“Zoya, did you get a tattoo?”
I froze mid-action, my arm still reaching for the water jug, wrist tattoo in full display. The restaurant continued to bustle around us, but the adrenaline pumping through my veins made me feel distant from it.
Mum was waiting patiently, an inscrutable expression on her face.
My mind raced - could I somehow keep going with the lie I’d been telling for five years? Maybe I could say it was sharpie, and would wash off? Maybe I could say it was a temporary tattoo?
Finally, I sighed in defeat.
“Yes. I did. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about it, but I thought you would be upset,” I said, looking Mum in the eye.
Opposite us, both of my sisters were chewing their food like it was popcorn, avidly watching the scene unfold before them.
Opposite us, both of my sisters were chewing their food like it was popcorn, avidly watching the scene unfold before them.
Still speaking in a strangely polite tone, Mum gave a trill of laughter. “Why would I be upset? It’s your body.”
I was baffled by this, but willing to take Mum at face value. This definitely wasn’t how I imagined the conversation would go.
Five years ago, when I contemplated getting a tattoo, I was conflicted. On one hand, I loved the idea of getting a tattoo that was meaningful to me. On the other hand, I was absolutely certain that my mother would be viscerally opposed to me permanently inking my body. In the Indian Muslim culture I was raised in, tattoos were very rare, and treated like a major faux pas, or impropriety.
It seemed contradictory to me, because when I got my nose pierced at age 14, my parents weren’t just supportive, they actively encouraged me. My eldest sister had her nose pierced at 5, and my other sister at 13. Each of us had our ears pierced as babies. Comparatively, I was practically a slow burner in the facial piercing sense.
It seemed contradictory to me, because when I got my nose pierced at age 14, my parents weren’t just supportive, they actively encouraged me.
But where my white friends were in awe of the fact my mother took me to the piercing parlour and paid for my nose to be jabbed, I was nonplussed. Practically every female relative I had wore a nose ring, it was considered both aesthetically pleasing and an auspicious thing to do.
But tattoos? That felt incredibly transgressive in the culture I was raised in.
My mother used to scold me when I wrote reminders in pen on the back of my hand during high school, saying it looked dirty. Even though we got our hands intricately painted with henna for weddings and religious celebrations, tattoos of the permanent variety were forbidden. It simply wasn’t becoming for an Indian muslim person to have tattoos.
When I finally did get my tattoo (in a remarkably hard place to hide, my inner wrist), I went to great lengths to hide it from my family. I wore long sleeves in summer, used bandaids (‘at some point they’re going to wonder how you always hurt that one part of your wrist,’ my partner warned), and even wore a complicated wrist brace during a family holiday to try and keep my tattoo literally under wraps.
For some time now, I’ve suspected my mother has known about my tattoo. Too many near misses, with sleeves rolled up, or photos she’s glimpsed on my phone. By the time we arrived at that restaurant on a rainy October evening, I’d let my guard down for just long enough that she could pounce — if she had wanted to.
I’ve since done my research, and while it isn’t clearly stipulated in the Quran, there is a belief amongst Sunni Muslims that tattoos are a disfigurement of the body created by Allah, and therefore a sin. This is backed up by mentions in the Hadith, but is contradicted by many Muslims who disagree with this position. Indeed, in some ancient cultures that practice Islam, like the Chaouia women of Algeria, tattoos have been an important cultural tradition for a long time.
Aside from the realisation that my fears of maternal retribution for my tattoo was unfounded, I realised that in actually having the conversation about it, both Mum and I learned something new about each other.
Aside from the realisation that my fears of maternal retribution for my tattoo was unfounded, I realised that in actually having the conversation about it, both Mum and I learned something new about each other.
Often in our culture, we don’t open the door to difficult conversations with our parents because the value of respecting our elders can be taken to mean never disagreeing with them openly. Certainly, I have always felt a lot of pressure to not be the source of conflict, but this has come at the price of having genuine conversations with my family about the things that are important to me, and how they might intersect with the values I was raised with.
I’m sure that after she first suspected I had one, Mum spent some time thinking about my secret tattoo, and working through how she felt about it, before bringing it out in the open. A process that may have or may not have taken five years. I appreciate that, because reacting in the heat of the moment of discovery might have caused both of us to say things we didn’t mean to.
It was a relief to finally have the tattoo out in the open, and to be able to use both hands in front of my family without constantly trying to avoid displaying my wrist (a challenging feat indeed).
When Mum went to the bathroom at the end of our dinner, and we waited for the bill, my sister leaned over to me.
“So, are you going to tell her about your other tattoo?”
I considered this for a moment.
“Baby steps, I think,” I said. Maybe I’ll let the first wave settle before I rock the boat again.
Zoya Patel is an Australia writer and editor. She is the author of No Country Woman: A memoir of not belonging.
