The first hint that all will bloody not be well is when it’s time to talk about boobs.
Breasts, boobs, bosom, tatas, bombs (yes, bombs), balls (yes, even balls!), mammaries, knockers, puppies, bazookas, nunganungas…
Whether you’re up at night, crying in pain as they grow, mentally devising garments made of elastic and rope that will push them back into the flat chested, bike riding, almost-feral child you were or, you’re up at night, praying weirdly to God to get them… they will be the first sign that it’s over. What’s over? Any possible chance that you were going to get away with remaining uninfected by the Woman Condition.
On one hand, there was me and a couple of friends: early developers. The height of 11 year olds with the cleavage of 16 year olds, hunching our shoulders forward, wearing our old clothes until the flattening effect rendered us airless and wheezy and our mothers swore that they didn’t know what the damn fuss was about.
Mothers eh. My mother, also an early developer, was refused a bra by her mother until well into embarrassment: specifically, the school march-past sort of embarrassment when a sudden ATTENTION is meant to turn you into a ramrod except for your burgeoning bosom and its inertia of momentum. My mother wanted to spare me the embarrassment. So, she went out, at least 3 cms too early, chose the night one of my most flat-chested friends was sleeping over and came home trilling with excitement. “See what I’ve bought you”. As eldest of 6 children, I may never have heard her say this so I was apopleptic with anticipation. I bounded over, so happy, so pleased my friend could be here, witness to this random present giving that kids from smaller families seem to take for granted.
She had a bag. She pulled it out. It was a silky, cone shaped, slip of a… fuck me… it was a bra! My friend went into spasms. I wasn’t sure if it was jealousy or amusement but by school the next morning, it was currency. Not only had I been bought a bra. My friend knew what it looked like. And now everyone else did. There may have been crude drawings. I cried in the bathroom.
I tried it on. “It’s too loose” I said decisively, relieved. “Oh don’t worry, you’ll grow into it.” I cried like I’d been told I was barren or had cancer or was going to grow boobs.
BOOBS.
But the flip isn’t easier. My friend J by the time she was 15, was still rangy and tall and beautiful but as flat chested as a boy. I was secretly so jealous of her. So jealous. Once, as there was lots of ribald teasing in our convent school, I referred to her as a frying pan, something I’d heard other girls call each other. Later she came over and explained to me how I’d hurt her feelings. My god. I was shocked. Here I was thinking she was a have, when in fact, boobs had destroyed both our lives.
BOOBS.
My mother, my boobs and I continued to have a weird relationship long after mine had temporarily stopped growing. (More on that later.) My mother, borderline genius that she was, was also very susceptible to being afraid of things that could cause ‘C’. She wouldn’t even say it. Cancer. As if saying the word is inviting the mysterious killer into the door. She wouldn’t say Snake either. ‘S N A K E’ she would say, because we all know, snakes can speak English alright but they can’t spell.
I have always taken my mother’s advice. Whether with a pinch of salt or as holy gospel, I find it impossible to resist the basic assumption that Mothers, with the gift of experience and the assurance of instinctive goodwill, are looking out for you. Oxytocin is truth serum and so, I have taken my mother’s advice.
This has not always worked out for the best, especially in the case of MY BOOBS. After we bonded over the fact that we hated boobs (she had a massive, creamy bosom with a sexy café au lait birthmark, I have smaller, working ones that are dark and slightly wrinkly) and she totally fucked up with the first bra thing despite her best intentions, we continued to have discussions.
She was certain that wearing a bra would cause C. So I didn’t wear a bra. Actually, I spent large swathes of my young adulthood completely underwearless. Some of you less evolved folk may consider this either disgusting or, god forbid, a sign of sexual wantoness: I assure you it was neither. I went to church like that, my friend. And I prayed for world peace and that children would have enough to eat and that no one would be unhappy. And then I rode my scooter very fast all over town, without a bra.
This was hardly comfortable. There were occasions when my young breasts would accidentally almost spill out of the voluminous shirts I favoured at the time or worse, I’d get the distinct impression that one of them would bounce up and hit me in the chin over a particularly steep bump. But I didn’t care. I didn’t want to get C. After buying me that vile piece of first-bra, my mother, 8 short years later had said to limit my use of one and betcha by golly OW!
It doesn’t help that bras are weird. They’re very much a symbol of the Woman Condition. They’re not looked on as practical pieces of support gear like a jock-strap. You ever seen guys go to an underwear shop and look at the men’s underpants and say, ‘oooh, do I want a balcony that accentuates my ball-cleavage, or should I go with a plunge-cut that works in case I’m wearing tight, revealing trousers. Do I want a double cup or padding?’ DO YA?
Bras are not just bras. There’s bras for t-shirts, bras for seduction, bras for running, bras that are for see-through shirts, strapless, racer back, cross back, balcony, padded, reducing, broad strap, fine strap, lace, satin, double-cup, half cup…
The only smidgen of justice about bras came about in the early nineties when men were encouraged to gift their female sexual partners bras. This was a ridiculous notion no doubt encouraged by ridiculous 80’s hangover television shows like Sex and the City but still. For some time, you would see grown men, skulking shyly on the outskirts of Bra-Town, shrugging, blushing, talking to a sales girl who, if she was having fun, would stick her chest out and say, ‘is she my size?’ And he wouldn’t look at all. Just mumble. And buy something too big or too small, almost always too slutty with an apologetic, ‘you can get it exchanged for something you like’.
Like true friends, I’ve had only a couple of bras I could stand and who could take the wear and tear of knowing me. My first one was a lovely elasticated sports style bra that was bought for me before I left Oman for jungle country Bombay. At this time, in the eighties, bras here were not sold by cup size, only the size of your back. If this was not humiliating enough, all the standard cups were Jean Paul Gaultier pointy. You will see examples of these in old Hindi movies where the heroine, who has already been raped, borne a child, had the child torn away from her leaking breast, and is now lying tubercular on the bed, gasping out her 20 minute dying speech, has her breasts heaving in and out of frame: upright, pointy, like two Eiffel Towers. They, unlike her, are not ready to give up.
So I hung on to my ‘bra from abroad’. I wore it every day. I wore it and wore it until one day, I felt a peculiar sensation and looked down to find that one side of my t-shirt had acquired a most alarming silhouette. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what was wrong. Until I rushed home, bending slightly all the way, to find that my bra had finally split and my boob was now sneaking out of it. I had no choice but to send my mother to the shops for a new, unfortunately pointy one.
It was not the first Bra-accident of my life. As a young adult, living alone, I was making my way to the bus stop. Several people looked at me as I passed and it did cross my mind that perhaps I should repeat this outfit more often. I was obviously looking fetching. I continued with a spring in my step until I was accosted by a traditional maharashtrian woman who came up to me making soft mewing noises and shaking her head. I shrugged. She came up far too close and then pointed to my feet in horror. I looked down. There. Was. A. Bra. Stuck. In. My. Shoe. Not just any bra. My bra. A pointy bra. An old, once-white, sweat-stained, pointy bra that must have been on the ground and decided to make a run for it while it still had the chance.
Did the ground open up and swallow me? No. Did time stand still? No. Did my parents, as I cried to them long distance later, agree to let me move to America to escape the shame? No.
What did happen was the old lady put her arm around me as I scooped up the bastard thing and stuck it in my pocket. Then she suggested I go home and put it on.
Mother the fuck.
By the time I was in my mid-twenties though I had this Boobs thing whipped. I’d been presented a couple of push-ups, I had a nice sports bra and even though I was a little large for my height, the grunge look was here and my plaid shirts, torn jeans, Doc Maartens and fuck-you-face made sure no one really noticed my boobs.
Until I got pregnant.
We’d moved to Bangalore and I was still a slip of a thing, wearing my five-month little bump with pioneer cool: short dresses and tight tees and hippy platforms. I decided to look for work even if it was for a few months. And I went for the interview. And as I was talking to a very nice gentleman who was showing all signs of hiring me, one of my boobs leaked.
It was insane. I lost all train of thought and then became obsessed with trying to figure out if the poor man could see anything. Then I went home and didn’t return a single call.
Once the baby was born, my boobs quadrupled in size, leaked, sprayed, hurt, got blocked, acquired large, bizarre hairs… And when baby was 3 months, I decided to use a breast pump. There was no escaping the bovinity now.
I remember going out in public, to meetings, to bars and thinking, ‘I wonder who else is lactating at this very minute. I wonder who else spent 1 hour sterilising, pumping and dividing and refrigerating milk and 6 minutes getting ready. Not you bitches.’
I had to fly to Delhi for a meeting and sat at a round table for hours as my breasts grew and grew and grew until my shirt buttons popped. Then at lunch, while everyone else ate, I ran to my hotel room, expressed, threw the milk into the sink, cried and came down, hungry, depleted. A victim of boobs.
Breastfeeding is a weird thing. For Baby A, I could feed her, pump 8 ozs and then run off without breaking a sweat. By the time Baby Deux came in, my body was in some wear and tear. I gave up trying to express for Mr Baby completely. He seemed to be alright feeding straight from the boob but I didn’t have a drop extra to spare.
But I came to grudgingly respect my boobs in those days when the infants grow from being translucent foetuses into massive, dimpled, smiley blimps fed solely on breast milk. Sure, it was not the easiest thing to have a baby root around very obviously in the cleavage area while Indian men leered slyly from the slimy corners of their diseased eyes (a pox on them) but I learned to breast feed in public using muslin cloth, personal-shame-limiting and moves like Houdini.
Post baby 2, my boobs retracted, lost their mass and volume and will to be a living embarrassment. I lost weight, got super fit and they became a couple of things that could be folded, origami style into – sexy or working or yoga – and that would be that. I could run. I wore a bikini. I was freeeeee!
Apart from the nat-geo style long nipples that have come with breast feeding three babies. Now they are tired. On the odd occasion they are carefully pinned and prodded into ‘boob-shape-origami’ to be taken out, they look out with a quiet dignity as if it to say, “Yes. We are Genesia’s boobs. We are working boobs so don’t treat us like we’re just here for your entertainment. We have fed an army and we are tired. Give us a gin and tonic and leave us alone.”
And most people do.
Signs of Life 