A Lingerie Model’s Hierarchy of Needs | Madhubanti Mukherjee
They were all introduced to the brassiere, a piece of clothing that would, for many, define femininity.
They were all introduced to the brassiere, a piece of clothing that would, for many, define femininity.
by Madhubanti Mukherjee
Maya was never late for a meeting.
She woke up before the alarm could go off on that chilly and foggy June morning in San Francisco. A cocktail of anxiety and excitement is more effective than an alarm clock. She had been looking forward to this day.
As she walked into the agency that morning, Maya drew many curious glances. She didn’t quite fit in with the demographic that usually frequented the place. After decades of a cerebral existence, one wouldn’t associate her with a lingerie model. Her silver cropped hair stood out amidst the auburn, blonde and brunettes. She had made no attempts to conceal the lines on her face. Lines that were reminders of all the memories she had been fortunate to have built. Lines, for which, she was thankful.
Girls didn’t talk about puberty. Or breasts. Or other body parts. They whispered, giggled — exchanged inaccurate information passed down from the one girl in class who knew a little more than the others.
Her love-hate relationship with lingerie started several decades back with a very coy introduction to the brassiere. Maya was going through puberty then. She, like her friends at school, had little understanding of the biological changes that had suddenly consumed body, mind, and spirit. Without the internet, access to a library, and surrounded by a misguided sense of propriety, biology was shrouded in secrecy and rituals in her little hometown in a remote corner of India.
Girls didn’t talk about puberty. Or breasts. Or other body parts. They whispered, giggled — exchanged inaccurate information passed down from the one girl in class who knew a little more than the others. That girl had peeked through a neighbor’s window and seen some acts of passion, had an early introduction to Harold Robbins or furtive access to a parent’s hidden stash of pornography. Some were forbidden to enter places of worship on those days or the month. Others were instructed to worship Lord Shiva, in the hopes of finding a husband. Slowly but surely, they were all introduced to the brassiere, a piece of clothing that would, for many, define femininity.
They learned about themselves through a set of distorted lenses.
As an athlete, that piece of clothing was synonymous with freedom in Maya’s teenage years. She ran faster, jumped higher, took the bike into rugged terrains. The bra was like her prescription glasses then. A physiological necessity. But not an accessory. She disliked the constriction around the rib-cage but knew that it was freedom — of sorts.
Maya lived in a modest time and space at that point in her life. She picked up an entirely new sewing skill. Sewing patches and hooks on the shoulder of dresses with wide necklines. Something to hold the strap in place. She tried hard to follow the mandate that straps must never peek-a-boo out of their hidden confinement. Lest a glimpse attracted unwanted attention.
They never talked about modesty explicitly. Nor did they talk about the notion that a girl’s perceived digressions are considered responsible for any harassment from the opposite sex. But she knew. They all knew. Self-preservation was a primal sense encoded into their very being. They needed protection from inappropriately lustful glances. Protection from the dreaded touch from a stranger on the streets or public transportation that often left deep scars for years. And ensuring the straps never peeked out was a start.
It was the wild wild west in the women’s dorm. Men were not permitted to enter the building. And wet bras crowded clotheslines in corridors. No one glanced twice.
When Maya graduated from school, she left that little town and headed to a new world. She met girls and women who were very different from what she knew. Some, very put together, sure of themselves. Others, who needed a bra fitting. And she met boys — who thought of themselves as men. Some skilled at unhooking bras. Others that have never spoken to a woman besides their mothers.
At home, she had a secret spot to dry undergarments. The men of the house never saw them. It was the wild wild west in the women’s dorm. Men were not permitted to enter the building. And wet bras crowded clotheslines in corridors. No one glanced twice. They read about the feminist movement and every other new idea that had found it hard to reach that little corner she grew up in. They debated, argued, wrote, sang and danced into wee hours of the night. Sometimes in the company of men.
As all good things do, college came to an end. Maya traded colonial buildings with ceiling fans for high rises with central air conditioning. She embraced her shoulder patches and hooks as one of a handful of women who walked through those hallways. As a corporate warrior, a well-fitted bra, dupattas, and sharp wit were her armor. In a world where women’s voices were not easily heard, these were her camouflage gear. They served her well. At least for a few years.
Maya was bursting at the seams with new dreams after some time. Propelling her to San Francisco. A brave world embraced her. Confidence came packaged in pencil skirts, stilettos, and red lipstick in this new world. With a push-up bra, underwire and a little cleavage on the side. She learned that affluence begets femininity.
She did not wash the bra every day by hand anymore. That job was delegated to the washer and dryer. She did not think about the patches on her blouses. A little peek was like the trailer for a movie. The trailer needed to make the perfect first impression. The polished exterior, acting as the perfect facade for that very desirable red lace — the perfect accessory, for that one right person. And as lives sometimes unfold, she found that person. The lacy red bra was tucked away in a home built with love. To be pulled out of the closet as desired.
Her San Francisco penthouse had a large closet. It had a safe home for the bras for all her personas. The sports bra for the occasional recovering athlete. The lacy red bra for a few special days. The black push up bra with underwire reigned supreme in boardrooms and business lunches. She was secretly partial to the sports bra. Not the most flattering, but the most comfortable.
It was the sports bra that came to her rescue when she lost a breast. A test led to another and then some more. Within days and many medical consultations later, doctors were talking to her about mastectomy, chemotherapy, radiation, reconstruction. The lacy red bra and the underwires exiled into the deepest confines of her closet. The bra which had helped Maya excel as an athlete in those early teenage years, stepped up to help heal and recover.
Maya’s journey had brought her across twelve time zones. From physiological protection, self-preservation, to love, freedom and success. She soon discovered that some things had not changed. Science still came wrapped in taboos for anything off the beaten path. Conversations about a twisted ankle were comfortable. But not about a lost breast. She met many survivors. Some with scars where breasts used to me. Others with reconstructions. Many struggling to rediscover femininity when their bodies no longer fit in with the perception and portrayal of what it means to be a woman.
She learned that one in eight women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in their lifetime. A staggering statistic. For some, the brassiere will forever come with an insert. For others, a reconstructed breast would not quite fit into their old brassieres. And yet others, who were flat, struggling to find femininity. If there was anything Maya had learned in her journey across time and space, it was that the notion of empowerment is not static.
Maya was never late for a meeting.
As she walked into the agency that morning, Maya drew many curious glances. She didn’t quite fit in with the demographic that usually frequented the place. Her eyeglasses failed to contain a sparkle and a quiet determination. She was ready for the next chapter.
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Madhubanti Mukherjee is a Silicon Valley based Engineer — living her passion for solving real-world problems using technology everyday. When not working she can often be found on hiking trails with her Nikon D800 or her reading nook. She doesn’t take life very seriously but is addicted to disquisitions on the intersection of science, philosophy, and culture.