Last month, we had a friends’ get-together. The friend who was picking me up was running late, so by the time we reached the venue, all the parking spots close to the entrance were already taken. There was a security guard on the far end of the parking lot and he waved us over, then asked us to take a left turn and park a little away next to another group of buildings.

The sun was beating down mercilessly from a clear sky. Hoping to avoid the walk back, my friend rolled down her window to ask if he could find us a better option that was closer.

The man walked towards us indicating the lot was full. Once he reached us, he peered in and said,

“Do one thing, Madam. Drop your mother here. You can then go park over there.” he pointed to a place about two hundred feet away.

Laughter bubbled up inside me at what he said. First of all, he had assumed I was her mother. In addition he thought I, someone who walks three kilometres daily, was not up to walking a mere two hundred feet. Anyway, I kept a straight face.

It’s the grey hair, people! In my part of the world , where even bedridden patients and toothless grandfathers dye their hair a jet black, (NOT that they cannot, it’s absolutely their choice!), it is automatically assumed that grey hair equals being older than the jet-black dyed ones. In addition some kind of disability that comes with age is automatically attributed to the grey-heads.

Things are changing of course and lots of people ARE sporting the salt and pepper look with pride these days ….and yet the prejudice still persists.

My friend was flustered by the security chap’s remark and did not lose time in telling him,

“She’s not my mother, but my friend. And you shouldn’t be talking that way!”

She of course meant he shouldn’t be making assumptions. The man now took a second look at the by now grinning from ear to-ear me.

“Sorry!” he mumbled looking suitably abashed.

We drove ahead and parked the car where he had indicated. Getting out, I finally gave free rein to the laughter that I had been holding in with great difficulty. You see it occurred to me that we’d be walking past him to the entrance of the venue, and I was imagining the look on his face when we did that.

Here’s why: It’s another prejudiced belief that mothers dress traditionally while daughters wear dresses, skirts, pants et al. Contrary to that popular notion, on that day I, the supposed ‘mother’, was in a dress and my friend, the ‘daughter’, was draped in a traditional silk sari with jasmine flowers adorning her plaited hair.

Yup. The walk back was worth it. The look on his face, priceless. 😂

©️ Shail Mohan 2025