It is hard to identify the exact starting point of my peccadillo. It is also hard to put a precise label on it. Exhibitionism comes closest. But it isn't exactly exhibitionism, at least not the way I generally see the word being used. I don't think of myself as an exhibitionist because I have never really enjoyed exhibiting myself to others. At least I have never been aroused by the idea that someone is watching me and I am letting them watch me, by choice. I have never dressed too revealingly. And occasionally if my cleavage is visible through a slightly low cut top, I never go out of the way to flaunt it. If anything, I take extra efforts to avoid drawing attention to it. I have never enjoyed wearing short skirts, hot pants, backless cholis, wearing my sari low to expose my navel, and I have never liked bikinis. Most of my swimsuits are one piece.
I do like the feeling of being naked though. Always have, for as long as I can remember. Not just when I am showering or having sex, which is pretty much the only time most of us are naked. I liked being naked in other locations and occasions too. But not in front of others. At least not necessarily in front of others. Maybe close to others. But not in front of them. Which is why I can't claim the label of exhibitionist with accuracy.
I was the only child of middle class Marwari parents growing up in a town 5 hours from Bombay. My family wasn't exactly old school conservative but they weren't super modern either. My parents always kept a watchful eye on me and at least growing up, I had to adhere to curfews. And although I had some male friends in school, it was made clear that I could not have a boyfriend. But that didn't mean they just wanted to raise me to be a dutiful housewife and marry me off. I was expected to focus on my studies, build a great career, and then think about boys.
I suppose that if I really try, I could make some Freudian pop-psych excuses for my tendencies. That it was subconscious rebellion against controlling parents. Or it was my way of dealing with the rapid and occasionally shocking changes that all girls go through after hitting puberty. Or it was to compensate for not really having a sex life till much later than I wanted. Or my middle finger to a culture that enjoys exhibiting and objectifying women. But they would be just that - excuses. Over the years as I wrestled with my tendencies, indulged in them, tried to deprive myself of them. and dealt with the guilt and exhilaration that went hand in hand with them, I have realized that the excuses are not necessary. That's just who I am. Or at least was, until that need just went away on its own.
I really love eating butterscotch ice cream, reading Camus, hiking, long distance running, mountains, 70s disco music, and among other things, I really like being naked. There were a lot of small steps leading up to my full scale embrace of the peccadillo. But the significant event with which this origin story truly starts occurred soon after I turned eighteen. In the summer of 1993.
It was a particularly scorching summer that year. Torrid! I had just taken my Class 12 board exams and was hoping to get into a good engineering college in Bombay or Pune. Now that I had turned 18, my mom insisted on finally teaching me the basics of cooking. I spent most of the day in the kitchen under her apprenticeship. Some of the time reading or listening to music. And in the evenings, I went out with my friends to movies or to the local park or cheap snacks stores that I could afford with my meager allowance.
In May, we had guests living us for about a week. My mother's aunt and her two friends were visiting from Ahmedabad to attend some religious gathering in our town. We lived in a small apartment on the 2nd floor of a 4-floor (plus ground floor) apartment building in one of the newer neighborhoods of the town. It was a small apartment - about 600 square feet with just one bedroom. Obviously, I didn't have a room of my own. When I was little, I used to sleep in the bedroom on the king bed with mom and dad. After I turned 10 or so, I started sleeping in the living room on a divan.
With three old ladies visiting, the apartment obviously got a little cramped. But my mom was very close to her aunt, so we had no choice but to accommodate them. My parents tried to get the ladies to take the bedroom. They politely and sternly refused saying they possibly couldn't kick their gracious hosts out of their own bedroom. They were happy sharing the living room with me, and would sleep on "gaddis" (which are Indian style cotton stuffed thin mattresses, kinda like futon mattresses) on the floor. So that's how the solidly middle class sleeping arrangements were finalized.
After the first night, when the ladies left for their thing, I confronted my parents.
"I cannot sleep out there again while they are here."
"What? Who are you, Queen Elizabeth? They're our guests. You only have to adjust for a few days."
"But dad, they snore like train engines!"
"So? People snore, Urja. It's a normal bodily function."
"So is sleep, which I didn't get any of last night."
"Okay, you sleep inside in the bedroom with us. On a gaddi on the floor." Mom said.
"Fine."
But that didn't improve things too much. The next day, my eyes red, I talked to my parents again.
"Dad, umm....don't get mad but you snore just as bad as them."
"What nonsense? I don't snore!" my dad said defensively. "Not too loudly anyway. If I did snore that bad, your mother wouldn't be able to sleep either. You are just acting like that princess from the story of the princess and the pea."
"I have been telling you for 20 years that you snore. And snore bad." my mom laughed and said. "Just because I have managed to adapt and ignore it doesn't mean she will be able to do it in one night."
"Whatever. Just deal with it, Urja. It's only for a few more days."
"But dad..."
"What do you want me to do? Book your highness into a hotel?"
"No....but I could spend the night at Neha's place."
"No way!" my dad said. "A sleepover at Neha's? I don't trust her. And I especially don't trust her brother."
