Victoria Monument is described as “White House meets Taj Mahal” by Lonely Planet. Queen Victoria’s grandson built it a few years after dear Vicky’s death. It reeks of imperialism, yet about 98.7% of the visitors there appeared to be Indian nationals. What Indian nationals think of the marble statues of old, British people jutting out in the middle of their city is a mystery to me, but the tone of the Hindi and Bengali spoken at the site was not disturbed. Had the grandson of Christopher Columbus built a 70-foot tall statue of him in the middle of a Native American Reservation, I’m not sure who would visit it.
As I was standing outside the monument, trying to capture a photo of a bird I didn’t recognize, a group of five boys approached me. “Madam!” one called. “A photo?”
“No, thanks,” I answered, “I’m just trying to photograph this bird.”
They looked confused. “A photo? You? Photo – you?”
I’d noticed the boys stalking me as I walked around the garden, but I’d gotten used to that happening here. Lone travelling women must develop a sense for how long to let it go on before spinning around and calling them out, putting a few speeding cars between the stalker(s) and herself, or deeming the situation harmless and ignoring it. The boys were young and there were lots of people and security guards around, so I did not feel threatened.
“No, I don’t want one,” I said, pretending I didn’t understand that they wanted to take a photo of me. Then I began to recognize the position of power I held.
After letting a few more seconds of confusion pass, I raised my brows. “Seriously?” I laughed. If they were going to shameless question, then I would ask them one, too.
My blond hair functions as a strange catnip to more of the people in India than I’d anticipated. It inspired my new nickname, “Dadi,” which is Hindi for “Grandmother” (since the hair is more white than black). To empathize with my ever-growing hypnotized audience, I liken my appearance to a person wearing traditional tribal garb, sightseeing in a conservative American town. I’m sure they’d get more than a simple glance.
There are plenty of tourists in Kolkata, but we are definitely the minority. Many of the people I come across can’t keep their eyes off my dumb blondness.
“Okay,” I agreed to their bemusement, “but you have to answer three questions first.” I wanted to keep with the Aladdin theme I’ve experienced here. “I’ll let you take a photo of me after that.” I watched their reactions closely.
They looked a little startled, but didn’t change their uncomfortable stares. I went on, “First, why does everyone keep staring at me?”
They shifted their heads back, jarred by my question, and snickered. They looked at each other, embarrassed and wordless.
“Seriously!” I laughed, “I was told that this would happen before I got here to India, but I don’t understand it. I try to dress conservatively and do as you do, but I still get stares. Why? And (2.) why do you want to take a photo with me? I’ll help you, but I want you to help me first.”
Two of the five laughed, stepped back and turned away, too embarrassed to continue the conversation.
“I show less skin of my skin than most of the Indian women here.”
I’d been surprised at the different areas of inappropriate exposure. Women of all ages and sizes wear open-back saris which really only cover the breast area and half of the stomach area.
“Why? The movies in your railway stations show half-naked women as well!” The movies I referred to were mostly very raunchy Indian pop / Bollywood music videos.
Several more empty seconds passed by and their stares shifted to each other, but they didn’t run away.
“I’m soorry,” said one in a very strong Indian accent, “Don’t speak English… English no speak. No understand… Photo?”
I laughed and raised my voice “You’re full of beans, sir! You speak perfect English! Why do people here stare at me? Is it my hair? Is it my clothes? What is it?” I named other potential factors, watching their faces closely and trying to compare them to the baseline.
“Movies,” one muttered under his breath. Then he spoke a little louder in Hindi. He was looking at me, but knew I couldn’t understand.
“There’s a start. English, please.” I laughed, “I’m sorry I can’t speak Hindi or Bengali, but I know you all can speak English!” They were all wearing nice, Western-style clothes and looked well-educated.
“Your earrings,” one boy said. I laughed; how polite!
After more back-and-forth English-to-Hindi non-communication, got the gist of it. To extrapolate, foreign-looking (Caucasian) women are perceived as loose to some people in India and grandma hair is sexy. I’d also noticed women staring and ask questions about the naturalness of my hair color. The movies make Caucasian women (and perhaps other non-Indian people) look loose, so they are assumed to be that way. However, I’m not sure that is true, considering the number of very suggestive Indian ladies I saw dancing on the screen.
Eventually, I pretended I was Lady Gaga and let the boys each take a photo with my sunglass-covered face. I told them I wanted a photo with the bravest of them on my camera:
“Okay, well thanks for the entertainment,” I laughed, “You are terrible liars. Good luck with taking photos with other sexy grandmas. Have a great day.”
I figured that I’d taken enough photos of Indians to owe a few back into the country anyway, and why not give the boys a picture with a fully-covered, “dadi” to talk about? They were harmless, I was unrecognizable, and I’d make sure they never saw me again. Like most other pack animals, once the first boy turned away, the second and third followed. I watched them look back toward me several times, trying to be subtle. I waved enthusiastically and smiled as widely as a Cheshire cat at each of their glances.
A few hours later, I bought some very loose pants, a long shirt, and a scarf to cover my hair with. When paired with sunglasses, it’s managed to deflect most unwanted attention, even despite its vibrancy of electric orange, pink and blue fabric.
For females trying to immerse themselves into India respectfully:
- Make sure you cover your neck (up to where shirts button to) and legs down to your ankles.
- Loose-fitting clothes are better not only because they’re less sexy, but because it’s stiflingly hot in India.
You can buy almost any clothing item you need for 200 rupees or less (the equivalent of about $3 USD).
This set cost $8 (with bartering):
- To a Westerner, it may seem odd that showing your midriff under a sari is okay. Exposing virtually all of your back above your waistline and sandals are also okay (as long as you aren’t afraid of dust).
- Nothing is ever too “god-y” in terms of color, shininess or sparkle.
In conclusion, the burka is probably the only universally-conservative article of clothing. Alas, burkas are still controversial and are not gender-neutral, comfortable, temperature-regulatory or conducive to any sort of artistic expression. Unfortunately, not even burkas deflect attention or debate in most countries.