The First Time I Saw Her
The things we notice about the women we see.
As the calendar marks exactly one hundred days of solitude (i.e. social isolation) for me, I note that this pandemic has given us many an occasion to hark back to Gabriel García Márquez. I must warn you at the outset that this is a somewhat inapplicable introduction to why I’m writing this piece.
A hundred days of an unchanging and uninterrupted at-home routine have enabled me to make a few observations about my sartorial proclivities. Many among these hundred days have been laced with a deep desire to dress nice. But, of course, that desire is routinely deterred by the sultry weather and a divided mind. About the weather, I can only complain.
In the absence of social obligations and the need to make a fleshly appearance, I have found it increasingly difficult to dress nice. I wake up in a threadbare outfit suited only for the darkness of the night, and I find little reason to change out of it in the morn. Being seen by no one is sometimes as good as remaining in the dark. In honour of the integrity ascribed to personal hygiene, I am compelled to mention that I have several sets of these ‘comfortable’ outfits, and I pick out a new one every night. In that way, my day begins at night, as do these desires.
Even as I look the way I do, I yearn to play with clothes and makeup. Now, if I were to unexpectedly emerge from my room, looking anew, without the alibi of having to present myself to ‘the world’, will my appearance be taken for a frivolous indulgence? At this point, it’s useful to clarify that I live with my parents. That, I believe, is the closest one comes to living in a state that is forever suspended between solitude and show.
And, so, every day, I purposely dress drab and do nothing, because then at least I can appear to be doing something more purposeful than applying lipstick with my manicured fingernails.
I will now tell you a little story, following which we could ponder over the things we notice about the women we see.
~
The First Time I Saw Her
I will never forget the first time I saw her. Perhaps it was at the after-party of a book launch. But maybe it wasn’t a book launch at all. Maybe it was a poetry reading, the kind that draws a surprisingly large audience. The guest list featured the who’s who of Delhi, the peculiar breed that is as effortlessly élite as it is sworn to social service.
That evening was a long time along, and all its details have receded from my memory as if the blurred edges of an old photograph. It is only she that stands out in sharp focus, as if under the spotlight of that event, it was she who shined, and she who burned.
As I walked up to the bar to order my inoffensive fare of chardonnay, I sensed her come up right beside me. I was arrested by her wafting perfume, which was pronouncedly feminine. I watched her from the corner of my eye, as she tenderly requested for a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. Now privy to her diction, I dared not to speak. Surely my words would spout scant and crass. I didn’t know this seemingly important and strikingly beautiful person, and I was ashamed of my ignorance.
I recall that it was late evening in the thick of Delhi’s winter, for she wore a muted black jacket over her arms, as the ilk of fashion bloggers do today. In contrast, I was painfully aware of the blandness of my attire. I had spent days ferreting around my wardrobe for a garment that would be acceptable and inconspicuous in equal measure. My signature red lipstick and newly acquired over-the-knee boots had been traded for a suitably dowdy look. As always, I had struggled to look decent, but also to be taken seriously. I wanted to be noticed even as I took cover in anonymity.
Our lady in question embodied elegance as she sipped her seasonal beverage, laughing daintily when the fawning men flirtatiously sought her attention. I remember the lustre of the fur scarf (faux, I’d like to believe), as if a crowning wreath in celebration of her existence. On her shoulder slung a small designer handbag that permitted no more than the rectangle of a cellphone and perhaps a lipstick for the powder room getaway. She had little need to lug her belongings.
The sheen in her perfectly blow-dried hair repeatedly stole my attention from across the room. Tall and strident in her exquisite high heels, she flitted about the room, waxing eloquent about the literature in question that evening.
Hours later, I watched her get into her luxury sedan and disappear into the charmingly foggy lanes of Lutyens’ Delhi. Even the motions of her car exuded panache as it drove off, although it wasn’t she at the wheel.
As I rode back home in my run-down Uber, I used my phone to do the obvious. She was the author of a notable novel—a kitchen-sink tale of a dutiful daughter raised by a narcissistic father.
A few weeks later, as I continued to trail her online presence, I chanced upon her riveting blog. If I were to tell you only one thing that I learned about her, after the hours I spent poring over her writings, it is that she is a feminist.
~
That’s where the story ends, only to raise some relevant questions.
Are you surprised to learn that this woman is a feminist?
Who is likely to be a feminist? Have we unwittingly prescribed the ways to be a feminist?
What does femininity have to do with feminism?
What does consumerism have to do with femininity (and, therefore, feminism)?
The modern day has assured us that it is always a good time to ask questions such as the aforementioned. Not only because the prevalent circumstances are almost always begging for it, but also because the discourse is a forever relevant and changing one.
Some of these questions have answers that I am still grappling with, and the purpose of this piece is far from arriving upon the last word. Instead, this is a modest attempt to share my thoughts and to initiate new conversations.
To be continued. (Yes, that’s my best shot at a cliffhanger.)
I’m intrigued and want to know where this is going and what happens next. As always, well written.