Of Nudity and Shame

Wavering eyelashes. Furrowed eyebrows. A familiar cut to the lips. Cradling a sleeping baby in your arms on an evening flight is like gazing into the past, a retrospect into the cobbled bits and features of family members, hints of the familiar somehow blurred into something new, fresh, fascinating, helpless, happy.

And with a frozen neck, my mind wandered into the past. Of how I was the chipkumal that my baby has become (weeping outside the bathroom, the unbearable pain of being torn apart from my mother for a grand ten minutes). Of how much fun my baby has while having a bath (he weeps when he’s taken out of the bath). Of how nudity is perfectly fine when you are a baby (nothing like a good bumpee massage). Of how things change a few years down the line.

When I was in Class IV I had a ‘shameful’ incident during Independence Day celebrations. I was wearing one of those wrapround skirts that are tied on the side; I could feel the drawstring slowly slipping open. I should have quickly re-tied my skirt but at that moment we were supposed to swivel around and salute the flag. I chose country over pride and, Jai Hind, my skirt promptly slipped open and my undies were on display to the entire choir. With giggles following me, I ran off into the comforting arms of an older didi who helped me retie the skirt.

A few months later we had our first sex education class, a dismal attempt by all standards. The girls were asked to move to the auditorium while the boys were asked to go to the playground. No one knew what was happening. Curious boys peered in from the windows smirking and howling. The girls were made to sit down and were solemnly asked if they had begun their periods. A few hands were raised while most faces were blank, trying to understand the question. Period as in class? (Eg. Maths period, Science period?) Period as in periodic table? (We had just begun chemistry, so even this didn’t make too much sense).

Of course, it was never explained as period as in blood and babies. Words like ovaries and fallopian tubes were tossed around the room with the discussion quickly ending on a “Whisper.” A girl asked a question about tampons and she was shushed with a hasty “after marriage only.”

And when I did get my first period, it began with denial (what in the world is this?) followed by tears (shame associated with bloodstained chairs) and then pride (I remember wanting to tell everyone). Reality soon hit with cramps and generally figuring out how to make the damn pads not leak, which took several shameful years.

So after years of hiding our bodies and natural processes throughout those painful teenage years, what is left? What is the culturally sanctified “next step”? Marriage, of course, followed by sex and parenthood. All of which require you to bare your naked bodies. To your partner. To your doctor. To your doctor’s assistant. To random nurses. And to your in-laws, who happen to walk in just when the doctor is checking how much your cervix has dilated.

I am unashamed to say that I don’t really care any more.

It’s taken me thirty odd years to realise this. Hopefully, it will take you less.