Sleeves, Dupatta, And Summers

  

    “Sleeveless dresses are not allowed here,” said my colleague on the first day of my job at a school with broken ACs and noisy fans in Pune. It bothered me at that time because school is supposed to be a place where children are taught to be respectful towards others, regardless of what they wear. However, sometimes it is wiser to adjust than to argue. That evening after the school, I went to a local tailor to have sleeves attached to all my dresses and tops. The next day, I went to school wearing a full-sleeved kurta. My supervisor came to me and said, “Jeans are not allowed.”

    The next day, I went to school wearing another sleeved kurta and a pair of leggings. My supervisor called me in her office and said, “I have been told by my seniors, that you must carry a dupatta. You see, your body figure is such that your chest gets highlighted.” I realized that my supervisor had no intentions of hurting me. Even though she was merely following her seniors’ instructions, I felt offended and extremely conscious about my body the whole day. I could barely focus on my work.

    The next day, I went to school wearing a saree thinking that no complains could be made on my outfit that day. But very few people will disagree, that more often than not, things turn out exactly opposite of how we had thought. This time my supervisor said, “It has been brought to my attention that your blouse is too open at the back. You see, there are teenage boys in this school, we must make sure they are not uncomfortable.”

    The next day, I went to school wearing a dress with full sleeves, trousers, and dupatta in the heat of April. No one complained that day but me. I was in extreme discomfort. I was sweating more and more with each passing hour. The more I sweat, the tighter the silk clung to my body, making it impossible for me to breathe. Yet, I had to put on a fake smile and go through the day because I must not make the teenage boys uncomfortable. When I came home in the evening, my skin was red, burning with rashes and all I wanted to do was shower in ice-cold water for whatever hours of the day were left. However, I could not, because I had to prepare for my lessons at the school, go to bed early so that I wake up early and be on time. I could not be late because a delay of a mere minute could cost me pay worth half of my day.

    The next day, I went to school in another dress, with another dupatta and sleeves and trousers. No one complained but me. Once again, I put on a fake smile, went through the day without making the teenage boys uncomfortable, and came home with a few hundred rupees to my credit and a body full of hot, red, burning rashes.

    Last year, I started working in a public school in France. I saw the teachers wearing clothes they like, clothes they were comfortable in – crop tops, t-shirts, hoodies, cargo pants, leather skirts, shiny jackets, shorts, boots, heels – no one cared. It felt nice to go to school every day wearing clothes that I was comfortable in and none of the teenage boys were harmed. No aunty bothered in buses when my bra strap showed, no uncle glanced weirdly at my cleavage – it was a different kind of freedom.

    Once I wore saree at work, and a kid asked innocently, “Pourquoi t’as mis un costume aujourd’hui ?” The other day, I wore a kurta to school and my colleague commented, “Ah, quelle belle tenue!” When I wore a frock, a girl said, “J’adore ta robe.” When I wore long zhumkas to work, a girl remarked, “T’es trop belle!” Although I am a little doubtful about the last one because it was April Fool’s Day, but I felt amazing every other time. I was smiling the whole day and my smile wasn’t fake.