Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary

Maya glanced at the new girl who everyone was whispering about. “What is she wearing? What’s wrong with her skin? Her accent is so strange!” the other girls giggled. The new girl in question sat alone in a corner of the garden, stubbornly remaining haughty and aloof. Yet Maya could see that underneath the unaffected veneer lay a girl just like her, who was probably feeling lonely in a country that was completely new to her.

“Hello, I’m Maya,” she said, approaching the new girl cheerfully.

The new girl gave Maya a judging stare. Finally relenting, she responded stiffly, “Pleased to meet you, I’m Mary.”

“That is a rather odd accent,” thought Maya to herself. Undaunted, she began to coax Mary out of her silence, hoping that she would be able to help this foreign girl feel a little more comfortable. But she had to ask –

“What is that you’re wearing?”

Maya wore a loose cotton sari that was beautifully draped around her body. She had just turned sixteen, and took pride in the woman she was gradually becoming. She wore small jasmine flowers in her long, silky, black hair, flowers that left an intoxicating trace of fragrance behind her; her eyes were a deep golden-brown that glowed with a dazzling intensity in the sun; her limbs were supple and strong from spending lots of time outdoors.

In a sharp contrast, Mary was wearing a starched dress that sat stiffly on her shoulders, covering her neck in the middle of a scorching Indian summer. She was clearly uncomfortable, but refused to change into the far more comfortable clothes worn by the local girls. Instead, she sat sweating in her thick dress that entombed her arms and legs, her face reddening from the heat. Her rather wispy brown hair was tied in a tight bun at the base of her neck, and her skin, so different from Maya and her friends, was ghostly pale. Her thin lips were often pressed into a disapproving line, and her feet were encased in shoes and stockings. Maya couldn’t fathom why one would wear such clearly uncomfortable attire, especially in this weather.

“It is the way proper young ladies dress where I’m from,” Maya responded.

Mary would never admit it, but she secretly marvelled at Maya’s beauty and clothing. Her eyes took in the flashes of gold from Maya’s earrings that wonderfully complemented her rich brown skin, the cloth that was so elegantly draped over her body, the flowers in her hair and the easy grace with which she moved. But of course, she could never voice her thoughts, for her mother had warned her not to associate too closely with ‘the natives’.

“We are only here for about a month, so there is no need to fraternise with the natives unnecessarily. You must be civil, of course, but never forget your English culture and values. Do not be influenced by their heathen ways,” Mother had warned.

“Where are you from?” asked Maya.

“England. Do you know where that is?” Mary replied.

“Of course!” said Maya excitedly, missing the condescension in Mary’s voice. “I’ve heard so much about England, and I do hope to visit it someday.”

“Oh, it’s such a wonderful place,” gushed Mary. “The finest architecture you would ever see, the best music and most refined culture, not to mention food that perfectly matches a more delicate palette – but they don’t just let anyone visit, you know. You have to match our higher social standards to be allowed in at all – and right now, I don’t believe anyone here is quite up to the mark. No offence meant, of course. Everything is just so exotic here, which is fine, but you know, too different to be able to fit in over there… ”

That night Maya lay awake in her bed. Mary’s enticing description of this foreign land had captured her youthful imagination. She could think of nothing she wanted more than to visit the magical land that Mary was from. She wanted to experience it for herself, the music, the food, the culture, everything. That night, Maya dreamed of England.

“Teach me how to be good enough to go to England,” she said to Mary the next day.

“Teach you?” said Mary haughtily.  “Well, most of these qualities are something one is born with, but I suppose I can try.”

“That’s so nice of you, thank you!” said Maya, grateful and excited.

“Well, the first thing we have to correct is your clothing. Such revealing attire is not the kind of thing women of class wear in England,” said Mary.

And so Maya gave up her beautiful sari for a replica of Mary’s starched dress that made her feet hot and itchy. But she bore it with a smile, thinking of the wonderful country it would allow her to visit. Next, Mary made her remove her jewellery and throw away her jasmine flowers. She changed the way Maya walked and talked (“We must fix that accent of yours,” Mary had said); and she introduced Maya to the sophisticated literature and religion of England, along with the food, the music, and most importantly, the morality.

“Almost there,” said Mary. “But we must fix your hair. You cannot wear it in such a wild manner. You must cut it to a reasonable length and fix it in a bun, like me.”

“You want me to cut my hair?” asked Maya, hesitating. She was rather proud of her thick, flowing locks.

“Do you want to visit England or not?” asked Mary. “Trust me, this is what you need to do in order to make a good impression there.”

“… alright,” conceded Maya. Haltingly, she cut her beautiful hair. Mary watched gleefully as Maya’s shiny, black hair fell to the ground in great chunks.

“Very good, Maya,” said Mary approvingly, tying what was left of Maya’s hair into a tight bun at the base of her neck.

“I think you’re ready.”

Maya was beyond herself with excitement. The changes she made had resulted in a lot of censure and ridicule from her family and friends, but it would all be worth it once she visited England with Mary. She would become the first one in her community to travel overseas, to live among another culture, to learn from a country other than her own. This would change everything.

The next day, Mary brought Maya to meet her mother and discuss the possibility of Maya coming to England with them.

Mary’s mother coldly surveyed the excited young lady before her. Maya strictly followed Mary’s instructions, greeting her mother in the proper English fashion, dressing in the same clothes as Mary, changing her posture and speech to match Mary’s, a perfect pupil.

But what Mary’s mother saw was an impoverished Indian child, desperate for a better life, trying and failing to emulate her superior culture in a hopeless attempt to gain her favour. It was all rather pitiful, and also a bit repulsive.

“My dear,” said Mary’s mother to Maya. “England is a demanding place. I’m sure Mary has warned you of the high standards of English society. I worry that you will not be able to handle our culture and I don’t want you to get hurt. But what we can do is speak to a few friends of ours and arrange for something to be brought back here. What would you like? Clothes? Food? Toys? We’ll be happy to help you.”

Maya was stunned speechless. She returned home in silent shock. Looking at herself in the mirror, Maya could barely recognise the vibrant young woman she was, now dull and diminished, all her beauty destroyed in a monotonous, uncomfortable dress, her hair shorn and painfully restrained. Looking at this pathetic version of herself, Maya realised that she had let her enthusiasm blind her to the jealousy of the English girl, who had taken advantage of her eagerness to strip her down to this, this desperate unrecognisable thing, scrabbling for approval from one who was never better than her to begin with.

Mary would leave tomorrow, back to her precious England. All Maya could do now was pick up the broken pieces she left behind.