On Swimsuits and Shame

For decades, one small village held out against the tide of shamlessness that had enveloped Jesustan. Cape May in New Jersey has finally fallen. I am uncertain as to whether I should respond to the death of sharam with a loud haaw, Rabba! or whether I should first wipe dry the river of drool running off my lips: perhaps it is best, though, that I proceed with my tale before I run to buy a bus ticket to witness the apocalypse first hand.

It all began in the 1960s, when the young of Jesustan began to realize that wearing clothes in the summer serves no useful purpose. Life in Cape May became impossible, not the least because the loud factory-whistle sound of steam blowing out of its elderly citizens’ ears made normal conversation impossible. Driven to great roiling frenzies of un-sated lust by the spectacle of kudis and mundas clad in nothing but colorful underwear – if that – the venerable gentlefolk who sat on the Panchayat of Cap May decided they could take it no longer.

After a great deal of debate (a very great deal, because much of it was inaudible owing to the loud whistling sound and sentences had often to be repeated) the Cape May Panchayat determined that there was no other way to deal with the situation other than by unleashing the full wrath of the law upon the problem. Laws were passed that required men and women to cavort upon its beaches at separate times, and then only if clad in long wool suits that covered all but their faces and feet. For most residents of Cape May, I am told, this was a great convenience, since most, like their brethren in Taliban-ruled Kabul, dressed in this fashion at all times, and now did not have to change before taking a swim.

The Afghans, I see, are still holding out, but Cape May, alas, has been driven by the temptation of filthy lucre to resile from its magnificent defiance. Anyone may now frolic in the skimpiest of swimsuits on the beaches of Cape May, without fear of interference by its Saudi Arabia-style mutaween, or religious police. An era has passed, and along with it earning opportunities for the Cape May mutaween and wool-merchants. Yet this sacrifice, Cape May’s Panchayat seems to believe, is worth making. Its residents long for the freedoms they relinquished so many decades ago, and to join in the liberty and freedom of spirit represented by bikinis and Speedo swim-suits.

Freedom? Not everyone is enthused by the winds of change sweeping Cape May. Some of my native guides have objected to it on aesthetic grounds, noting that concealing all is more times than not a gift both to the individual and to the community. It is unlikely, after all, that Brad Pitt or Charlize Theron will grace Cape May in the summer. Compelling the Jesustani equivalents of our Hindustani Mr. & Mrs. English-speaking Halwai to cover up their sagging extremities is a service to both God and humankind, it is argued. Others note that the minimalist swimsuit will bring with it the ghost of the Grim Reaper: the fate of Cape May’s more elderly denizens is likely to be that of a pressure cooker whose gasket has had its day.

I cannot but note, though, that we in Hindustan have a more relaxed attitude to the human body. As long as they claim either to be insane or deeply religious, which amounts to much the same thing, individuals are free to wander the streets of New Delhi or Bombay stark naked; no-one will bat an eyelid. On the other hand, as any woman who had boarded a bus in Delhi will attest, the fact that she may be wearing a tent is no defense against sexual predators; they know the object of desire is what lies within. And, unlike the denizens of Cape May, we strongly resist efforts to interfere with our God-given sexual liberties, like groping women on buses. A social worker in Dhar, recently tried to impress on residents of the village of Dhangarh that the rape of eight year old girls, even if it was marital rape, was a bad idea. The interfering cow promptly had her arms chopped off.

All of which should bring us, I cannot help thinking, to some great wisdom about sharam and besharmi, but I have none to offer. As I prepare to witness the elderly of Cape May keel over, I cannot but help recall the sad story of my friend Mr. G., who although not a resident of Dhar, married a woman many decades his junior. On their wedding night, she cried for she had no idea what to do. He cried too, for he had forgotten what to do.