On baring it all

Managed my 'Pakkathaathu Ponnu' post-of-the-week on the last day of the week! I also wonder if  I should rethink the 500-word limit. I always seem to have a lot to say and cutting down on my typical way of writing doesn't seem fair. Let's see what next week brings! 

Yesterday, I chanced upon The Guilty Feminist podcasts, in which the first episode was on a ‘nu6ity challenge’ that the hosts took up, where they went in the nu#e someplace and posed for people to sketch or photograph.

As they talked about the discomfort they felt with their bodies while posing so (hence the ‘guilty’ feminist tag), I thought about my own experiences with the concept of nudi|y.

I’d say that the average Indian woman has a very confusing attitude towards being less clothed (forget naked). We’re asked to hurriedly throw on a dupatta when a guest (or any man!) unexpectedly visits home, and b!kin!s aren’t even in our typical line of sight. But in a few carefully selected environments we also let our guard down without much thought.

Take, for instance, the few Hindu temples that allow women to take a dip in holy waters. In the changing room, it’s a sudden show of camaraderie, with women not caring to cover up – it’s like they suddenly realized that all women all have b00bs and, well, fat! And then there are the female family members who, in a common changing room at home, spring their uncovered selves upon an unsuspecting you, while you wonder whether to look away, or pretend not to care because hey, what’s there to be shy – we’re all women here?

Having never really swung either ways, looking back, I went through my own rites of passage when it came to ‘exposing’ myself to a stranger.  

Massages were a great place to start. While I’ve never been a fan, the friend I often travelled with loved massages, so I ended up getting a few just to give her company. Once in, you have no choice but to give in as a bored masseuse holds up a towel and asks you to roll over so she can massage the other side (after the towel covers strategic body parts, of course!) Being someone who gets tickled oh-so-easily, I had to focus more on not laughing than on my uncovered body.  

The second burst of ‘growing up’ happened in a Turkish hamam. Lured by images of women sitting gracefully in towels, I went in, changed and emerged unclothed in nothing but a towel that I held on to for dear life. As the woman who would give me my luxurious bath got in, she yanked my towel away, and I stared in stunned silence. When she saw me cringe and try to cover up, she said ‘I old lady. 60 years old!’ I eventually came to terms with it, because that was the only way I could enjoy the luxurious soapy bath she was giving me while singing ‘Que Sera Sera’ and ‘Aawaara hoon’ (which she sang when she realized I was Indian).

But nothing made me more feel body positive than being in a Japanese public path. I’d escaped through two onsens, having had no one but me in the heated pool for a luxurious soak. In Kyoto, however, I went to a public bath, which meant there’d be many women using the facility. I entered the changing room gingerly, wondering how I’d handle it. But the second I entered, I lost my inhibitions. It was a glorious moment of enlightenment that I will always remember. Inside were women of all shapes, ages and sizes, with scant regard for body hair or fat – there was simply no space for shame – and through them came my lesson in respecting and enjoying my body, no matter its flaws. For all of 250 yen (125 rupees), I soaked in one pool after another thanks to two Japanese women who taught me the Japanese public bath regimen (cleansing shower --> hot pools --> mineral salts pool --> sauna --> cold water pool --> rinse).

All my experiences baring it all have been in front of women, so I have a long way to go before I can declare that I’m absolutely comfortable in my skin. Also, thanks to my genes, for now I have a body that doesn’t fall close to either ends of the body weight spectrum – so I recognize that socially I’m in line with the current ‘ideal’ body type, which makes my battle ridiculously easy. That doesn’t stop me from wishing my body would somehow fit the curves that clothes come in. But call it age (or maturity or pure ‘I don’t give a f*^k’), I’m increasingly comfortable about my body. Who knows, maybe someday I’ll muster the courage to wear a b!kin!.