Amid my initial couple of months in school, practically every morning on my approach to class I would be drawn closer by no less than one individual who might ask ‘is it your birthday?’ ‘is today an extraordinary event?’ ‘are you going out?’ and 99% of the time my answer would be ‘no’. It took me a while to make sense of that they were indicating at my ‘over’dressing. That my striking, splendid shading decisions, emotional eyeliner, shining eyeshadow and blushed lips were excessively. That I, as a young lady, was calling excessively unjustifiable consideration. That I must be mindful of what I wear. “Ridiculous” I used to think, until the day I ended up supplanting my push-up bra with one that would make my trunk compliment. Furthermore, I understood I too have begun being influenced by male screening and their examining look.
This is the truth of being a lady in India (and in such a variety of different nations). We as ladies must know about what we wear since men are viewing. Since men’s activities are in direct relationship with how tight, bright, straightforward, short our garments are. We as ladies need to dull ourselves so men don’t follow up on what we wear. Furthermore, you realize what, I call bologna. Thus does this video highlighting a lyric by Gaya Lobo Gajiwala, in light of the fact that what we wear isn’t motivation to be badgering or disregarded.
Today my account against these desolate biased people that utilization their eyes to strip a lady is essentially to look them dead in their eyes, pucker my lips, curve one of my eyebrows and tilt my head; telling them that I too am looking.
Why were you out so late?”
“How much did you drink?”
“Were you traveling alone?”
“What were you wearing?”
These are questions that are asked to most Indian women when she’s leered at, groped, molested, harassed, stalked or raped. Vitamin Stree throws the question ‘What Were You Wearing?’ back at society and explores it in a whole new light.
I’ve been wearing men’s gazes
for so long now
that mere wolf whistles
no longer pierce my calm.
My ears dont tingle
and my cheeks dont burn
in fact I don’t even have the urge
to turn and say,
when one of them shouts
how he would like to
I do admit,
that sometimes skin on skin,
the brush of thigh or hip or tit,
because I’ve grown so numb
to fingers on my body
my lover calls me frigid.
I laugh them off,
these stray hands at taxi stands and
“accidental” jolts in buses and trains
that make for a very good story
which I tell well
especially since collective outrage
unites us like nothing else;
even though I am not outraged
because outrage wears thin with age
and mine disintegrated years ago
There’s always someone though,
but what were you wearing?
The same thing, I want to answer,
that I have worn for so long now,
it has become my skin