An old journal entry dated Feb 14, 2007

It started out as just another day. Just another day with something to celebrate. Sevde turned six today and I went to the school to see her with a 500 piece jigsaw puzzle, colourful stationary and an Enid Blyton story book. She seemed to love them. I got back home just in time to be reminded by my father that we were going to the studio yet again. ‘Go get dressed. Put some powder on', he said as I got ready to sulk. This was an order that threw me into deep resentment, like all those times before. I knew the routine. I'd throw my best dress on, squeeze into my best shoes, flash my fake smile and the pictures would be either put up on matrimony.com or sent to aunts and great aunts who at 67 found new meaning in life through matchmaking. I sometimes wonder if it is their way of making sure that no one escapes the ordeal they went through themselves. I will never know.

Every Indian family with an unmarried, single, 26 year old daughter deems it mandatory to possess and distribute presentable pictures of their ward. You never know when good fortune strikes and a ‘suitable alliance' comes along. And based on what you looked like for those two miserable minutes in front of an indifferent cameraman, this prospective family is going to decide if they want to go ahead with your ‘proposal' or not. God save you if you have puffy eyes from working 18 hours straight on a presentation for the National Economic Forum the following day!!! They wont pick you for not being pretty. Normally, there are two shots- one, a close up and the other a long shot. The more enterprising ones shoot more frames- wards dressed in western apparel, followed by wards dressed in traditional clothing and accessories should a prospect be thus inclined.

This time I decided I'd wear my green dress and my father made me carry the blue Vietnamese Au Dai he got tailored for me. We'd have four shots he said. The only pair of feminine footwear I have are a pair of black boots. I carried them along in a bag, along with the powder box and the pearls. I have ridiculed myself before, but ridiculing myself in two sets of clothes in the same evening for the same camera- that was going to be my first time.

I started losing myself the minute the lady sat me down on a stool and brought out her much used box of colours- face powders, lip colour, eye shadows- things I'd never used before. With every stroke of the brush across my face she took away a bit more of me. She brought out the hair spray and slicked my hair sideways. Now, after my thoughts, I am most possessive about my hair, and I like to wear it short and messy. The least I could do to defend what was left of me was to furiously ruffle my gelled plumes. Without looking into the mirror I walked to where the lights were. Walking never took so much effort and my legs never seemed to weigh me down so much as it did now- not even when I was doing my 200^th split after a good half hour jog at the gym. My heart grew heavy and now lay somewhere around my ankles. I could feel it beating from there- loud, violent, repressed. The voices in my head were growing louder and profane. They were too many to contain within. I wanted to tear my head apart and let all of them out. The lights flashed behind me, above me, in front of me and the photographer pushed and shoved my limbs until he thought I was ready to be shot. I was. With a gun.

I thought I heard him say ‘1, 2, 3...smile...', but I wasn't sure. I didn't know where I was. Was I at the pizza place? Had I asked him for some extra cheese? Or was it happy hours at Java? In that case, can you top up my StoliCrush please and bring me my pack of smokes...why is the sun shining so brightly on my face? Is there going to be an eclipse later today? Why are my eyes watering? Why is dad looking so grim? And why was that guy with the camera asking me to smile. Camera. Dad. Studio. I remember now. The guy was getting impatient. How long had I been standing here? A minute? A decade? I couldn't tell. Ah! My throbbing head! ‘Smile. Get it over with' said a voice. I couldn't tell if it came from within me or from some annoyed soul in the room. Nevertheless I tried. Really hard too. My heart urged my lips to smile but my lips wouldn't comply. I could feel the battle between my lips and my heart and after a while my cheeks began to harden and ache.

And then I heard the first click. The first picture had been taken. What had it captured? My brand new clothes? my make up? my unborn tears? my pimples? my flat nose? my bulging body under that long flowing dress? the smile that never came? the eyes that seethed with anger sadness and resentment towards anybody who would look at me? ‘Okay, time for the blue dress', dad's voice came back trailing through the daze that engulfed me. ‘I am not doing it', I hissed back at him, clenching my teeth. "Now that you are here, you might as well get it over with and peacefully too. Don't look like I am taking you to be slaughtered. There are people watching you". As I slipped into my new mask I knew I couldn't fight the situation. I was now like the wounded dog- tail tucked in between his legs, subdued, submissive, vulnerable, scared, and worst of all, with no pride left. I wanted to scream till my lungs burst and my throat tore and bled. I wanted to scream to drown the voices in my head. I wanted to scream because there was nothing else I could do. And then I realised I couldn't scream either. Two shots and no smiles later I stormed out of the building to seek refuge in the car. I will probably hide there until I find a photographer whose lenses transcend the flesh and capture the mind.

By my freckled skin

Judge me not,

For scars on my cheeks

Tell my story not.

Nor do the bulges around

My widened hips.

My fuzzy limbs and

Cigar stained lips

Bear no testimony to how

My soul does quip.

Look beyond my bespectacled face

What lies beneath will truly amaze.

http://simplyme.shoutpost.com/