What if the body is where commitment lies? All things noble are often surrendered to the fiefdom of the mind, the soul, the metaphysical, the cosmic, the spiritual…ad infinitum. For what job does the physical have but to walk, sweat, excrete, play, survive, repel, and ache with pain and pleasure? Have we not forced a separation that never was? Shiv-Shakti, Yin-Yang, male-female, man-woman, cat-dog-mouse – we force poles on to a spectrum, and then insist on fluidity. But what even is attraction without poles? (Now, don’t be dirty, not those, not for me at least).
The unbroken continuum is where I believe commitment resides. But there is a third factor, the “other,” who lends it stability, a place to live maybe.
My other was the people around me. The number of unkind comments directed at my body seemed manageable, but only just. The wisp on the upper lip. Would I have lived it down if mine were all over the internet? What I could manage was the barbs and taunts. My self-worth, I was taught, should not rely so much on what outsiders thought of me, but on what I thought of myself. The subconscious, however, doesn’t work like that.
Every comment about my hairy body, whether made directly to me or indirectly by sexy, hairless women on TV and magazines, turned into judgment of me, by me – talk about being an only subject of a self-inflicted dictatorship. Judgement turned into painful waxing and threading sessions and avoiding wearing shorts in public places. I was a “tomboy”. I was proud of it. I got picked by boys to play in their basketball and cricket teams because of it. I loved it. And I hated it, because what was the use of being undesirable even after being good at sports? What is the point of belonging only for the 45-minute sports period?
Too hairy to be desired by men and too scared to admit I liked women. Being a lesbian at the turn of the century was not a fact of my life. I knew the term, but weren’t people like me supposed to be obsessive stalkers who preyed on other women and tried to kill their boyfriends? That was not who I was, so not a fact about my life. An argument was made that it was natural because animals could be homosexual too. That wasn’t a fact of my life either. I wasn’t just any animal. I was a human being, a social animal, I did not understand penguins at all. Tatu, the Russian “lesbian” band, was a bit of a relief. That turned out to be a lie too, but at the time it was better than nothing.
My self-worth when it came to sports, academics and choice of clothes was determined largely by me. I was average at all three, but had an innate knowledge or understanding that I would succeed at getting a decent job and being financially independent. Yes, family support helped, to the extent that it reinforced these ideas that I had about my future. But when it came to my body and sexuality both were undesirable to others, and hence repressed by me.
In those terms my context was the “others”. To be desired or feel belonging, the others must be ok with my body. Others were not. My femininity was denied to me by heteronormativity. I was how a woman should not be. My masculinity, on the other hand, was limited to carrying bags and heavier objects that they couldn’t (even by some of the women whom I dated). My body was a source of ridicule except when it was being used. Used but never desired.
So, what did I do? I stopped caring for it. I performed, but it was out of shame rather than an active want to be seen. Performed to hide. I joined a gym in my mid-twenties, only to leave it because I felt like it was too much work to show up waxed. Nobody actively judged me, but myself. I had PCOS, I gave up on exercising altogether and was diagnosed with diabetes some three years later.
The only time I looked in the mirror to admire myself was after a haircut, because that affirmed my still ambiguous gender and made me look better. But I found friends along the way – my body, my image of it, had some company. With even that much of support I reached not a finish line but the starting point of where I could allow at least the possibility of dignity and love.
When I eventually found love, all the old fears about the body came bubbling up. This was serious. This was not a date whose unkind remark I could brush off three days later. Emotion and romance proceeded at great speed, but the body remained in “woaah, wait” mode. I have to meet her, let me at least get rid of the hair.
And so it continued for a while. Desire had arrived, but so had preparation. There was still the calculating, the checking, the effort to make the body less itself before allowing it to be seen. For a long time, I was only naked in light barely brighter than that of a candle.
Eventually, I asked. I asked whether the hair was all right. I was met first with incredulity, then surprise, then shock – not at the hair, but at the fact that I had carried the question for so long. Then came understanding, kindness and, finally, what I had craved: acceptance.
Still, for some time, I behaved as though love imposed aesthetic conditions. I shaved before meeting her. I monitored what was visible. I tried to anticipate the moment when tolerance would turn into disgust. Nothing happened. Then nothing happened again. Then, slowly, I stopped preparing as if it would be the last time.
I knew I was committed when my body no longer felt it had to defend its right to be there.
Cover image by Priyadharshan Saba on Unsplash
