Miscellaneous

'For over two decades, I had been told the female body was both sacred and profane, too beautiful and too ugly, a temple and a brothel'

The first few times in the ladies’ locker room in the US were a shock, to put it mildly. Coming as I did from Nepal, I was not very familiar with nudity. What familiarity I had, came from Western movies, Sidney Sheldon novels, and my own imagination. 'For over two decades, I had been told the female body was both sacred and profane, too beautiful and too ugly, a temple and a brothel'

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Smriti Ravindra

Published at : November 24, 2018

Updated at : November 25, 2018 07:33

The first few times in the ladies’ locker room in the US were a shock, to put it mildly. Coming as I did from Nepal, I was not very familiar with nudity. What familiarity I had, came from Western movies, Sidney Sheldon novels, and my own imagination. In all the years I had lived until I entered the US ladies’ locker room, I had never really considered the possibility of standing before a live, nude, female body. What strange occasion would make space for such a possibility? And so, when I did encounter naked women in the locker room, I was surprised, confused and terribly embarrassed. This is not to say the rooms were full of nudity. There were, at all times, more clothed women than unclothed ones, but the unclothed ones did not seem to notice this, and it was this casualness, this disregard, that had me nonplussed.

I remember her still, this woman, middle aged, averagely sculpted, somewhat distracted as she applied lotion upon her bare body. Around her, other women continued to blow dry their hair and outline their lips. I too was preparing to leave for college and was in a hurry, and so it was a few seconds before I registered the fact that she was without clothes, but once I recognised her nudity I did not know what to do. I felt it would be rude to look away, and yet I was irresistibly drawn to her. This was the curiosity one would feel in a new city—the desire to travel down new lanes, study certain buildings, even though lanes are lanes and buildings, buildings. I took quick glances at her, marvelling at similarities and differences. I had nothing but my own self to compare with.

Over the years I lost that tourist-like curiosity. No, I lie. I never truly lost that curiosity, not even after I had seen several naked women, but the curiosity was now accompanied by awe. These women, these naked women, I realised wore their bodies with the same ease that I wore my jeans and my pullovers. Had they all been tightly toned individuals, perhaps I could have argued their confidence came from their sense of bodily beauty, but this was not the case. All kinds of women were at ease with themselves. I must add that the locker rooms I am referring to were locker rooms in gyms, so maybe the fact that these women were here to exercise their bodies had something to do with their bindaasness, but it did not seem to be quite the case. Just because you hit the gym does not mean you get yourself a goddess’ body or a goddess’ confidence, and the naked women patting lotion on their thighs ranged from toned to flabby, thin to plump, young to old. What they shared was an expression of ease, a lack of care.

More than once I thought I would give it a try. I will come out of the shower, I thought, pubic hair and all, and mingle with my female community. Here, among those of my kind, I will feel no need to hide, cover, camouflage, or pretend. Here, I will be me. Of course, I never managed. For over two decades, I had been told the female body was both sacred and profane, too beautiful and too ugly, a temple and a brothel. It was a secret, a sigh, a message, a code. It could not be ‘displayed’ and any visibility was a ‘display’. And any display was indecent. It was also a rebellion, a statement, and a cry for chaos. I did not want to display my body. I am largely a decent, quiet woman, and rarely want to trigger a rebellion, make a statement or create chaos. In a city of bodies, I wanted my body to be another building. It’s terrible metaphor, but that is how it was. I wanted at least one place in the world where being unclothed would mean the same thing as being clothed.

It’s been many years since those locker room days in the US. I am no longer in the US now. The gym I now hit is in Mumbai, close to the colony I live in, where everyone knows everyone. In the colony and in the gym the younger girls—mostly those who are unmarried—wear shorts. The older women—and the younger, married ones—wear long trousers. Of course, there is no nudity. Not even in locker rooms. In fact, I had forgotten those women from my younger days, forgotten my own fascination with them too. That was another country. Another city. Another me. Until a week ago.

A week ago, a new girl came into our gym. She was quiet and rather shy looking. She came with her mother, at least I think the older woman was her mother. I could be wrong. Later, while a few others and I were in the locker room, the girl and the older woman stepped out of the shower and came into the room with towels around their bodies. While the rest of us got ready for work, the girl pulled off her towel, and she was completely naked. It was a strange moment. In the five years I had been visiting this gym, I had never seen a bare body. I am quite sure this was also true for the other women with me in the room right then. At that precise moment, when the girl removed her towel, there was a collective (completely inaudible) intake of breath in the room. The girl noticed nothing and continued to talk quietly with the older woman as she rubbed her body dry and began applying lotion upon her limbs. The older woman nodded and responded, going about her own business even as she conversed. The rest of us stared into the many mirrors around us. We would not look at one another or at them.

Distantly, I felt the same curiosity, the same awe, the same embarrassment I had once felt. I wondered at the collective emotion in the room, so thick with wonder, so inquisitive. There was resentment too. A surprise. A taken-abackness. A tilting of the head at this possibility. When the girl and the older woman finally left the locker room, there was a collective (and audible) letting go of breath held for too long, a sigh. How to handle this display? This quiet ease? This visibility that was not an act of rebellion or dissent, that simply was visible?

For a few minutes after the two had left, the five or six of us in the room were awkwardly quiet. What could we say? Then one of the women started to laugh. “My god!” she said, “look at us!” and we all burst into a laugh. How absurd we were. Then another said, Shit, I am jealous. And I am sure we all recognised that lurking jealousy inside our own bodies.