Looking for love and lingerie in modern India

by Miranda Kennedy The following is an excerpt from Miranda Kennedy’s new book Sideways on a Scooter: Life and Love in India_. Kennedy spent several years in India as a reporter for NPR in the U.S. Sideways on a Scooter is part memoir, part reportage and has been described as an “intimate portrayal of women’s lives in globalising India". In this excerpt, Kennedy accompanies young, middle class bride-to-be Geeta into a lingerie shop called Curves for some bridal shopping. Find out more about_ Sideways on a Scooter at the author’s website . The building chowkidar, a lanky guy clad in a ratty security guard uniform, was sharing a bidi on the street outside with some other guards. It looked as though he passed most of his hours this way. When he saw Geeta and me moving toward the shop, he made a lunge for the entrance and all but shoved us aside on the staircase in his ardor to sprint up ahead of us so that he could do his job and pull open the door. Inside, incense and Sikh gurudwara chants filtered through the empty store, imbuing the racks of swimsuits and underwear with an unlikely religiosity. A portly Sikh man charged over. “Good hellos! Hello hello!” he shouted in heavily accented English, shattering the calm. He introduced himself, but I quickly forgot his name; to Geeta and me, he was always Mr. Curves. He had an exaggerated bravado and seemed to have been born without the Indian modesty gene that usually applies to all matters sexual. Mr. Curves lost no time in informing us that he “had a strong interest in the bras for the curvy ladies of India.” He gestured  toward his wife, who had come up behind him, and she modestly acknowledged her curvaceous figure with a slight curtsy. He sent her off for glasses of water and drew an hourglass figure in the air with his hands. “Why did I get this interest? Why do you think?” The two of us were still lingering awkwardly at the entrance to his store. I took care not to look at Geeta so I wouldn’t laugh. “Because I wanted for the ladies to be comfortable! India is a very great country, but the ladies of large bosoms were never feeling nice. That’s why ten years ago I began making my designs. And today, the Delhi ladies are catching up with my forward ideas. Now too many ladies are coming to buy my intimates. Too too many!” The evident untruth of this made me wonder what Geeta must be thinking. “Do you only carry bras for full- figured women?” I ventured. “No no, madams. We are also importing bras for all kinds of ladies. Look in my store, you will see sexy- sexy designs from Thailand, from Germans, from…many other countries. The ladies are loving us too much. And their gents are loving us even more.” He gave us an unsubtle wink, his head  wobbling- nodding comically. I sneaked a look at Geeta. She looked as if she was dying to get away from this lusty salesman her father’s age. In a bid to save our outing, I suggested that Mrs. Curves might show us around, rather than her husband. Before he scuttled out, Mr. Curves handed us each a plastic keychain in the shape of a female figure and embossed with the store’s name. Geeta’s lip curled with  disgust– I knew Maneesh would pluck the keychain from the garbage the following morning. [caption id=“attachment_19180” align=“alignleft” width=“380” caption="‘Geeta dragged behind as Mrs. Curves led us through the store, not wanting to appear eager to get her hands on the lacy G- strings.’ Reuters"] [/caption] Geeta dragged behind as Mrs. Curves led us through the store, not wanting to appear eager to get her hands on the lacy G- strings we could see lining the back walls. We passed an aisle of maternity clothes, which, Mrs. Curves informed us, was new. “Ladies used to just go to the tailor as their bellies grew. That’s what I did– just had a slightly bigger salwar kameez tailored every month or two. But now that women are working in offices, they are needing to look professional. They are wanting better choices, like the slacks with expandable elastic waists we are selling here.” I could tell Geeta had stopped listening; we’d had arrived at the wall of underwear. She gazed in wonderment at racks hung with satin girdles, string bikinis, and a series of transparent bras edged with fake fur. It was an impressive display, considering that jeans and a  T-shirt is considered a racy outfit in most parts of India. Mrs. Curves offered a sympathetic smile to Geeta’s stunned expression. “Some of the Asian and French styles are quite wild. But these days, Indian girls are wanting this kind of fetish wear after the wedding . . . to surprise their groom.” I thought of Mehboob and Hena’s saucy honeymoon shots and wondered what she’d been wearing underneath that cropped jean jacket. Mrs. Curves pulled out a black silk bustier; the matching underwear of the set featured a  fire- red flower on the crotch. Geeta looked at the price tag and gasped. “What? Do girls  really pay so much money for such a tiny thing?” Mrs. Curves seemed well prepared for this reaction. “Yes, betee. A lot of ladies come in and say ‘Hoo hoo! Why spend all that money on something when you’re just going to take it off’ But their daughters, if they are modern girls” — she looked pointedly at Geeta — “they’ve seen intimate wear in films and music videos. They want to have fun with these sexy pieces.” The sales pitch had the desired effect on Geeta, who was determined to be a modern bride, whatever that might entail. She informed our saleswoman that she, too, was in the market for “fun items” for her honeymoon — although she’d probably choose something a little less “forward” than the underwear with the  red- flower crotch. “Congratulations, betee. I thought you must be doing your marriage. And where is the honeymoon happening?” This was a question Geeta loved to be asked. Her honeymoon destination was irrefutable evidence that she was an adored bride of the globalizing India. Her husband  wasn’t taking her somewhere predictable and domestic, such as Goa, but rather to Thailand, on what would be her first- ever beach vacation and only her  second- ever trip outside of India. Thailand is just a  four- hour flight from Delhi, but nondomestic travel is still rare for all but India’s upper crust. Mrs. Curves reassessed Geeta with an approving eye. “Veeery lucky girl!” Geeta acknowledged this statement with a regal nod. Glancing around again at the wares, though, her confidence faltered again. “Actually, I don’t know what I need. What do girls wear at the beach in Thailand? I only have one or two minis. Do I need more? And bikini…I am not sure I am brave enough. What Indian girl even knows swimming?” Mrs. Curves was accustomed to the shopping traumas of brides-to- be. “Hardly any Indian girls have learned to swim, betee. Of course, that doesn’t mean you can’t wear a bikini. But many Indian girls are too shy to be wearing something so skimpy in public. Only in private they wear the  sexy- sexy numbers.” Geeta looked relieved. “Maybe I’ll skip the bikini, then.” She gave Mrs. Curves a sidelong glance. “You are also Punjabi, right?” The saleswoman nodded as though this was self- evident. “So you know that in our tradition, the new bride should discard her old clothes before she moves to her  in-laws’.” Mrs. Curves nodded again. “My mother wants me to do things the Punjabi way, even though I am going to marry a South Indian…” Geeta’s sentence dribbled out, and she looked at Mrs. Curves, whose eyebrows were raised skeptically. “Accha?” she said, using the word for “really” archly. “You are marrying someone from different community? Hmm, I guess modern girls have all kinds of love matches these days.” I felt a wave of annoyance, but Geeta was accustomed to other people weighing in on her personal life. Her focus was just to ensure that our saleswoman was aware that while she was a modern girl, she also had traditional bona fides. “Actually, I am not having a love match. It’s  love- cum- arranged.” Worried that the day would disappear into a lengthy discussion of marriage — a topic I was now totally sick  of — I jumped in to change the subject. “I didn’t know that you had to replace all your old clothes.” To my relief, Geeta turned to address me. “Yeah, everything. I’ll give them to my cousins or the servants. You see why I have so much shopping to do — it all has to go.” “Who pays for all of it?” “My father, of course. He’s been saving since I was born, Miranda. He transferred the money into my account as soon as he got back from Bangalore.” The mention of money set Mrs. Curves straight. Reminded of the dollar value of collecting on Geeta’s wedding wardrobe, she was happy to abandon her moral qualms about a cross- cultural love match. “Let’s start with the intimates!” she said. Geeta turned to the task at hand. “Okay. I should mention that my fiancé has told me about his preferences. He says nothing in silk or red. He doesn’t like such styles. He mostly prefers black lace.” I must have looked as shocked as Mrs. Curves did. Although Geeta talked to Ramesh every night, I  hadn’t considered that their conversations might ever drift into the realm of sex. “He told you that?” I said. Geeta nodded with forced nonchalance and wandered away,  toward another rack of underclothes. Mrs. Curves’s eyebrows were up in the air again. For a woman who spent her days hawking racy underwear, she had a flawless expression of moral superiority. “Hoo hoo,” she said to Geeta’s retreating back. “Boys these  days– they are having all kinds of experiences before the wedding. I suggest you buy some adventurous numbers!” ***** Geeta stirred the ice in her drink with her straw. Something was bothering her, though we’d been sitting in the Barista for almost an hour before she’d tell me what it was. Eventually she cleared her throat. A few nights ago, she said, Ramesh had whispered into the phone that he wanted to talk about something intimate: her past. The words had sent a familiar chill down her spine. Until then, Ramesh had insisted that a girl’s “innocence”  didn’t matter to him; when they’d first met, he’d told Geeta that he thought it seemed “backwards” to make virginity into such an important attribute in a marriageable girl. Now, though, he just had to know. He promised it  wouldn’t have any impact on the wedding, but Geeta, horrified at the prospect of having to tell him about Mohan, allowed her silence to eat up the conversation. In a bid to make her more comfortable, Ramesh offered to tell her about his own relationship history. Geeta remained frozen, even after he informed her that he’d had an  Indian-American girlfriend in New Jersey. The admission was  rare — boys are rarely quizzed about their pasts during arranged marriage meetings — and none of Geeta’s friends had ever asked a boy about prior girlfriends. Still, his candor  didn’t set her at ease, and hearing her cry down the phone made him more nervous than he needed to be. Eventually, Geeta whimpered out the story of Mohan. Although she quickly told him they’d never been “involved,” Ramesh was not satisfied. “He asked me for all kinds of details — did we kiss and all other questions. He really wanted to go into it. I said, ‘I am a very honest person, and I’m not going to lie, the way some girls would.’ So I told him that, yes, we kissed.” In spite of all my Indian training, my eyes widened at how much fear she felt about revealing a smooch with an  ex- boyfriend. My reaction, predictably,  made her defensive. “These things are serious in India, Miranda. I thought he might call off the marriage.” I apologized and wiped the surprise off my face. Geeta wound her plastic straw into a tight whorl. After a while, she looked at me again. “Miranda …do you think Ramesh has had . . . experiences in America?” I wasn’t sure what she meant, but the way she emphasized the word experiences made it sound vulgar. She lowered her voice. “He’s had a girlfriend… so what do you think he would expect on the wedding night? Will he want me to act experienced? Am I supposed to do some Mallika Sherawat moves?” Geeta had a hint of a smile as she referred to the Bollywood starlet, but I still found it startling, the disparity between her urban, educated lifestyle and her complete illiteracy when it came to the realm of sex. Like most Indian mothers, Geeta’s had carefully neglected to explain to her daughter how the body works or what to expect on her wedding night. The fragments that Ramesh had told her about his past — his American-born girlfriend, his lingerie  preferences — only served to highlight her deficiencies in both instruction and experience. I made an effort at a kind smile, but it probably came out looking more like a grimace. I’d enjoyed playing a teasing role as Geeta’s sexual mentor and confidante, but now that she was on the verge of marriage, the stakes were much higher. My flippant comments over Old Monks that night in my apartment made me feel a little queasy. What had made me think that I could advise Geeta on an Indian wife’s sexual duties? I remembered reading in some Indian women’s magazine that if a girl was “too active” in bed, her husband might think she  wasn’t “innocent.” For all I knew, Ramesh subscribed to some version of these pervasive ideas, in spite of his proudly touted Americanism. If I tried to predict his desires or expectations, I’d surely get it wrong. Geeta had no idea what a bad sexual role model I was. She knew that Benjamin and I had shared a bed, and that, she’d decided, was acceptable only because I’d told her that we planned to get married one day. I still hadn’t even admitted to her that we’d broken up, and I didn’t want to imagine what she’d think of me if she knew about all my affairs. Recognizing the distance between my sexual morals and hers, I felt suddenly ashamed. I couldn’t tell her how to behave in bed, so I filled the space between us with optimistic platitudes. You’ll figure it out, I told her. Sex will hurt the first time, but eventually it will feel good, so you should try to relax. I let most of her unasked questions drift, unanswered, back into the atmosphere. The silence we were left with, underneath the Bollywood pop pumping through the café, was pure and godly and Indian. On her wedding night, Geeta would be almost as unsullied by the knowledge of sex as her mother and her grandmother had been. I thought of the scene that had played out for centuries in India: the groom peeling off the sequined lehnga choli, the bride lying still beneath him like a terrified bird. Now, though, after her groom finishes, the new Indian bride pulls on a lacy thong to cover herself. The bride who bleeds through her imported European underwear: that is today’s perfect fantasy of the modern arranged marriage.