ABSTRACT
My sister-in-law used to live in Trivandrum. Women used to wear blouses there, and she also began wearing them. My misfortune, when she came home, she brought me a couple of blouses. Two glittering blouses. How the blouse suited her! I also liked the blouses, and wore one at once. It looked good, but I felt ticklish wearing it. I took it off, folded it carefully, and brimming with enthusiasm, showed it to my mother. She gave me a stern look and said, ‘Where are you going to gallavant in this? Fold it and keep it in the box’. She did not look cheerful in the least. I was scared of my mother. She could kill me. At night I wore the blouse and showed it to my husband. He said it looked good, and told me that I could wear it. … He left in the morning. In my innocence, I came out wearing the blouse. Twisting and turning, I looked at myself; how lovely it looked. … I stood there immersed in a daydream. I didn’t notice my mother coming. Suddenly I heard her break a piece from a coconut branch. When I turned around, she was behind me, fierce and furious. ‘Take it off, you slut!’, she said, ‘you want to walk around in shirts like Muslim women?’ And, my God, she started beating me. … Scared of her blows, I took off my blouse that day. But I was determined as well. If my mother did not like it, my husband liked it. During the day, I did not wear the blouse, but the night was mine. When I knew that my mother had slept, I used to take out the blouse and wear it. My husband used to come only very late, like a gandharva.1
