My Red, My Blood

I bleed into my paper while I bleed through my vagina. I bleed out my sorrows and my rage and my ecstasy onto paper, my fingers holding the pen tightly, the black ink smoothly obeying the instructions of my mind while the yellow light of my room is reflected in the red nail paint of my fingernails.

I bleed because I am a woman, and us women start bleeding long before we start menstruating. I come from a culture that demands a very different version of me than what I actually am. I am not supposed to be loud, or wear sleeveless clothes (God forbid I expose my legs), or go out on dates . I am supposed to be a demure virgin who keeps herself covered. I am not supposed to complain about these things, because this is the way things are. And I am not supposed to complain about these things even to people who have faced these things, because discussing is privilege enough; we should not ask for more, and we certainly should not expect more. Now we need to just keep quiet and move on.

Indeed, every time I have talked to a male friend about simply feeling the relief from being able to wear what I want to in a city far, far, away from home, I have felt a little silly. This is not an essay about bashing men, but the point I must bring to the fore is that when someone has not had the same experiences as you, they are unlikely to be empathetic. This goes for women who have had all the freedom they need and want as well. The questions usually go like “Why are clothes such a big deal?” or “You can always lie at home and be yourself outside. What’s stopping you?”

Well, clothes are a huge deal. They are a part of our identity. There is a reason so many protests and movements throughout history have donned a certain fashion style to make a statement. From Gandhi weaving homespun white cotton clothes in order to reject British textiles for India’s economic independence to wearing denim as a form of protest against violence, we adopt certain fashion choices because they reflect our identity. And no, it should not sound silly, and we should not have to lie about our identity.

My most go-to outfit is a crop top and high waist pants. Where I’m from, it is considered the outfit of a morally corrupt woman. There, I have to wear the clothes I had left behind me a long time ago, clothes that I stopped wearing as soon as I moved out of home- full sleeve shirts and pants, covered ethnics, loose outfits.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with any of these outfits. In fact, I believe that while conservative cultures shame women for wearing tight or revealing outfits, the rush of modernism also sentences many women into the category of a ‘prude,’ simply due to their fashion choices- the long, oversized clothes, the covering up of oneself, and so on.

I think we can all agree on the fact that an Indian woman really starts living once she moves out of home. It takes moving many, many kilometres away to explore our interests, away from the cutting gaze of the society we grew up in. Moving away gives us the freedom to truly find ourselves. It feels like a breath of fresh air to be in a place where no one knows us. It takes moving away from home to think that yes, I have a beautiful body, and I would like to show it. Why are we so ashamed of our bodies? Why are we so ashamed of our blood?

Unfortunately, while exploring our identity through what we wear presents its own challenges, the intersectionality of women dictates that not all Indian women have the freedom to even explore this identity. There are endless conservative places in India, many villages and small towns, where the idea that showing one’s skin is wrong is hammered deeply into the minds of young girls. I have personally known many young girls, girls who have been my peers and friends at different points, who suppress their desire to wear makeup and cute clothes while passing judgement on those who do. That judgement often comes from a deep yearning to have the freedom to lead the lives of the women they judge. There was a time when I myself was someone who wanted to explore many different makeup styles but thought it was somehow morally wrong to do so because of the culture I grew up in.

This constant conflict, this identity crisis, is very prominent in India- repression of desire against the desire itself. And the saddest part is that this habit is inculcated in children, right from when we are born. It is the reason why something as simple as the clothes we wear becomes so complicated. As young girls, we are never taught to appreciate our bodies, but to hide them. We have to fight for our basic right to wear what we want, and we have to fight for our identity.

Most importantly, we have to fight to feel sexy, because of the guilt that comes with it. “What were you wearing?” is the standard question when we say we have been catcalled or sexually harassed. The truth is that it has never mattered what we are wearing. But if we do wear something “provocative” as society likes to term it, and get harrassed, there is irrepressible shame and guilt that accompanies it, compounded by the thought, “Did I ask for it?”

We are supposed to walk, sit, talk in a certain way that civilisation has dictated, and cover up our existence so as to avoid any unwanted notice. We automatically have to bear responsibility for those who hurt us, while the perpetrators roam free. This really demands the question- how is a civilisation a civilisation without the basic tenets of equality?

The conventional progression of civilisation over centuries is also why smoking, drinking, and dating constitute the idea of the modern woman. Cigarettes are not merely a lifestyle choice for us; they’re a symbol of freedom. 1900s USA saw a rise in women who smoke, at the cusp of women’s emancipatory demands to vote. Besides freedom, it also accentuated sexual allure, and therefore, a claim to independence. Those who do not subscribe to these ideas of independence, however, are considered old fashioned; society has dichotomized the idea of the modern woman vs the idea of the conservative woman in this manner.

Our very existence appears to be a problem. One stratum of society calls us unfeminist if we do not subscribe to this idea of the modern woman, whereas the other stratum shames us for embodying this idea of the modern woman.

Society of course looks down upon this modern woman. I have been asked by people, “Do you smoke and drink?” and couldn’t help but notice that the two somehow go together. It’s like saying “Oh so you’re that type of girl,” not necessarily with judgement every time, but with a certain fascination by those who have not yet explored it.

After all, the ideal woman is mute. The ideal woman is not an object of attraction. The ideal woman should represent the mother or the daughter or the sister of any man in question. Ironically, in a country that has no respect for its women, where men commit sexual offences without any qualms even in broad daylight, and where the birth rate is so high, there are men who demand that women be depicted as their mothers and daughters. These are the same men who have a problem when a woman shows some skin, because who will control them from keeping their desire in check?  

Yet, what remains sadder is that Indian women are accustomed to sneers from each other. We get sneers in a place where we need solidarity, and those sneers are exchanged in every direction, through every caste and class, and of course, the fluidity of gender will require a separate essay altogether. This is because our caste and class do determine our clothes, and our clothes reflect our caste and class. This relation is precisely what the confidence with which we carry what we wear comes from. In most cases, women from metropolitan cities wear summer dresses with an ease that a girl from a village can only fantasise about. I have been at the receiving end of many sneers due to my fashion choices, and been told to cover my legs and my arms, but I have also seen the longing with which many girls look at me, wanting to have the freedom that I have claimed for myself. I was pleasantly surprised when a friend wrote in my yearbook “I wish I had your confidence to be yourself so openly,” not just with regard to my personality but with regard to my experimentation with fashion, because I did not believe I was so open myself. It has definitely taken time, with all the identity crises.

And we must not forget about the double life we lead! I have not met any woman who has treated the anxiety resulting from a double life as a big deal. As teenagers, it can be exhilarating to break the rules imposed on us and lead a secret life, but as we learn to develop our identities through adolescence and adulthood, the desire to have the liberty to be completely ourselves only grows stronger. Alas, we are only too familiar with suppressing that need for liberty, and dealing with mental health problems all by ourselves. We bleed inwardly, and there is nothing to soak that blood except for the shared knowledge that we share the same experiences, and understand each other.

If only there was a little more love in the world, there would be less blood.

As children, we are tethered to our birthplace; as adults, I know many women who want to let that connection go away. After a point, many of us want to claim the red that is such a defining colour for us, red that is both sexy and traditional. We don red lipsticks, wear red sarees and western dresses, and wear red to our weddings. We own our red, and we flaunt our red. We find love in red hearts. Yet, many still struggle to accept that red. Red is not sexy for all of us; red is also the blood that comes from judgement, from repression, from faults that society finds in us for merely existing, from pain, from rage, from hurt.

Let’s embrace all of these reds, all of our blood- the beautiful, the ugly, the sexy, the painful- all of it, and put it all into the beating hearts of us as women. Let’s provide a pillar of solidarity for each other, and claim every red of our existence, so no one else can claim it for us.