Snobby! Indian! Ladies! of Soi 2
I have mentioned about the Shiva statue in our complex, but I may not have told you that probably half of the residents here are Indian. I'm talking about born-in-India people uprooted for business reasons to Thailand. Mostly families, from all areas of India - Mangalore, Chennai, Delhi. Mostly Hindus - hence the Shiva statue, and also the seperate Ganesh and Krishna shrines elsewhere on the grounds, and the spitted paan dots on the pavement near the front stairs, and the Indian sweets on sale at the corner store. But best of all, the Snobby! Indian! Ladies!
Snobby? So snobby. All those exclamation points are richly deserved.
I'll try not to go into a reminiscingly rambly post about all the perceived trespasses I've ever endured at the hands of Indian ladies over the years. Because there've been many. Scary and cruel upper-class British people have nothing on "heartless" when it comes to the Indian lady mob mentality. I'll just say this: I'm friendly. I have a big smile on my face and I'm carrying a gorgeous toddler. I say hello, I wave, I ask people's children's names and compliment their eyes/shoes/size. And yet, the ladies here Give! Me! Looks! SNOBBY looks!
...How snobby? SO snobby.
I realize that I sort of brought it on myself. See, I wear salwaar as often as not, and I wear them with regular tshirts and tank tops. Salwaar are the billowy, baggy drawstring pants women wear as part of what's called "punjabi suit", or just "salwaar kamise". In the Indian mind, they're part of a locked set: salwaar on the bottom, and then the kamise - a long, flow-y shirt-dress that falls to your knees - on the top.
(Oh, and a dupatta. That's the scarf that goes backwards around the neck. I could never really bring myself to truly accept the dupatta and only wore it under duress on special outings, in India. Despite my cultural relativist leanings, my feeling towards the dupatta was summed up quite nicely by a fellow student at the Landour Language School, my first week in India. A Swiss girl, she was in India to study meditation. She'd gone out on the advice of some of the professors and had some salwaar kamise made. I met her at Char Dukan on her way home, and she was struggling with the flimsy dupatta, flapping in the slight breeze. I complimented her on the new duds, whereupon she said, "Yess, it'z niice I guessz... But ziss sing! [pulling at the dupatta in disgust] It iz soo... stoo-pidd!" Yes. My sentiments exactly. It slips off your shoulders, it falls on the floor, and I couldn't help but picture mine getting stuck in a fan intake, leading to my inadvertant strangling-by-dupatta. I'm sure I was glaringly, obviously underdressed according to my fellow Shimla-ites. But you know what? It's not like I was going undercover or actually trying to don a disguise when I wore salwaar kamise. I wasn't fooling anyone in India: I'm white. Nobody was going to mistake me for a Punjabi lady, all up in her soot, browsing in the market: no. So I never worried too much about the dupatta.)
See: giant pants, under long dress-like top. Also scarf-like dupatta. Most women, me included, don't look this glam in salwaar kamise. But you get the picture.
I got really attached to salwaar in India, and brought a few pair home with me, which I wore until they fell apart (though their companion kamise-es are in perfect condition, unworn and packed up in a box somewhere). Very comfortable, the drawstring sits at your true waist and the rest just hangs there. Nice heavy hem at the bottom to pull the fabric earthward. A fan-like design of folds across the front hides a lot of fabric in the garment, so you can move every which-way and not worry about being constrained. They're lovely. It should be said that they kind of make your ass look big, and I can't really disagree. But I'm usually looking at myself from the front when I face a mirror, and Turner really likes them on me (like, really), so let's be honest: who else am I trying to impress?
In Canada I don't generally wear salwaar outside the house. For one, the material is too light, built for hot weather and Canada's dang cold most of the year. But also, I'm aware of the fact that Indian people would regard me as being half-dressed. Or inappropriately dressed, perhaps is a better way to put it. I'll mention it again: the salwaar and kamise are a set. They're worn together. You don't wear just the bottoms when you go out in public.
Anyway, when I got pregnant, I ran out and found a Punjabi tailor in northeast Calgary and had her make me six pair of salwaar. I got them made in heavy fabrics that would stand the Canadian winter, and I practically lived in those salwaar for the next year and a half. I got rather used to them as my standard everyday uniform.
When I was packing for Thailand, I threw four salwaar into the suitcase. Enh, I figured Thais wouldn't know the difference, they're just baggy pants, really. And these salwaar are fancy silk, shiny and luxuriant. No one would think anything untoward, except perhaps that my ass looked a little big.
But I hadn't realized, before we arrived, the nationality composition of Thab & Phet's complex. I probably would've brought the salwaar anyway, but may have just worn them indoors, if I'd known. I dunno. In any case, the salwaar are perfect for this weather, so I wore them every day in that first week of acclimatization while we were getting our bearings. And I slowly started to notice that I was getting very pointed, very snobby (So! Snobby!) looks from the ladies around the compound. They'd look down their noses at me. Then shift their gaze very obviously to my pants. And then back at my face, before turning away with a clear look of disgust. It didn't take long to realize what was up.
In Canada, on the occasions that I've actually left the house in salwaar and been called on it by Indians in the grocery store, it's been in the form of, "Ah? Salwaar? Have you been to India?" It's generally friendly, somewhat amused, perhaps a little surprised. I got the point of course, but overall it was a friendly interaction. Here, however? No. Not friendly. Pointedly UNfriendly. I stopped wearing the salwaar outside.
But then? Then. Then I realized that it didn't matter that I wasn't wearing the salwaar outside anymore. Because? Indian ladies? They're gossipy and judgemental. And they'd taken notice of who I was from the waist up, and it didn't matter that I was in jeans or gouchos. Because they'd STILL give me snobby looks (Snobby! Snobby, snobby, snobby!). There goes that asshole who wears the salwaar without kamise, they were clearly thinking. It was enough to make me finally confront two of the women, sneering at me from the stairs. By that point I'd gone back to wearing the salwaar. Because, like, it obviously didn't make a difference. I'd wrecked my fragile standing with the Indian ladies of Soi 2 and there was clearly no going back. So, fuck it: the salwaar are the best pants for this weather anyway.
I stopped on the stairs, newly surprised by their undisguised looks of distain. "Yes. Indian pants. Salwaar."
They ignored me, while still staring (a curiously Indian skill).
I looked around me, very obviously indicating that there was no one else, I was talking to them. "Hello?" I said. "Hellllooo?" My body language was all about the notion of ME talking to THEM. I was smiling, but it wasn't a fun moment.
Finally one slowly blinked, and said, "Hellllo." And turned away. The women pouted at each other, briefly: How uncouth!
Most of the time the ladies were so! snobby! that I just had to laugh. I actually laughed AT a woman in the elevator. I just have to guffaw. Because, like, C'mon you people! We're in THAILAND. This isn't my country, but it sure isn't your country either! I'm sorry that you feel you have some divine right to this pattern of tailoring for pants, but give it up already! Oh ho ho. Did I learn nothing from living in India for a year and a half? Yes, apparently I learned nothing. I will never live down this repuation, now.
Anyway. Yesterday I was heading out to meet Bauer and Karen for lunch and an excursion to the Royal Palace. I was wearing jeans and a tshirt, and a hat. As I got into the elevator an Indian man inside looked me up and down and suddenly exclaimed, "Wow, you are looking thin!"
I looked at him. I'd never seen him before. Like, I'd never consciously laid eyes on him and registered his existance before this moment. I said to him, "I... see you are wearing a purple shirt today!" Because...? Like...? ...What else do you say? The other man in the elevator, a Thai Chinese business guy clearly with the Indian guy, just looked down. "I see you are wearing a beige shirt today," I said to him, not to be boxed into a corner. The ride is short from the 5th to the ground floor; I didn't have to let an awkward (for me) silence descend. "...Yes, I am," said Mr. Thai Chinese business guy. Indian guy in the purple shirt beamed.
I was still at a total loss as to who he might be, this Indian man. I finally had to decide that yes, I'd truly never seen him before in my life. I mean, thanks for the compliment and everything, but in all my years of dealing with Indian men, I'd never received a spontaneous compliment from a knowing stranger such as this. Like, he'd clearly seen me before, knew exactly who I was: his manner wasn't that of someone who was speaking to a stranger. But how? When? He wasn't creepy about it: clearly it was a sincere comment, meant to be taken well.
Walking away from the elevator, though, it came to me: I realized... that... the ladies, they'd been talking about me at home! Not just amongst themselves - they were bringing their bitch sessions about me and my salwaar-wearing self into discussion with their husbands and families. ...And about my ass? Yeah. That it looked big in the salwaar. I bet, I'd bet $1000. This guy was seeing me at close range, in jeans, and I guess the difference between my skanky salwaar-wearing big-ass reputation and the lithe goddess of denim he saw before him was just too much. He clearly had to say something.
...You know, we all have those fleeting ideas that people are watching us, talking about us. Once you get out of junior high though, more often than not these ideas are just paranoia. Nobody is talking about you. Everyone is far too busy wondering if anyone is talking about them to actually talk about people, themselves.
So when? People actually are talking about you? Being mean and condascending and rude? And you're an adult? It's disorienting. You think (or at least: I think), "I'm exaggerating, I'm making too much of this.They don't care as much as I think they do." But then some stranger up and tells you (me) that your ass isn't looking HALF as fat in those jeans. And you wonder: is it better to be paranoid, or to be right?
Categories: Ash | Asia 2006 | India