Last week, I had to go to a work meeting and a social event, both of which I had not done in a long time. Picking an outfit was a nightmarish pursuit. So much so that that was enough reason to stay home. For this, I won't blame the pandemic alone. Even before the pandemic struck, the hours I spent deliberating my outfit options is no joke.
‘I have nothing to wear’ rarely indicates a dearth of sartorial choices. When I say that I have nothing to wear, I attempt to describe a peculiar paralysis that stems from a heightened sense of self-consciousness. Of wanting to be seen, and yet not standing out.

As someone who identifies as a woman, my gender identity often feels like an albatross around my neck. When I dare to wear tall boots in the all-women's coach of the Metro, the unsolicited attention vilifies me for defying the class curve. When the brutality of Delhi’s summer dictates that I dress scantily, the unsolicited gaze compels me to cover up. I fail to change with the weather. Maybe that’s why I love only the winter.

I want to dress in a way where I can find acceptance a) at home, b) within spaces of transit c) at the destination. But all of these places need me to be a different kind of person, to conform to their unique set of insurmountable expectations. So, as someone who can afford it, I move within the private space of my home, personal vehicle and exclusive destination.

This is not a choice that everyone can afford, firstly, and secondly, private spaces are also governed by norms. What happens when I need to be in a public space, be it a park, the street, the mall?

The answer is not simple. Instead of trying to hide, veil or clothe ourselves--with literal clothes, by staying at home, by commuting in a women-only coach, by trying to be slim, silent or simply insubstantial, we need to be seen, in all shapes, sizes and forms, everywhere and all the time. Only then can we reclaim our rooms and roads.