Beauty in a Burkha in Vakola

As the car I was sitting in negotiated traffic towards the Western Expressway Highway I saw her for what was less than 10 seconds. She was in a black burkha but did not cover her face. It would have been a tragedy if that gorgeous face, which points towards ancestry in Herat, Tabriz or Aleppo, was hidden from public view.

The young woman would not have been older than 25 and there was more than beauty in her face, more than grace. She had a story to tell. Was this a story of oppression? Was this a story of a young man seeking emancipation in a patriarchal society, using education as a tool to salvation? Did she voluntarily wear that burkha that probably hid a slender body? Was she forced to wear it to keep the eyes of strange men off her? Did he feel more secure in those clothes or did she wish she was like the hundreds of thousands of others in her age group in Bombay, who were shorts on a warm March afternoon? Was she religious? Was religion forced on her?

I don't think I will ever know the answers to any of those questions. All I do know is that she was one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen in this city.  The equatorial moon could just as well have fallen on earth and manifested itself into a woman.

Monsoons make strange Samaritans

With a heavy downpour over Andheri Station and I had no choice just to battle the elements and fight my way home. I couldn't be sure when it would be stop raining or if the flood-water would recede. In this chaotic mess, I found myself untangled in an unusual situation.

A young lady in a full burkha was crossing the street at the same time as me and she nearly fell twice in the wind and was struggling to stand still with the flood-waters. Given the number of potholes in S.V. Road, there was a lot of hidden and lurking danger. As I moved ahead, I noticed that she needed help but I wouldn't dare to volunteer, given my fear of getting lynched by her religious co-practitioners. But she grabbed my arm, albeit with hesitation and apologies, and we crossed the Brahmaputra-like conditions in suburban Bombay.

As I was telling her that there's no need to apologize and the wind blew her veil off and I made direct eye contact with her. The burkha hid a beautiful and pale face and ocean-blue eyes. It was a strange moment when we made such strong eye-contact. She covered her face as we reached the other side and she said goodbye with a thank you. Something tells me that the beautiful face is covered out of compulsion from home. How sad!