This essay is a foresight and an hindsight essay combined. A foresight essay is when one writes a story about a choice being being made in the future and what could be the consequence of making that choice. A hindsight essay is when one writes about a choice being made and going through the consequences of making that choice.
This essay is special to me because it is non fiction and fiction. It is a peak into my life in a way and my predictions into what caused me to make a decision of a certain issue.
P.S. I got full marks in this essay.
When I saw that
fork in the road just ahead in my life, I chose to be a woman in purdah than to
be a woman in jeans
I
remember that when I was around five or six, my mother had asked me a question
that would more or less define her for the rest of her life. She asked me
whether she should accept purdah or not. I was baffled and emphatically said
no, it was close to a shout I didn’t realize though what it actually was that I
was denying my mother. What had really bothered me was that I wouldn’t be able
to recognize my mother when she would wear a ‘rida’ (a style of purdah worn by Dawoodi
Bohras). She wouldn’t be the same. She wouldn’t look like my mother. I was
baffled to hear my siblings’ encouragements to our mother to accept it. I felt
betrayed that they could so easily let our mother change herself into almost a
stranger. How dare they?! I cried that day and my mother soothed me and assured
me that she will remain the same forever. She did not change in the ways that I
thought she would, she still had the eyes that understood everything, the lips
that always quirked knowingly when I was lying and she still had the voice that
could make me sometimes feel like a princess and sometimes feel like an
immature child. She most definitely was my mother and wearing a rida did not
change it. What had changed was the perspective of the society that we lived
in.
Living
in a certain community has its own pros and cons. I believe that a community
that has more pros than cons is the community where one can grow and prosper
spiritually, mentally and physically. Thus, my parents moved from their old
neighborhood to Clifton. It has a community that has a mixture of views of men,
women and children. Women especially had no qualms about wearing anything other
than ridas, they roamed however they wished and there wasn’t anyone to raise a
question. My mother had no qualms either but somehow, something changed within
her that made her decide to wear the rida. My father had no involvement in her
decision, in fact, she told my father one day that she will be wearing one from
then onwards and my father was as stunned as I was. He was incredulous that
this change will last, but it has been twenty years and my mother has worn a
rida without fail. She changed only in her views of how to bring up her feisty
daughters; she did not push us into doing things such as cooking or covering
our heads in front of unknown men. She changed in her views of doing business
with some men who looked at her with superiority and even though they appreciated
her purdah, but they did not appreciate them working for/with her. After all,
we live in a patriarchal society and conversing with a female who sits on the
‘masters’ chair and a male sitting on the less important chair on the opposite
end, is somewhat incomprehensible. Her male workers having to listen to taking
orders from a woman, is rather unacceptable to the male psyche of our
society.
I
wish to walk in her shoes one day as well. The only time I wear a rida is
during religious congregations in the masjid. Every time I adorn these
traditional clothes, I feel safe and comfortable. The beautiful embroideries,
the soft cotton and the colorful appeal of it bring forth a confidence that I
don’t get from any other style of clothing. It is appreciated from not only
Bohras, but also from people of other communities. What is even more appealing
is the fact that my parents have not forced me to wear a rida. They themselves
advised me to go slow, start from somewhere and eventually I’ll get the hang of
it and will wear it all the time automatically. The most important reason
however, is that it is a part of who I am. I cannot ignore a significant part
of my identity and in the near future, I will fulfill this promise to myself.
I
had made this promise eight years ago and as some say that mothers are always
right, so was mine. Something inside of me shifted, evolved into another stage
of maturity perhaps. The factors I have mentioned later are not the essence of
what had actually changed within me to finally accept purdah but they were parts of my reasons. The religious side of me believes that God had helped me
cross the hurdle-full road. I believed the term ‘history repeats itself’ when I
told my husband. As my father was stunned and incredulous when my mother told
him about her purdah decision, so was my husband. We don’t have children yet,
so I did not have the support of my children as my mother did (except one).
He asked me a question though, why?
The
road to reaching the final destination was filled with obstacles. These
obstacles were of the kinds that are always in one’s way when almost abiding by
a decision made in the past. There were nails of fear stabbing my feet each
time I took a step to wearing one of the ridas in my wardrobe to work, but my
confidence would fade as soon as I would open my closet and see the dresses and
styles I have worn since forever. There would be endless ditches of hesitation,
not knowing when I would be clearly able to answer my mother’s questions about accepting
purdah, what pricked me like needles on the way down these ditches, was when
she would say that I’m even married now, it’s about time. My husband is not
even aware about this indecision; he did not mind me wearing traditional
clothes or the trendy styles appropriate for my age. I was as confused as to
what was really stopping me from fulfilling a vow to myself.
This
path though didn't just have obstacles, it also had slides and roller
blades that I rode to lead myself nearer to my promise. One of them was that
one day I had to take a cab on my way to work as my car had a punctured tire
and my husband had already left for work. I stood by the embankment, hoping to
find a taxi and reach work on time (which I didn’t). My home is in a secluded area
and one has to walk all the way to the end of the lane, which is a main road to
the commercialized area. As I waited for an empty cab to pass me by, a white
car slowed down near me and a big burly man with a handle-bar moustache
gestured me to sit in his car. I was shocked and disgusted, but impassively
faced away from that man. He waited for a bit and drove off when it showed that
I was not interested. I was shaking by the time I power walked back home and
called my husband and sobbed the whole story to him. He immediately picked me
up and consoled me on the way to my workplace, but something inside of me was
stirring, an anxiety that my security was jeopardized. Another factor was the
fashion obsession of the society I lived in. The moment I would bring home the
clothes I had just gotten stitched, they would have been replaced by another
trend already, not only was that frustrating but tiring. One-third of my time
would be spent pouring over magazines to have know-how on the new clothing
styles. My colleagues were ruthless when anyone would come to work dressed in
some way differently than them. They were definitely shocked that one day I
came to work in my rida.
Their
gazes at the soft folds of my rida were filled with skepticism. I never gave an
inclination to my spirituality or piousness and that was the exact intention
they assumed would be my reason for it. One would sometimes relate traditional
change to religious epiphany. They were wrong. It was between me and my
conscience, but then some say that conscience is a gateway to communicating
with God. Who knows?
My
first day wearing the rida was a bit odd. The news of my ensemble spread fast
in the office far and wide, all the way to the manager’s office. He came by
around lunch and asked me to come to his office with my tea. I was a bit
nervous. My mother had her own business and she could wear whatever she
pleased. I worked at a publishing company, and had superiors to answer to.
After we had conversed about the usual pleasantries, my manager changed the
topic to my dress code and asked if it was permanent. The nervous butterflies
in my stomach did not obstruct the confidence in my voice as I affirmed that
the rida is permanent. He just nodded his head in approval (as if I had asked
for his permission) and changed the topic to the upcoming book release. After a
split second hesitation, I also went along with the change of subject. It wasn't the end of that but it got easier for my colleagues to get used to my
dress code since my boss approved. It was the natural order of things in the
company I worked in.
When
it came to telling my friends, they were not as surprised as my colleagues
were. That actually surprised me. Their reasoning was that they knew me better
than I knew myself. A close friend told me that if I had never taken purdah, it
wouldn’t have made sense for me. It was just who I was, and it suited me. I was
pleased by their positivity but even if they had protested, they wouldn’t have
been able to do anything about it except assent to the change. With the tough
change at work, I immensely appreciated my friends’ supports.
Now
ridas have become the wardrobe that I shuffle through for work and it also
comes with its fashion dilemmas, but comparatively minimal to other dress
codes. There are days when I do think of wearing something else for an
occasion. However my mind wipes that inkling away as I know that even though I
have the option of reverting back to the pre-rida days, I wouldn’t want to. I
am happy with my choice, safe from eyes that may look in a certain inappropriate
way and content with the fact that it has not inhibited the normal routine of
my life.
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