Feeling Naked

A few weeks ago, when I stepped out to satiate my hunger for all things held in high regard by fellow intellectual snobs, I did something out of character. I wore a saree to a Shakespeare play. I was in a festive mood as going to the theater is nothing short of an evening at the opera for me. I had to turn heads and what better way to do it than follow in the footsteps of Aishwarya Rai and drape myself in six yards of the most feminine garment ever created. 


See, this is exactly where I lost the plot! I failed to realise that if you wear a saree, it changes everything about you... from your walk (I'm told I normally walk like Salman Khan from Bodyguard), to your posture (apni hi saree ki silwaton mein simti-lipti-sehmi si main) to your entire persona (I actually looked like a woman!) 


My arm candy for the evening, my Bedardi Baalam Harrish Iyer, couldn't stop teasing me. He has composed a "Debbie is a girl!" song and also choreographed a silly little dance to go with it. 


My other friend Mantra (who was playing one of the parts in the said play) was thankfully restrained and reserved any scathing comments about what could only be truthfully described as a sex change. His generosity perhaps stems from his being an actor and therefore knowing how demoralising any kind of negativity is, especially when one is doing something out of character. 


When the first appearance worked, I got bolder and did it again! I wore a saree the following day as well! This time my nearly three dozen teeth arranging themselves into a convincing smile that successfully belied the existence of half a million fluttering butterflies in my enviably flat stomach! I found the courage to upload my aurat-type pics on BBM and FB and the complements are still pouring in. 

A few years ago, I was out covering this story in a very crowded part of the city. I ended up getting pawed and molested by a mob. Being a borderline sociopath has its perks. I remained calm and focussed and made my way out of the sticky situation without losing my cool or even shedding a tear. As I was exiting the venue, I called up and told the woman on the assignment desk about my plight, hoping she would understand. She responded with, "Deborah ji aap tai kar lijiye ki aap aurat hain ya journalist! Morning bulletin mein story chalni hai, 4am tak edit kar ke bhej dijiye!" 


I disconnected the call, took one last look at the torn buttons of my shirt and the scratch marks on my chest, took a deep breath and placed another call, this time to a male colleague from a sister channel who already had necessary footage and sound-bites requesting him to share them with me. He was co-operative. I came back to the office to find my bureau chief editing a special investigative story. I told him what happened and requested no other female reporter be sent to cover the said story the next day. I also told him what the Assignment lady told me, to which he responded saying, "Theek hi toh kaha usne. Journalists should be tough. Yeh delicate darling ban-ne se kaam nahi chalega!" 


I made my decision that day. I stopped being a woman. I became a machine, devoid of all emotion. In my seven years as a journalist I have been lathi-charged, tear-gassed, nearly crushed in stampedes, been in car accidents, received death threats (people have actually tried to kill me on two occasions). 


I have three spinal injuries and have sustained multiple fractures to my wrists and ankles. I have a broken rib and a busted knee-cap. The list is long! I'm not complaining. I've earned a lot of respect. But I had to detach myself from the woman in me to achieve all this. 


Not any more... One evening at the theatre changed it all! Six yards of chiffon and two adorable friends have made me embrace my womanhood once again.