It was a hot, sunny day out on the school playground when my friend Neena came up behind me and tried to snap my bra. Usually, the boys did that. She was surprised to find that I wasn’t wearing one. “You’re going to get a bra before we head to college, right?” she asked in a teasing voice. I scowled at her and moved away.

  I was sixteen years old and would be graduating high school in a few months. I was very petite but I badly wanted a bra before starting college. My mother, who had a generous bosom, didn’t seem to notice that my boobs were growing, enough that I had started hunching my shoulders so they wouldn’t show inside my school uniform. My makeshift camisole and training bra weren’t up to the task anymore. Mother was very strict and unapproachable so I hesitated to talk to her. One day I plucked up the courage to say, “Amma, I need a bra.”

  She was dismissive. “Just wear a camisole,” she said.

The summer before I started college, we visited my grandmother in Madras to attend my Uncle Vijayan’s wedding. His young bride, Vatchi, was a recent  college graduate with a long, black braid, a pleasing smile and an eye for fashion. Ten years older than me, she insisted that I call her by her first name rather than “Aunty.”  Because of our closeness in age, she found me more approachable than my mother and my aunts.

One day, Mother beckoned to us.

“Could you please take her shopping for a bra?” Mother asked Vatchi, handing her a wad of rupees. “I hate crowds. Just get her a sports bra.”

I was embarrassed, but not surprised, to be fobbed on to my aunt, but Vatchi didn’t seem to mind.   Mother did not like to go out in public, even to shop for clothes. She bought her saris in Madras, where salesmen from different neighborhood sari stores would bring home bundles of saris strapped to the back of their bicycles. Mother and her sisters enjoyed shopping from the comfort of their own home.

“Good, I can shop for a few things too”, Vatchi said, as we waited for an auto-rickshaw. “Wouldn’t you rather get a regular bra?” she added. “Otherwise, you’ll get teased at college.”

I nodded; glad she had read my mind.

“We’ll just tell your Mum we couldn’t find any sports bras,” my aunt said, with a wink.

  Thirty minutes later we entered Moore Market, a circular, open-air shopping center and iconic landmark on Mount Road in Madras. Built in 1898, it was the brainchild of Sir George Moore, President of the Corporation of Madras in the 1890s. With its Indo-Saracenic architecture, the 40,000 square foot quadrangular market had a garden in front and arcades all around. Its book shops, toy shops, clothing stores, live birds market and much more provided a mecca for Madras shoppers.

  Parrots and mynahs squawked and trilled from the bird market as we wandered through a multitude of shops, enticed by the array of merchandise on display. There were ready made clothes for all ages – from newborns to senior citizens.   My young eyes were dazzled by it all – as Mother rarely took me shopping in Delhi, where we lived during the school year. We ran our fingers through waterfalls of cosmetic gold chains and riffled through western style dresses, making the most of our time there. We finally stopped for a drink of cold coffee – an unusual indulgence which Mother would never permit. We were like two school girls, playing hooky. Vatchi helped me pick out a couple of real bras, while she shopped for a colorful cotton robe and some nightgowns for herself. She was from an affluent family and could afford almost anything she fancied.

The bras I selected were made of plain, simple, beige-colored cotton, the only designs available in India at that time, but they seemed beautiful to me. I felt womanly and grownup when I tried them on at home. Many years later, after I married Sam, I spent a few days in London on my way to join him in Canada. The family friend I stayed with took me to Marks & Spencer in Piccadilly Square to shop for bras, sweaters and stretch pants- which I would need for Canada. I was blown away by the variety of colors, fabrics and embellished lingerie I found there. I have never worn plain, utilitarian undergarments since.

Several hours later we headed home, tired but happy, our arms loaded with bundles.

 “Remember what to say to your mother,” Vatchi warned me as we opened the creaky front gate. Everyone crowded around to see what we had bought. Mother was not happy that I had bought two bras, but Vatchi explained that none of the stores carried old-fashioned camisoles or sports bras any more. Mother grimaced but believed us. Vatchi gave me a sly smile as we walked into the house to show off our spoils.

  A few years later, as I grew older, I realized that mother probably had agoraphobia –  characterized by symptoms of anxiety in situations where the person perceives their environment to be unsafe with no easy way to escape. These situations can include public transit, shopping centers, crowds and queues, or simply being outside their home on their own. I watched her become increasingly home bound as she relied on my father or our household help to do the shopping for everyday essentials, or had them delivered. And when I became a young adult, she enlisted my help to shop for her bras.