ASSOCIATIONS…

Remember the game?  You call out a word and the other person spontaneously responds with the first thought that comes to mind.  ‘Cake?’ and ‘Birthdays’ is a good example. Another is: ‘Ice cream?’ and ‘Yes Please!!’

We have a new maid.  She stepped in clad from head to foot in a burqa with just her smiling face in view.  She seemed to glide forward, every line graceful – she flowed through the house.  Eventually, she removed the burqa and continued her stay in a very homely salwar kameez.  Somehow, the burqa transformed her into someone graceful, even ethereal.  I have observed many burqa clad women and I am drawn to the ones who wear it with dignity and elegance.

I remarked once to a friend that I would love to try on a burqa and see what it feels like.  He exploded, ‘Why would you ever want to wear a symbol of repression?!!’ Burqas are worn by women of one community and one community only.  You see a burqa and you know that the wearer is a Muslim, just as the Cross identifies the Christian. The association is carved in stone. 

I once saw a program on TV.  The woman was a traveler covering the incense trail which naturally took her through very traditional Muslin territory.  On the way, in certain areas, she had to wear a burqa (no matter your nationality or religion, if you are a woman you are required to be covered!).  When she was finally allowed to remove it, she burst into tears.  She sobbed and sobbed bitterly on camera; her explanation was that she felt that a tremendous burden had been lifted from her.  She truly viewed that burqa as a shackle. And yet some Muslim women I have spoken to say that it makes them feel safe, protected.  Some even view it as freedom because they can wear what they wish underneath it, disrobing only at their destination.  Much as one would wear a coat. One of my college classmates used to wear the deadliest minis.  Coupled with her voluptuous figure, her appearance would certainly have qualified as ‘oopmh!’ and she could never have walked freely down an Indian street.  In her burqa, she was armour clad.

So, will I ever wear a burqa? I do not know.  The associations make it an obstacle.  But the desire lingers.  How does it feel to wear another’s identity? Especially when the garment that defines it is obligatory and not optional? Will it affect the way I think, I feel, I talk, my outlook? How will I be viewed by others? How will they react? Do I really need to know?

In the meantime, there are other associations with happier consequences.  Sunday Mass means music and I still carry the song in my heart – I am free, I am loved and I am blessed.

And our Muslim maid looks after my mother with a devotion that is not confined by associations of any kind.

A Simple List of Errands

A bright window, in an otherwise rainy week, beckoned and since my ‘to do’ list was fairly long, I stepped out with rather misplaced optimism.

The first stop was to pay the electricity bill. The queues were serpentine at every window, so I joined the nearest. Suddenly, a lady with bright orange hair entered and went right to the head of the neighbouring queue. The outburst was immediate, and very, very vocal. Unfazed, the woman announced that senior citizens had to be given preference and she stuck to her guns. Though I carry a personal cloud of grey, I am some months off that magical, open sesame – ‘senior citizen’. Still, if needed, I would wade in and add my voice. But she needed no help. Bill paid, she marched out head held high. A young housewife sarcastically remarked that from now henceforth she would stay comfortably ensconced at home and send her mother in law to pay the bill instead. And I thought: how uncaring the generation of today is of the senior citizen of tomorrow – themselves. Were we so crass? I hope not.

Queues in India mean pushing, shoving, jostling and the air turning blue with epithet and loud comment. Queues here are rude and unwieldy. Some time ago, I read that Asian immigrants to Britain would have to undergo ‘training’ in queue etiquette and I am not surprised. The Indian queue is definitely not a welcome import.

Bill paid, I left the building to find a howling downpour awaiting me. Brolly unfurled, I stepped out to be greeted by fresh puddles and pools. Passing cars zoomed through exuberantly, splashing muddy water on pedestrian, wary and unwary alike. I mentally notched up a laundry bill as my skirt acquired a new and unwanted pattern.

A standing taxi and an alighting passenger saw me succumb, even for the short distance I had to travel. The taxi driver was chirpy. What’s the time? Three on the dot, why? I have to pick up a passenger in the neighbourhood and do not want to travel too far. Don’t worry; I just need to go a little further down the road. Destination reached, I pay the minimum fare and am greeted with a toothy grin and a thank you. A different kind of sunshine but a welcome one. Over-charging, cantankerous taxi-drivers are the norm.

I enter my favourite herbal store and am greeted by the salesgirls with a smile. I am a regular and they know me. The shelves are turned around but the salesgirl takes me through to my usual purchases and I am quickly done. Bill paid, I step out with a spring in my step. The day is looking up. With the pavement all to myself, I twirl my umbrella all the way to the cake shop. My husband and I love cheesecake and don’t need to watch our calories. Lucky or what?

Still coming down but, thanks to plastic, my purchases remain dry. I walk along the causeway, once possessed of open and airy pavements, now encroached upon by hawkers. Pedestrian traffic is two way in a single lane and ‘roadblocks’ are inevitable. I attempt to edge past a burly matron, two plump lads in tow, who is bargaining with a bangle seller. I try ‘excuse me’ and the locally correct ‘side please’. No go. I suck in the stomach and sidle past. Whew! I rush through an open stretch before I am beaten to it by the oncoming gang of college students – the causeway is a college-goers dream, with its clothes and bric-a-brac . My way further is again blocked, this time by a group in burkhas. They may have been draped in unrelieved black crepe, but hands and feet were beautifully manicured with nails sporting petal pink or fuchsia. Four inch wedge heels made sure that their feet remained above the water line.

Every now and then, a flute seller surfaced, playing a repetitive and enticing tune. But no tourists were out today. No one to con into unwary purchase. Somehow the flute one hears and the flute one purchases never resonate with the same sweetness.

One more stop: Vinod our neighbourhood provider of photocopies, prints, faxes and other sundry services. My prints were ready. I now have two new crochet patterns to experiment with.

I head for home, a hot bath and a hot cup of tea. A simple list of errands taken care of – mission accomplished and how!