Sharvari PatwaYellow Idlis. They always made me feel warm and normal. Sundays was when Maa cooked idlis, not the white boring ones–the Kanchipuram yellow idlis, cooked on a banana leaf, with that little bit of extra effort in it. I think it was Maa’s way of saying, I am in a good mood, the house is in a good mood. Papa is in a good mood. The usual Sunday routine. Of watching Rangoli in the morning, Shaktimaan and Chandrakanta. Doordarshan uniting all of us to feel common, normal.
It was both a noisy but a silent Sunday. All of us busy in our own worlds, at the same time the background neighbour hood noises making it feel warm and familiar. Our neighbour, Meena Aunty’s pressure cooker sounding off -typical of a Gujarati household (Maa would tell me Gujaratis did not spend all their mornings working so hard. More liberated women, they would put something on the cooker and its done. A one pot dish) unlike Marwadi women. Other noises, bikes being cleaned and oiled, the on and off of bike starting, the sabziwala checking loudly if we want to buy veggies, the vacuum cleaner in the next-door apartments-the young couple seemed to be using. It was a calm and nice Sunday until now. At our home, there was always a more than 50 percent change it going sideways. Like it often did. Just out of a bath drying my hair, I hoped to sit through all the TV series and then my favourite, regional film with sub titles. We would make it to Monday without any drama. Hopefully.
As I bathed, looked in the bathroom mirror and felt a happy mood. So far so good. A nice head bath, wondering about my new Bollywood love-Kajol, my fascination for Simran, the stuck-up girl from Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jaayenge was partly because it seemed like there were so many common threads. The tough father, the conventional upbringing, the personality match, the understanding mom and a fun supportive sibling (in my case, my adorable little brother); I just had to wait for my Rahul ! Having kept short boy-cut hair for years, I was only now coming into a grown-up girl phase, already very grown up at 12 years, I had longish shoulder length hair. Thick, black and healthy, a good gene from my mother’s side.
And for the first time, thinking of how Kajol would shake her head and have her long hair go side to side, I felt beautiful and nice and a woman! and stepped out with my shoulder length hair-open to enjoy the warm yellow idlis sashaying my hair left and right. At 12 years of age, I
The joy lasted a good one hour. After which I would get one of the first tastes of what being a woman in my family means. As I gorged on the idlis, watching Ali baba on TV, my father looked up from his random DIY activity, observed me, his face changing from a calm to tight, forehead sulking and suddenly, “Baby baal baandho, aise khulle kar ke kya ghoom rahe ho. And then in the very marwadi tone and language” acche koni laage yoo thaare upar” (Tie up your hair, why are they open and you roaming about like this. Open hair don’t look good for young women). Will invite men, trouble and what not. Open hair girls do not follow the norms, do things that would not be fit for a good girl from a good house. Most of all, it might affect my chances of marriage. I wondered, where did he get this from.
I felt fear, rage and violated. Beauty was hair at that age. To be told to tie it up (meaning look ugly). This was just the beginning. Being 12 now meant, I had to be careful. I had to fear. Slowly this became a pet peeve. The point of anger. At 12, constantly worrying what would get him worked up, hair seemed such a trivial thing to fight over. So I tied it up always, in front of him. And then in school, I felt conscious to open or adjust my pony tail, coz Piyush sat right behind me. What if he saw my long thick flowing hair? Was it right I wondered? I abided by my father’s wishes. But anger built inside me. Open hair in a family wedding meant, my father would march from the other end of the hall, force me to tie my hair. My aunt disagreeing with my father (her father). She is 12, let her open her hair and enjoy. She knew this battle. Years ago, she had too wanted to open her hair, wear the bright colored green salwar kameez and go to college with open hair. She was met with a stern no by her mother, and fearsome stares by her brothers. But then she had thought, why fight for open hair? Why fight now ? It is such a small thing
At 12, in school we would talk about our crushes, which boy liked which girl. Did we make the cut. How waxing legs would mean being considered smart pretty and a cool thing. How I always took solace in books because I felt boys and even girls who I called friend were not worth it. They never read books, talk about Jane Austen, talk about life, or what they want to do. This giving up, not being the race also felt easier. Easier than fighting the battles of letting my hair down and open. So I told myself the 12 year old me was different. The daughter of a librarian, who loved books, who did not want to look pretty but geeky like my Kajol. I hoped to become a journalist one day, with open hair, rebellious, passionate about things that matter. For now, I why fight for open hair? Why fight now? It is such a small thing.
As I grew up, constant battles with my father and myself on open and tied hair, constant pacifying myself that I tie my hair as I enter my parents’ home for the peace it brings. The unmarried single daughter who is possibly unmarried because of her open hair, my father will say. Why fight for open hair, why fight now? isn’t it such a small thing?
I turned 39, sitting with my parents for a Diwali Puja, deciding to open my hair, my dad got up and left the puja, shut his room. My open hair, hands folded, his anger at my marriage-less existence, my singlehood, my independence, my freedom and my passion to put myself first. Open hair stood for all the wrong things in my fathers’ life. And I thought- why NOT fight for open hair. Why NOT fight today. It is after all such a small thing.
