“and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is

a very opal.”

–Twelfth Night, William Shakespeare

Nusrat took out a golden earring from the jute purse and put it on…

The speck of ruby placated in the gold string dangled against her gray hair. This was the first time I paid attention to women’s accessories, at the age of five, watching my nani put on her earrings. It was an act of vanity. The kind of vanity that is brilliant, breathtaking. It stops all the ruckus of your youth to pull you into a moment of infinite wisdom. You are five years old, and you have felt this beauty for centuries. I grew up falling in love with that speck of ruby, and more – anklets, and bangles. A fan of large rings, turquoise stones, and brass bracelets. There is no consumer sentiment behind a woman’s love for accessories. It is quite often the promise of a new story. With each accessory, she can live a new story. I built quite a collection myself, often lending to friends and cousins. I was fascinated by their choice. What story is she trying to tell?

This fascinating connection with accessories I had was ruthlessly crushed. In university, when one learns about power with a capital P, and all the ism-s, a professor said women are in shackles if they continue to wear accessories. It was not entirely untrue. From dowry to choker rings women put on to elongate their necks, accessories seemed to signify a status. The gaze of the Other was not made up. I became aware of my own presence wi

I put away the cuff bracelets, the rings, and the pins. I wanted to be seen as a serious scholar. One by one, the shapes and textures that colored my days were gone. It was an ego death. It was not femininity that I was afraid of, but how 

Despite an accessory’s sexlessness, it does not exist outside of meaning. A scarf is not just a scarf. A ring is not just a ring. They are burdened with history, politics, and sometimes shame. But they also carry longing. They also carry love and intimacy. I have now learned to wear them again, not in defiance, not in retreat, but in quiet reclamation, for my heart is an opal. Still young, still infatuated with the specks of ruby.

April 22, 2025