Balancing different pieces of me, and vanity

The modest kurta (long shirt) and salwars (trousers) that Indian girls wear in Jodhpur are meant to keep men’s prying eyes away from their figures. I don’t know if that actually works, because men definitely stared and called out to me when I was walking down the street. The fact that I looked foreign definitely contributed to this sort of behaviour, so I don’t know if local girls encountered similar situations (since there were so few of them around). In any case, even if that baggy and billowy attire didn’t make men pay less attention to me, it definitely made me less conscious of my figure.

Still, I knew I had to return to the US, and so I was constantly balancing the demands of two cultures in India. As a Westernised Singaporean, I was concerned about the amount of oil and food I ate because I didn’t like feeling unfit. I don’t like feeling “creaky” when my muscles haven’t been used in a long time; I hated the oppressive heat that left me dripping in sweat and panting after a simple barre workout. I also feared that people back in the US would notice I had gained weight once I returned. That was the first thing my grandmother in Singapore noticed when I returned home after freshman year, though Americans are usually more tactful about things like that.

At the same time, I had to conform to the implicit and explicit Indian societal demands. Since Indian women do not wear revealing clothes, they pay great attention instead to the colour and style of their clothes and jewellery. It is important to be suitably “bling’d-out” for an occasion, something I did not learn until my host mother told me I was “not looking good” before we went to a party. No one had ever told me that to my face before, and that traumatised me enough to make me pay more attention to my clothes. From then on, each morning I checked whether the colours of my kurta and pants matched my dupatta (scarf), and when special occasions arose, I borrowed a sari. Although I hate calling attention to myself by wearing something as elaborate as a special-occasion sari, I learned that it was better to be overdressed in India than underdressed.

Back in the US, there is a tiny piece of India that remains with me, but most of it is subsumed by the “original” internalised Western standards I carry with me. It was strange to wear short shorts again, not be stared at (overtly) by men, and not have to wear a scarf all the time (although sometimes I still do). Ironically, while this half of the world is less concerned with my gender and body, I have become more conscious of it. I am painfully aware of whether my figure is proportionate, of the fact that my bottom half is a different dress size from my top half. Part of the reason is because the clothes we wear in the US are more revealing. Also, as I identify more with this culture, I feel greater pressure to conform to societal standards.

I catch myself looking at my reflection in the mirror, trying to determine if my body meets a standard (mine? Society’s?). And I remind myself that I don’t have to base my worth in these things. It’s so easy to find pride in these superficial things and let that distract me from what is really necessary (ie loving others). Also, I remember that these things didn’t matter so much to me a month ago, and two continents away no one cares.