Nama-Slay: On Being an Indian Woman

I don’t normally show up in this space with personal rants like aunties do during evening tea time, but maybe I’m just getting older and more tired, so I have lost the ability to censor my thoughts.

I’m so glad I’m talking to you via the words on this page, though, because if we had to meet in person, I would have to plan it around my bodily hair growth and beauty maintenance.

To be an Indian woman feels like preparing for battle, except no one came to fight. Before any social event, the only people we need to see are our waxing lady, hairdresser, makeup artist, and nail technician. If we happen to meet someone in between threading appointments, we feel the need to point out, “Please don’t look at my eyebrows!”

Outfits must be coordinated. Greys must be coloured before they dare to peek through. Jewellery must be worn as lavish sets, and don’t forget the bangles because you can never leave your wrists bare.

Any semblance of simplicity and the worry begins: “Are you feeling OK?” “Are you unwell?”, or “Would you like to borrow my lipstick?”

To wear our Indian outfits demands visits to the tailor. It’s always a rushed emergency because we wait until the last minute to pull out our clothes. Digging through the plastic garment covers on our heavy lehengas and saris is a workout in itself.

Blouses must be opened up, sleeves must be added or removed, loose embellishments must be secured. Something always has to be altered, fitted, and hemmed. Why must our efforts be so high-maintenance when men can just wear the same beige kurta over and over?

Before traveling, we can spend up to a month of carefully curated bookings to get all our grooming in. The weather of a new country will ruin our blow-dry immediately, and do chin hairs grow faster on airplanes?

In our suitcase, we bring boxes of masala chai teabags and biscuits because we must carry the comforts of home with us. We make space in our luggage to buy gifts and souvenirs for all our relatives back home, even though we know they will re-gift it, sometimes carelessly back to us.

We are always meant to think of others, sometimes at the expense of ourselves. We can’t just say hello; we must offer food. We must host friends, family, and distant connections who we don’t know because they happen to be in town.

We dig through stacks and stacks of hoarded dishes to get out our best tea set; we apologise that we only serve two snacks instead of ten.

We get asked about our plans, our marriage, our single-ness, our children, and if we will have more. If we don’t want to get married, we are picky; if we want to get married, we can’t tell our parents we are dating; if we are married, we can’t talk openly about our problems.

We must know the traditions of our in-laws, whether anyone teaches us or not.

We inherit new customs and ways of doing things. We must always be adaptable or else we are difficult. There’s no rule book that says we must follow these standards, but if we break these practices, we cause concern.

So we keep up appearances, keep up expectations, and keep on doing what we think we have to do. And even when all the maintenance has been done, inside and out, there’s always something left to touch up.