GRACE WITH GREYS - IFP Entry

 

GRACE WITH GREYS - IFP Entry

 

Summary

 

Grace with Greys is a brief look into the life of a woman's perceptions, views, and ideologies about herself, her family, her friends, and society. Humour, sanctioned sarcasm, and kindness, while addressing changes and opinions is what this is all about. The changes we go through and the changes we see in ourselves are one thing. Then there are the changes you address in yourself while seeing them in others. Grace with Greys takes a fun look at it all. Contradicting with comfort while growing, is one way we can evolve into better versions of ourselves. 

 

 

                                                               GRACE WITH GREYS 

Madurai. A medium-sized temple town in South India. My home. I was born in the same house that I grew up in, with the snug familiarity of the place and people, wrapped in warmth and brought up with jasmine fragranced love. This was me growing up.

Folks take a personal responsibility in getting the best version of –you- out to the world. The version that they can supposedly see and want everyone else to envision as well. Well-meaning family have asked me to wear light-coloured clothes to neutralise my skin tone. Friends of the family have asked me to wear baggy clothes to avoid drawing attention to my disproportionate hip. Some have asked me to wear my hair up to make it look less bulky. I’ve been asked to not put on weight so that I don’t look like an aunty – yes, aunty shaming started happening even in the 80’s. So, we have established that I am a dark-skinned, big-hipped pre-teen, with thick black hair and the flair to put on weight at the glimpse of a Gulab Jamun.

In a community like most in South India, which is filled with shiny chocolate brown girls, people magically expect fair-skinned girls as prospective brides. And then I met my husband and mother-in-law. They were both besotted with me at first sight. I was suddenly accepted and loved, without a leading ‘if only...’ phrase.

Pan a few decades and I have become a dark-skinned, big-hipped, middle-aged gal, with thick hair and still have the tendency to put on mass at the whiff of a Gulab Jamun, carrot halwa, and/or chocolate tart. With the way the world was changing, it would have been nice to see some of these things change. But alas.

I work though, I work hard to keep my tummy from protruding. I can suck it in for photographs and when I try to make an entrance at social bashes. While my entrances involved diaper bags, a lost look, and a fussy toddler, my social bashes offered a selection of flattened dough topped and baked with coagulated milk proteins.  My hard work involves running away from white sugar, deep-fried foods, some milk products (not the coagulated kind though), and meat. We’re still damn good friends, we love and respect each other very much, but we keep a tender detachment on most days. This would be thanks to my well-meaning childhood whisperers, whose echoes I still let resonate in my head.

I have always gushed with a surprised, humble smile when people say that I look the same. I hum and hah and thank them for their compliment and return it with as much earnestness and gusto as possible—based on the situation, the size of the person, and the cordiality I feel towards the person who gave me the compliment in the first place.

About 2 years ago, some of these well-meaning grownups whom I knew as a child, told me that I had not changed a bit. It hit a chord. These are people who knew me as a child, a teenager, and an adult. Just because I have not put on much weight (much being an extremely relative term), does not mean that I have not changed. I am not the effervescent, amenable, over-eager kiddo from the days ago.

I have most certainly changed. The pains, the joys, the trials, the heartbreak, the growth, the happiness—they have all crossed my path in some form or the other. They have touched me, marked me, guided me, scarred me, and kept me positive. 

People assume that if you have put on weight, you change, and if you don’t, then you haven't. I am growing every day, and my life is changing every day. My 2 gorgeous teenage daughters and my little fella, make me an extremely proud mama of 3. They are a huge part of my growth and I hate it when people say that my 2 daughters and I look like sisters.

This "sista" breastfed those gals, dealt with hormonal and non-hormonal tantrums, and stayed up multiple nights to finish projects which might or might not have intersected with sick days.

In a silent protest, I decided to stop colouring my hair. I have changed, I am growing and those 2 gorgeous gals are not my sisters (maybe in another birth but not in this one).

The line of demarcation happened. In my hair and in my life. The stark contrast of what I was attempting to achieve stood out. The friends who supported me, the family who rolled their eyes at me, and all the advice that came my way. I am no longer the amenable person from long ago. People were gently reminded of that when they gave me ‘advice’. My mother-in-law, who is also receiving advice and criticism for MY hair colour, remains the sweet and affable person she has always been. She, fortunately, has the wisdom of the ages to ignore people.  

In all my constant stance, to make a point about changes and me, I realise that it is tough. It's tough to watch the little girl in your life have shiny streaks in her hair. Some people use their age as a weapon and as an excuse. But acknowledging your age and owning it in the form of someone else’s greys is disconcerting. I’m always jazzed to watch how parts of disagreeable conversations can be zoned out in a thorough and irreversible way.

The little boys in "their" lives also have some peppery flashes which add more than a touch of distinction to their looks and lives. There are plenty of my "boy" friends who don’t colour their hair. They look amazing, and society does not give them any heed. The supposed gentler gender, on the other hand, cannot show off their magnificent greys without everyone around them wondering about their lives and how they can improve it.

The first time I saw my aunt in her greys, my initial reaction was sadly repetitive. The only lady who didn’t colour her hair in my life looked like the 55 that she was. I wanted her to colour it so that she looked like the bright-eyed bride who entered our household when I was still in my single digits. Memories of long ago and poignant changes seemed more evident in her speckled hair than in the time-worn house that had seen my mother’s birth. I redeemed myself a little by not voicing my wish out loud. This lovely lady started colouring her hair after she lost her husband, my uncle. It felt like a shove it to society, but I know that it was my mom and my aunt’s brothers who were not able to keep their advice on colouring her hair to themselves. 

There have been many approaches that have been used on me. The concerned, the worried, the know-it-alls, and the ones scrambling to understand what’s going on in my life. The first and most direct approach is the "you look older" attack. The next one, "but you are such a nice looking person...... if only." Oh no, you don't. I am no longer the docile person from aeons ago. I don’t know what’s going on in your life, but there will be no more "if only's" in mine.

Women can look cool and fab without colouring their hair. I can look fab and cool without colouring my hair. I understand the discomfort it creates when you see it for the first time. I understand it, I respect it, but I will not put up with what you would like your view of me to be.

I can have my greys and live my life without apologies. I can wear my teenagers’ discarded clothes and mess with people’s minds. I can get a funky haircut and then tie it all up in a bun. I can watch Nick Jr with or without my kids around. I can have my knee pain and still dance to bad pop songs. I can have people wonder if it is my kids or grandkids whom I’m bossing around. I am okay with it. I’m sure that you will be okay with it too.

If my mom (who still colours her hair, BTW) can try to grow with me, then there’s hope for all mankind and womankind.  

Peace be upon the Greys. We can just call them "white hair"; I really don’t understand why we call them grey. That’s a denial that we can address on a sunnier day.