This piece inspired by Marie Kondo, who says that clothes are the least ’emotional’ of one’s possessions and therefore, it is easier to declutter with clothes. I find that clothes have a lot of emotion attached to them; after all, they are our second skin!
~ Author
You enter the country, overclothed in the cheap oversized leather jacket bought in Parrys, having pronounced the destination in your head a hundred times on the flight: Neverk, not New Yoark. You remember how you said, just a month ago, to Amma, sweating in the Chennai heat, ‘I’m going to Paris to buy the jacket,’ deliberately not extending the “i” or including the “Corner”: as if crowded, hot, sweaty, packed Parrys Corner could ever be confused with cool, suave, romantic Paris. You imagine, fleetingly, being dressed in the latest crazy runway clothes, spreading dosai maavu on a hot griddle, lips open, because, well, French kiss.
*****
You discard the Indian jacket for one bought at Kohl’s: on sale, fluffy, grey, making you feel like a lamb. You hate it almost as soon as you enter the house you share with three others; only, here, mistakes are easily reversed. The jacket is taken back, and you are taken aback that the lady at the counter asks no questions. Your mind thinks this is will—where thoughts are not mere wisps in the air but can condense into droplets of possibilities. Maybe that’s what snow was: possibilities solidified into unique little flakes.
The Kohl’s lady is so nice: beautiful smile, almost happy you are returning it, unlike the lady in India who decided she couldn’t take back your shirt because there was a smidgen of kungumam on it. You were indignant then: “I shouldn’t thank my God or what?” you’d said. You remember, with a shock, that you didn’t put kungumam on the jacket here. Did you bring any? Did the Gods even travel here with you? Can They cross the oceans?
*****
You are enamoured by something called a skort: a skirt and shorts rolled into one. You buy two skorts: there’s always two for the price of one in America. So Indian, you think, before realizing it’s not really that; it’s two for the price of just a bit more than that of one; the number standing there, teasing, daring, enticing.
The skorts show your thighs, and you realize you’ve never seen them outdoors, like too-shy brides. You are in an on-campus café with your friend, wearing your olive green skort and green checked shirt. You reveal to him your student shopping hack: buying clothes in the boys’ section of stores and how that means you get the cheapest deals. Who spends on clothes for their sons? You remember his German-accented English, telling you that it was okay, you can be whoever you want to be; you can love whoever you want to love. Only later, many days later, you understand what it means. You want to ask him why he said that, but you bite your tongue, like a thousand times before in this strange land.
*****
You remember these: being proud of the white shirt and black pants you wore that Tuesday; the Introduction to Audio class you were TA’ing; relief that the boy who came too close to you and who also made fun of your accent had not come to class that day; that someone came rushing in, shouting that the Twin Towers were hit by terrorists; you asking the class what the Twin Towers were.
Last, you remember thinking that finally, America knows what terrorism is. You remember spending the rest of the semester feeling guilty for that thought. You are unable to wear that dress anymore.
*****
It’s years later. You visit the doctor because you aren’t able to “conceive” as if a baby was a mere matter of imagination. You have been considerate, you think, dressing up in a black skirt that can be easily hitched up for examination. It’s always black or white, or sandal (not tan, not tan), the bottom, because it goes with everything. You never ask why it has to go with everything. It just does.
The doctor is white, very white, and reminds you of the child care services lady in Mrs. Doubtfire. You suppress a smile. She examines you, pronounces everything okay, and asks you to see a urologist too. Then she repeats, slowly, her eyes peering deep into yours, as if she was trying telepathy in case language failed, “You know, a man doctor”. Her face is expectant, looking for a sign that you understand what she said, and you flush the colour of your blood. You want to scream without any irony, “I got 99 percentile in GRE English. Do you know I’m the editor of an English magazine? I know what a urologist is.”
Then, you calm yourself down and bite your tongue that has lost all feeling. You pull your skirt back down, and smile at the bespectacled face.
*****
It’s nearly time to leave. You’re picking out clothes from the closet—ones you will take back home with you, and ones that will remain immigrants. The green salwar catches your eye: the Jaipur print faded green cotton salwar that has been with you for years. The one that wraps you in its soft folds, caressing your body for a dose of home, an extension of Amma.
You know you might not have space for it. Or, to be honest, use for it. You don’t need a reminder of home at home. You place the salwar in the “Maybe” pile and pack it away, knowing as you do that the salwar will never make it back home.
You think: new place, new wardrobe, new life.
Months later, you are sitting in your balcony in West Mambalam, Chennai, sipping tea, and imagine the salwar, asphyxiated in the suitcase; the jackets and tops, huddled together for comfort in the dark Salvation Army bin; the skorts, long gone, but crying out for you; and you feel the first drops of tears blooming in your eyes.
Illustration : Faiza Farooj Rimjhim