Chun chun.
The sound of metal hitting against metal. It's the sound that sets me apart in a sea of black.
Chun chun.
People stop and turn their heads and try to figure out where the sound comes from. Neighbors run quickly to their roof tops just to get a glimpse. Children stand outside my door waiting to hear the sound.
Chun chun.
The sound that is unique to me. The sound so ordinary that it is heard everyday, but so extraordinary when it comes from me.
Chun chun.
In a world where you must fit in. You must be the same. I stand out. Even amongst a sea of veils. I am uncovered. Exposed. Naked.
Chun chun.
The neigbhorhood women stand outside my door, waiting. "Is your bahuu here?" they ask. For three years I have been either sick or sleeping, but the sound of my tell tale heart beats loudly giving my hiding place away.
Chun chun.
"How many do you wear?" they ask. "Eighteen", I reply. Then there is the enevitable "gasp" of shock. "You know one is enough", is always the first reply. Only to be followed by "Don't they feel hot? or Who gave them to you? Shahjee?"
Chun chun.
Prying questions from nosy women. The gossip my poor husband has to endure simply because of a sound. A sound they can't understand. A sound that is out of place on me. A sound that doesn't belong when you're a gori.
Chun chun.
"Do you wear them in America?"
"Yes."
"Really?! In America?"
"Yes". (If they only knew what some people wear in America, this is nothing in comparison)
Chun chun.
No matter how lightly I walk the sound remains ever so faint. The chun chun follows me like a shadow. Firmly attached to my every move. My every breath.
"Where are your shoes?"
"I don't wear shoes."
"Really?!"
"Yes." ( Please just let them leave. )
My MIL can tell when I have had enough. She quickly ushers them out.
"She has work to do" then slowly they leave one by one. A touch on the head as they pass by. A mark of respect. Of belonging even in a place where I don't belong.
Chun chun.
