Veiled musings

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It was a picture in the paper that startled me that morning- the Prime Minister's wife Mrs Gursharan Kaur standing alongside the PM. In a sari, her head uncovered; her blouse was half sleeve, leaving her arms bare. A picture of customary grace that wouldn't have raised an eyebrow anywhere else maybe, but this was Riyadh. And as I found out, the Prime Minister's wife had expressly requested that neither she nor women on the delegation to Saudi Arabia be expected to wear a Burkha or Niqab as is mandated there. Her decision clearly not a negation of Saudi traditions, as much as it was an affirmation of her Indian ones.

I am not sure if Gursharan Kaur's dress statement set off a debate in the Royal Kingdom, but it certainly put to rest the debate I have dealt with for years as a woman journalist traveling in the subcontinent. Does one dress to conform to the most conservative norms, so as not to offend anyone as you go to look for a story? Or to dress as a journalist. Gender-unspecific. Jeans and a reporter's jacket with lots of pockets.

I plumped for the latter- but not before trying the former, with some awful results. The first time I went to Kashmir as a reporter- I was covered from head to toe. It was the summer of 1995, when fresh fatwas on Burkhas had given all tailors in the valley brisk business. I decided against actually covering my head, but went along with my crew in a billowy phiran; long dupatta trailing and a shapeless salwar sweeping the ground, struggling with tapes and a notebook in one hand, a ladder in the other.

On the final day our assignment included an interview with a local group of the Hizbul Mujahideen. It also involved an hour-long trek up a mountain and long waits at machans used for storing fodder. After watching me gawkily negotiate one stretch of the climb, my exasperated cameraman couldn't take it anymore- "Who the hell asked you to dress like Anarkali? " he exploded, "If you're a reporter, you'd better dress like one."

That did it for me. Whether it was fear of my colleague's disapproval, or my own relief at being able to dress in rough and ready clothes for what were becoming increasingly arduous road trips, I ditched the extra paraphernalia. There were of course certain ground-rules, learnt painfully in crowded Delhi buses rather than in theatres of war and rioting. No tight shirts, no legs showing, preferably nothing sleeveless.

The dress code worked in a strange way. I realized that even in the most rural areas, and in some urban ones from Dhaka to Faislabad, Colombo to Kathmandu, people dealt with me more professionally the less I tried to conform. They would welcome us into their homes, tell us their stories, without really referring to how we were dressed. Perhaps it was also because as journalists, we will always be temporary visitors, not there to try and change the status quo, as much as to depict the status quo. My dressing as only an outsider would actually make them more comfortable.

I remember once being extremely worried because I went with my crew to cover a big rally of the religiously extreme MMA in Lahore. I was sure someone would object to my feminine - 'unshielded' presence there, and when I got a message from a man near me that 'Maulana- Sahib' on the stage wanted to have a word with me, I wished I had just stayed home. As it turned out, Maulana Sahib had noticed that I was chewing gum, and since it was a fasting day, wanted to suggest to me politely that I put it away! There are some social and religious norms you shouldn't cross, and I learnt many of those lessons along the way.

But the lesson I learnt most of all was to appreciate the freedom of choice I had- not to flaunt it as some defiance of the culture one lives in, but as a respectful expression of one's own identity. It's a freedom the PM's wife chose to enforce last week in the subtlest yet most powerful sort of way.

Happy Women's Day!