Freedom of Clothing

A western woman is free to roam the west anywhere she wants, usually wearing whatever suits her fancy.  In major western metropolises, such as San Francisco, New York, Berlin, Rome, Tel Aviv etc, no one will bat an eyelash if you walk down the street with pink hair and black fingernails.  We're not evening talking about striped pink and black knee highs, a lovely short black leather skirt... you get the idea.  In fact, you’ll likely find kindred spirits faster, or at least strike up an interesting conversation, if you're so inclined. 

This is a freedom not granted all over the world.  Wearing simple Western clothes in India one should be prepared to pay Western skin tax: quadruple the price on everything (if not more), constant starring by both men and women, every small ragged woman and child asking for a rupee, chapatti or both, and many locals asking for a photo.  Western clothes is equivalent to the uniform of the British Army from the 1800s, you are a big bright red target for everyone, their mother, and cow.  If you are a woman, then the incidences of “Which country?” and “Come look at my shop” rise exponentially (they are present for men, but less, since women are known to the heavy hitters in the shopping category).  Sophisticated female sellers will make you promise to come back if you don’t have time to stop right then and there, looking you endearingly in the eyes with a toothless smile.  The men, whom you’ll likely ignore in an attempt to keep moving, will guilt you with touts: “You come to India and you don’t want to do culture exchange and talk to India man?  Why you come to this country?” You are here to shop and take pictures.

I've actually broken down and busted out a lecture on  the subject of "I am not my wallet and I have interests aside from shopping and drinking chai at the present moment, such as simply walking by to read a book."  This earned me the nick-name of Madame Grumpy, and the chai invitations increased, "For cultural exchange only, of course!"    

As I pack my bag for the umpteenth time to move to a new city, I observe the change in the contents.  My usual black and red is only present in a small pair of earrings, a gift from a dear friend from home.  Dictated by the color of my shoes, my wardrobe has become shades of brown, mingling with other colors only when its brown relatives are present.  I have incorporated color combinations and patterns that would make me run in the West, but in the East we are comfortably coexisting to present a new being at the fruit stand, the rickshaw, and in the mirror.  I am trying hard to be invisible, to blend in and thus blend out the color of my skin.  My goal, though likely unattainable and spoiled by those who have come before me, is to regain my freedom of passage and the ability to define my being as independent of Eastern cliches of the West.     

“Wow, you really look Indian in that!” my friend complimented me today.  I felt a sense of accomplishment.   

Written about a week ago.
The freedom has been written as a series and will be posted peace-meal.