Dupatta Quotes

Amma … I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I’m a feminist too.” Amma stared at her, her eyes wide in horror. She didn’t notice when the red floral dupatta of her salwar kameez slipped off one shoulder. “Sweetie! Feminists don’t get married. Stop that nonsense.” Sweetie did laugh then, openly. “Amma, what the heck are you talking about? Feminists can do whatever they want. They just want equal rights for women.

Benazir was Prime Minister; she had taken the oath of office in a bright green shalwar with white dupatta, the colours of the Pakistan flag, and made the men around her look like pygmies.

Sindoor in our partings, bindis on our forehead and dupattas drawn over our faces we sat demurely in a corner. We stole glances at each other's face and were struck by our own beauty. This made us all the more bashful.

And eventually in that house where everyone, even the fugitive hiding in the cellar from his faceless enemies, finds his tongue cleaving dryly to the roof of his mouth, where even the sons of the house have to go into the cornfield with the rickshaw boy to joke about whores and compare the length of their members and whisper furtively about dreams of being film directors (Hanif's dream, which horrifies his dream-invading mother, who believes the cinema to be an extension of the brothel business), where life has been transmuted into grotesquery by the irruption into it of history, eventually in the murkiness of the underworld he cannot help himself, he finds his eyes straying upwards, up along delicate sandals and baggy pajamas and past loose kurta and above the dupatta, the cloth of modesty, until eyes meet eyes, and then

One camera recorded only the flattened grass through a cracked lens. The other, moving closer to the girl, showed her dupatta fly toward it, a close-up of the tiny embroidered flowers on the white cloth, and then a battering darkness. For a few moments there was only a howling noise, the wind raging, and then a hand plucked away the white cloth and the howl was the girl, a dust mask on her face, her dark hair a cascade of mud, her fingers interlaced over the face of her brother. A howl deeper than a girl, a howl that came out of the earth and through her and into the office of the home secretary, who took a step back. As if that were the only thing the entire spectacle had been designed to achieve, the wind dropped as suddenly as buildings collapse in 3-D models, and the girl stopped her noise, unlaced her fingers. The cameras panned, then zoomed. In the whole apocalyptic mess of the park the only thing that remained unburied was the face of the dead boy. “Impressive,” said the home secretary.

It was late evening and as she came out to wear her sneakers, she was met by not a very charitable glance of another bhaiji. He always sat there, at the entrance, as a kind of watchman. He commented on Nanaki’s scarf and advised her to come properly clad in a dupatta. She walked out in a huff, heckles raised. Who was this man? Who was he to tell her how she ought to be dressed? Whose rules were these? In all honesty, Nanaki’s visit to the gurudwara was her own personal matter. It was more or less an aesthetic experience, feeding a very personal need for which she felt she owed no one an explanation.

Aankh kholu toh chehra meri maa ka ho, Aankh band ho to sapna meri maa ka ho, Main marr bhi jau toh koyi gum nahi lekin, Par Kaffan mile to dupatta meri maa ka ho..

I looked at the girl serving refreshments to the guests, with a smile on her face. She was in her teens. She had put on an orange coloured churidar, with a yellow dupatta and had a frame on her eyes,making her chubby face pretty. I felt nothing special about her. That ‘; wow!’ factor was not there. Seconds later, I realised she stepped towards me and served me with a glass of juice and walked away. No talks, no smile, no eye to eye contact and definitely not love at first sight

She knew she looked a sight, with her hair plastered to her face, her sneakers caked with mud, armpit sweat stains, and no dupatta, because she didn’t believe in wearing one – men should avert their eyes from women, rather than women being forced to cover themselves – and oh, she must stink.

In a country where it is not uncommon for Hindi cinema to indulgently show a persistent suitor who never takes no for an answer, courting and cajoling, even breaking into song whilst pulling at the heroine’s dupatta, the idea that a woman had the right to set her own boundaries of space and privacy was still an alien one.

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I thought of the pride their granddaughter felt every time she wore the dupatta that now belonged to her. I thought of how objects that were once bought for their utility – a sari, for instance – acquired a new and alien preciousness as their context and environment changed. How much care she would likely put into draping it on herself, how delicately she would fold and store it in layers of newspaper with the hope that this precious inheritance from her grandmother would never fray, never weather. How lovely it was that parts of Sindh still lived with her.

e myth of the Kashmiri women’s dazzling beauty is nowhere more present than it is here in Srinagar – notwithstanding the massive popularity of Katrina Kaif. Women are in large part absent from any real public presence. As and when you see glimpses of them through uttering dupattas and burkhas, it remains a preview to hungry eyes. Where women are beautiful and hidden, there the callous display of their men is intriguing. I see them unmasked as butchers, woodcutters, bus drivers, vegetable vendors, oarsmen, bakers, wool dyers, in the old and the new. Men in a laborious mien. No one is re ned, there is no polish, no nesse; these men are designed by a living that makes no small change for vanity.