded.
Lies in the kindling embers of a growing garbage pile.
Cover image via Shutterstock
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Can you believe this bloke compelled me to wear only saris - full time at home- till the eighth month of my pregnancy?! The excessive heat coupled with humidity made my life miserable.
Recently when I browsed an interesting post by a fellow author on this very forum I had a sense of déjà vu. She describes the absolutely unnecessary hullabaloo over ladies donning nighties and /or dupatta –less suits.
I wish to narrate how I was in dire straits so far wearing a ‘nightie’ was concerned.
I lived in my ultra orthodox sasural under constant surveillance of two moral guardians (read Taliban) in the shape of the husband’s mom and dad. The mom was unschooled and dim-witted while the dad was a medical practitioner. But he out-Heroded the Herod in orthodoxy.
Her mother pulled her hand and made her sit on the bed. “How can you behave like nothing happened, dear? Your whole life is ruined now!”
Trigger Warning: Implications of rape and assault and suicidal ideation.
“Come with me, my love.” His charming smile and mesmerizing eyes would lead anyone to walk behind him. She was different. “You need me Sirisha,” he was desperate.
“I said, get out,” she stood stubbornly.
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