Fair & Lovely
I was taught how to be fair & lovely. With my daughter, I decided to change the lesson plan.
“Stop running up and down the stairs like a lizard!” reprimanded my grandmother. I pretended not to hear her and ran down to my room on the ground floor of our joint family house.
Of all the things my grandmother could have said, lizard seemed like the worst insult. She knew I hated lizards. I was afraid of them. And they did not run up and down the stairs. They slithered creepily. Did she mean I was creepy and quiet?
I could have complained to my mother, but it wouldn’t help. It never did. So it went into my belly, to brew and stew.
“Your daughter has sizeable hips…” said Sohini Aunty, raising her eyebrows and giving me a once-over. “You might need to do something about that.”
I was a tall, lanky, awkward teenager, limbs out of proportion with the rest of my body. I looked at her, pulled my t-shirt over my shorts to cover my hips and left the room. We were on a holiday with family friends. I spent the next three days hiding my ‘sizeable hips’ and wondering what that something was that I should do. My mother ignored the comment. I did not bring it up with her. Instead, I let it sit in my gut, where no one could see the shame.
“Why have you become so dark? Too much fun in the sun?” chided an aunt at my brother’s wedding. “I was in Goa,” I said, by way of explanation. My mother glared at me. I shut up and turned to meet other guests. “Am I looking very dark?” I asked my husband, hesitantly. “Don’t let them get to you,” he smiled, gently squeezing my shoulders. This went to my small intestine, coiling like a slithering snake.
Over the years, I have had the pleasure of being surrounded by well-wishers, who took it upon themselves to act as mirrors, telling me what they thought I obviously could not see. Where I saw a young girl with wild hair, they found a teenager in desperate need of grooming. Where I saw comfortable clothing that looked cool, they found a young woman who needed a wardrobe change. Where I saw a free spirit, they saw rebellion and disregard.
I should have fought but I didn’t. I let them win, my feelings of shame and self-doubt finding their way into my stomach and eventually making their home in my intestines. I wore push-up bras, began waxing early, regularly blow-dried my hair and used Fair & Lovely face wash in an effort to make a good first impression.
No one noticed. I grew to hate my body - feelings of shame turning to ones of rejection and failure. My gut made space for it all, leaving little to no room for acceptance or love.
Then I had a child. After fourteen hours of labour, I delivered a healthy baby girl. With only a handful of stitches, I was up and about the next morning. “Your stomach hasn’t gone in at all,” my mother commented. I looked at her in surprise. “Did you think it will go as soon as the baby comes out?” I asked her. “It should have gone in at least a little bit.”
Well-wishing relatives came to see my child at the hospital. They picked her up one by one, cooing and sighing as she slept. “She’s sooooo small!” said Lata aunty to my mother, who smiled politely in return, while stealing glances at me. When no one responded she continued to explain, “my grandson was such a big baby, you know…”
I let her words trail off into silence and then politely asked everyone to leave – it was time to change my dressing.
Over the next six weeks, we were inundated with relatives. It did not matter if our baby was sleeping or drowsy, cranky or hungry. I was expected to present her on their lap for their blessing. As she cried incessantly, seeking her mother, they continued to chat, unaware and unbothered.
On one such occasion, I was in the process of taking my crying baby back from the arms of a relative, fed up with the constant onslaught of guests, when I was asked, “Did you not eat well when you were pregnant? Why is your child so small? She should be chubby and fat. If your breast milk is not enough then feed her formula, please.” It was not a suggestion.
I held my daughter against my chest and left.
I travelled to Kolkata with a two-month-old, needing my mother’s care and the quiet of my old home. We settled into a routine of feeding, napping and resting. My mother pampered me and I let her. Eventually, we could not keep the relatives away. They trooped in one by one, opinions on the ready, unable to contain their wisdom.
“Your daughter has too much hair. Make an atta ball and roll it all over her face, arms and legs. You must do it. She will thank you later.”
“She’s a bit on the dark side. Let’s hope her skin lightens as she grows up. Start ubtan early. She will thank you later.”
“She’s too small. Feed her formula. Breast feeding is not enough. Don’t be so stubborn. We have all had babies.”
“Let her cry. She will learn to quieten down on her own. If you pick her up all the time you will spoil her. Believe me, you will thank me later.”
“Don’t let her sleep with you. She will become too clingy. Teach her to be independent from now only.”
My gut expanded, as I silently absorbed the comments, swallowing them as I had swallowed it all before. The shame pushed into my large intestines, pressure building slowly to an acidic ache in my chest.
“Why am I darker than you mama?” asked my five-year-old daughter.
“Because you are you and I am me,” I replied kissing her nose.
“Why couldn’t I be fair?”
“Did someone say something to you?”
I could have given her a life lesson here – one about how everyone is pretty and every skin colour is beautiful. But I didn’t. Instead, I gave her space and time to think through her feelings. I did not want my opinions to cloud her judgement. I did not want her to swallow them in her tiny belly.
“I want to be pretty like you mama,” commented my eight-year-old.
“And I want to be pretty like you!” I smiled.
She frowned, unconvinced. I hugged her, letting my love seep into her.
“I want hair like yours.”
“And I want hair like yours!”
“I want to wear your clothes.”
“I wish I had pretty dresses like yours!”
“I want to smell nice like you.”
“I prefer how you smell!” I responded, shoving my nose in her armpits.
She giggled at the game. I giggled back.
“Mama! You are not being serious!”
“But I am! I wish I were you. But I am also okay with being me.”
My daughter was quiet for a while, trying to understand her feelings.
“Does that make sense?” I asked her.
“You’re saying that if I don’t love my body, then no one else will.”
“Yes,” was all I could say in response.
I cannot protect my child from other people’s opinions. I cannot stop her from looking at the mirrors they will put up. I cannot pretend that she is in a different world from the one I grew up in. But I can show her, in my own way, that she is beautiful, perfect and flawed.
Instead of swallowing our shame, we laugh about it. Instead of letting the feelings sit in our gut, we talk. There are no solutions. I have my thoughts and she has hers. Neither are right nor wrong. In a world filled with quick fixes, we find the time to let our emotions brew slowly. We find the time to tell our bodies that they are loved – fat or thin, fair or dark, young or old.
Because at the end of the day, that is the only thing that is really ours – to love or hate, nurture or ignore, dismiss or accept.
. . .
This essay was written in response to a prompt at the
Memoir Workshop.
God, this hurt! I knew this was going to be relatable but didn't know how much I would relate to it. From being that girl who had to deal with 'well-meaning' relatives dishing out 'grooming' tips to facing that "lag raha hai abhi bhi bachcha andar hai tmhare pait mein..." and then to have a girl who told me once, "Mamma, I wish I had fair skin like the Arabs"... on top of having aunties recommend grooming my months old baby so she can get lighter and less hairier! I hate how people see females as public commodities - jiske jo dil mein aaye bako :( Im so glad you wrote this, Samira. Thank you!
This made me cry a bit. That conversation with your daughter and how you navigated it as a parent was really heartwarming to be part of as a reader Samira.