That Thing at That Time

“In India, you do not say such things in front of people!” she complained.  Their parents softened their voices, both blaming the other for the unbecoming attitudes of their children. It was a public censure for the benefit of those children.

Anita and her brothers fidgeted in their stiff wooden chairs, once again confronted with the difference between themselves and, according to their relatives, everyone else in India.  Despite the fact that most of their relatives were academics or professionals, it seemed that gender stereotypes would never go away. At least, not in the backwater state her family called home. 

As her mother continued lecturing them about appropriate behavior, Anita let her thoughts wander back to their landing in Mumbai.  

After practically an entire day of sitting on the plane, the idea of stretching her legs on the land was heavenly. She was lucky to have the window seat, the result of much bargaining and cajoling with her brothers.  As she watched the parched earth and sprawling city magnify minute by minute, she was at once seized with anxiety about their reception.  

Would her aunties and uncles take her to task about her shorts and t-shirts, her inability to fluently speak the language, and her cross-country running? Would she still be able to roam around with her brothers and their friends, instead of taking hundreds of shopping trips to the local vendors?  Would her skin colour again be the topic of conversation? Or that same question about when she was going to be a doctor, like her many cousins? 

Her thoughts chased one another around, a circle of nerves and fear and anticipation.  Anita eased into the doubtful comfort of the airplane chair in an attempt to calm her mind. Unfortunately, the baby two rows in front chose that time to wail and cry and throw a tantrum.  Too bad she couldn’t do the same thing.  

Satish dropped his book to his lap, heaved a sigh, turning to give her a dirty look. 

“Quit muttering! I don’t want to listen to you complain and we’re not even there yet!” 

He was generally the quietest of the bushel of kids and pretty easy going. He was probably just as nervous as she was. Or he was just hungry and grumpy.  

The seatbelt sign lit up above their seats, and the entire cabin shifted gears. The lazy boredom disappeared into a frenetic mess of people reaching for bags and luggage, throwing away trash, talking, crying, turning on cell phones, and descending into chaos. 

By the time they made it off the plane and out the doors of the airport, the heat had sucked any thoughts other than those concerning air conditioning and water out of their fragile American bodies.   Tightening their grasps on their luggage handles, the family waded into the crush of people, seeking the least shifty of the taxi drivers to take them to their destination.

Anita’s nose wrinkled at the strong scents assaulting them. It was as if her mother had decided to cook hundreds of curries at once. She turned to check on her brothers, only to find herself a sea of people away from them. They stood as if shell shocked, taking in the sight of what looked like fully Westernized Mumbai citizens running here and there. 

Anita was rudely brought back to the present when her mother and father abruptly left the room. The silence was deafening.  She felt a tap on her left shoulder and turned in the direction, startled by the sudden contact. Her oldest brother, Abhilas, stood with his hand coyly placed over his mouth. He fluttered his eyelashes in a mock flirtatious expression.

“Why, Auntie ji, you do not have any sanitary napkins?!”

The kitchen was filled with hoots and laughter, the air lightened by the ridiculous nature of the situation. Who cared that she did not walk softly, or had a hearty laugh, or dared to refer to feminine hygiene products by their name instead of nebulous terms?  

Her brothers in that moment became her co-conspirators, plotting to overthrow the strange gender mechanisms of their extended family.

Ramu, the youngest, stood up and stretched his long skinny arms. He spun on his heel, shouting as he ran out the door “Last one has to pitch!”

The rest of them scrambled up from their seats, wiping tears from their eyes as they rushed to beat him to the cricket field. 

Anita followed slowly behind the rest of her siblings. Despite the Westernization of the metropolises in India, the Western attitudes had yet to permeate into the true system of social interaction in India. That system was still based in rural life, where menstruation was called the time, and pads were called the things, and if women had genitalia, far be it from them to know what it looked like, how it functioned, and describe that area anatomically. 

Anita could not care less for the outdated sentiments. It was one thing to be respectful and discreet. It was another thing entirely to treat the whole female reproductive system like the elephant in the room. 

 

She rolled her neck to the side, stretching out the kinks, and straightened up to survey the field. Setting her concerns aside, she grabbed the ball and stepped up to the wickets.