Women Who Wear The Breeches

by Shahrukh Husain

Genres: Fairy Tales, Folk Tales, Legends & Mythology

Synopsis

Delicious and dangerous, this collection of fairy tales is a glorious tribute to women with 'do what thou wilt' bravado - those who dare to wear the breeches. They shed their female garb (and modesty) and don the male's role to save king, country, kin, and their own lives or for revenge, love, power and a good time. Shahrukh Husain's tales from around the world - riddles, battle triumphs, bawdy and moving stories - prove that no heroine, or hero, is as exciting and daring as the irresitible cross-dresser of fairy tales.

Release date: September 19, 2013

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 224

Sample

I was ten when I heard my first tale of a woman dressed as a man. It told of a blacksmith’s daughter who married a young tearaway
of a king, then dressed herself as a man to rescue him from a wicked princess.


I found the feisty blacksmith’s daughter compelling with her irrepressible zest for life. She was determined to command her
husband’s respect. She was willing to play life at its own game. There was a deliciously ‘do-what-thou-wilt’ quality about
her. She pushed risk to its limits. She was an opportunist who used every advantage within her grasp, laughing her way to
success. She triumphed and I was hooked.


The blacksmith’s daughter did the things that I as a child had already been told were wrong but which continued to tantalise
my child’s heart. She answered back, she was wilful and disobedient, she lied and cheated. She was the bad girl incarnate,
the type grown-ups would have told me not to mix with. And what fun she had living dangerously!


The story came from a fierce-looking frontiersman, who was temporarily replacing the night-watchman in our family home in
Karachi, and he was unreservedly delighted by the heroine’s romps – the taunting, the cheating and the ultimate defeat of
her husband. Admittedly, his version did not stress the fact that when the blacksmith’s daughter returned to the King, it
was on different terms. He ended with the King’s apology, but his tone and his demeanour showed that he was thrilled by her
victory.


In retrospect, I realise that the frontiersman told the story with such gusto and vibrancy because he identified with the
heroine. He and she became interchangeable as he referred to her now in the masculine, now in the feminine, simultaneously
sustaining both female and male personae. She was the perfect androgyne, representing the protective and the assertive in
male and female. And the question of what became of the princess, or why her husband had failed to recognise her in spite
of being her groom, was a peripheral issue – listener and teller were focused entirely on the heroine’s need, cheering her
on in her determination to fulfil it.


I mined the library shelves for others like her and found cross-dressers in many places from Enid Blyton to Shakespeare, in
China, Africa, Europe and the Middle East, in literature, modern fiction and in history. But none were remotely as exciting
and daring as the irresistible, anarchic cross-dresser of fairytales. It made my search more thrilling over the years as I
plucked the stories one by one from the memories of storytellers and from various anthologies until I had gathered a substantial
collection of this strand of the fairytale which celebrates the many inclinations of woman – from duty to betrayal, from honesty
to fraudulence, from devotion to irreverence.


Around the world, tales of cross-dressers are rich and diverse, but in time I came to see some story clusters: stories from
the East, for example, tend to feature aristocratic heroines who embark on the traditional fairytale quest, battling with
monsters and demons, while in northern Europe women favour dressing in uniform, fighting wars and sailing the seas. Some women
risk their lives by choosing the ascetic’s path, others, particularly in the Italian novelle, are forced into monk’s weeds by jealous husbands fearful of their chastity. But there are no fixed rules except one
– every woman makes the disguise work to her advantage.


Putting on men’s clothes – the ultimate form of power-dressing – is the outward signifier of a certain shift in the heroine’s
values and perceptions. And so, having experienced both ways of life, she is free to make her choice. When the heroine discards
her veils, gowns and jewels, she throws away bondage. Men’s clothes symbolise her liberation. And we all know the sacrifices
a woman has to make while the spotlight remains on her, waiting for her to betray her femaleness in a man’s world.


Immediately and satisfyingly, fairytales redress this imbalance. Here, dressed as men, women break unthwarted through cordons
of male power and rise to enormous heights – like the blacksmith’s daughter they even succeed where men have failed. The skills
of the lawyer, the physician, the knight are all proven to be well within their grasp – sometimes they even become king. But
in order to raid the vast stretches of their unexplored, disused inner female landscape and prove the potential that they know exists, they have first to put on men’s clothes. And in breeches, they can act out the qualities that go with the clothes
– daredevilry, candid sexual expression and independence. And though part of the rhetoric of the fairytale, the princess is
by no means alone in this: peasant women, daughters of priests, wives of tailors, shoemakers and doctors, all don the breeches
when the motivation is strong enough.


I noticed that, with few exceptions, there is a process at work in the cross-dresser’s tale. She responds to a need or a call;
she transforms herself swiftly and completely (often secretly too) in order to fulfil that need; finally, when her mission is complete she exposes her disguise to those who are significant and
returns to her former normality. But the process intrinsically alters a vital dynamic in her life.


A woman in the guise of a man is the ultimate symbol of deception or metamorphosis and since fairytales, located in the realms
of the improbable, have always been an ideal medium for allusion to the subversive, she facilitates manageable, sometimes
hilarious reference to subjects that are generally taboo. Homoeroticism is one example – women fall in love with women dressed
as men, women disguised as men fall in love with other women, men fall in love with women despite knowing them as men. But
the linear and fixed sequence of the traditional fairytale provocatively poses the question and moves on without enquiry.
If the reader decides to pursue the point, then the tale has achieved one of its many aims – the stimulation of the mind beyond
its existing framework.


Without a doubt there are problems inherent in the transformation. Men, conditioned over centuries, appropriate space in a
different way. Perhaps, being attuned to a concept of ‘outside’, they try to conquer it by flinging their arms over it and
their legs around it and using it to surround their bodies like a protective and enlarging nimbus. Women on the other hand
adapt to the confinement of ‘inside’, tending to gather themselves in, squeeze the space out as they cross their knees, one
leg lying directly over the other, arms held close to their bodies. Men and women sound and look different, they respond differently.
We feel we can tell them apart despite their clothing. We talk of manly women and womanly men. But fairytales, contrary to
common currency, do not stereotype. Like dreams, they symbolise qualities and potential. They allow a great deal of leeway – child heroines fall in love and get married, for instance, without any indication
of time passing. We may rationalise that once upon a time, it was not unusual for girls to marry before reaching womanhood;
in days of old, men often had long hair; the clothes of Eastern men and women were hardly different apart from the veil and
the turban. Even so, since the heroine constantly places herself in situations where she may be exposed, sustaining the disguise
is subject to enormous dangers.


Treachery, fraud and immorality could in the currency of ‘once upon a time’ have been punished with incarceration or even
death. I was appalled to find in Deuteronomy wedged between a verse exhorting a man to help his brother nurse his fainting
oxen and another one admonishing him to leave baby birds alone in their nests, the following injunction which became the basis
of cruel sentences against cross-dressers: ‘The woman shall not wear that which pertaineth unto a man, neither shall a man
put on a woman’s garment: for all that do so are an abomination unto the Lord thy God’ (Deuteronomy, 22.5).


The purpose of myth and fairytale, in primal societies and early civilisations, was while entertaining, to prepare the listener
for what might lie in store in real life. At some levels it remains so. Stories from the vast body of folklore available throughout
the world demonstrate that life is a series of quests overcome by a combination of dogged determination, boldness, risk and
inexplicable bursts of luck. It is unpredictable because it has no obvious logic. Myth and story also teach that survival
is negotiated in a number of ways: by trickery or honesty, industry or laziness, meekness or defiance, activity or passivity
– the balance of opposites. Each situation is assessed on its unique merits – the heroine of one tale may re-enact the behaviour of a villainess
of another. Fairytales come from the land where disobedience can pay, idleness can bring rich rewards and deceit result in
honour. In short, it is the promised land – the land where nothing is impossible and judgement, if it arrives at all, can
be astonishingly gratifying. The female cross-dresser embodies the successful conjunction of opposites.


In the subcontinent of India and Pakistan, where I was brought up – and particularly in my own family – storytelling was a
positive activity. European fairytale classics, the Brothers Grimm, Hans Christian Andersen, and the Andrew Lang books, shared
shelf space with oriental tomes – the Epic of Amir Hamza, The Chronicles of Azaad – and bridging the gap was Burton’s translation of A Thousand and One Arabian Nights. Stories were everywhere, from the American Junior Classic comics to encyclopaedias of Greek, Roman and Egyptian mythology.
I remember vividly the multiple role of stories, fables and proverbs meted out as rewards and punishments or used to pass
time together much like playing cards or board games. They were vital and powerful, communicating living attitudes, desirable
outcomes, religious expressions and moral perspectives. Women who dressed as men therefore expressed a valid female fantasy
– breaking away from the bondage of gender. For a woman, putting away her female garb was as much about putting away the persona
that came with it. And the change descended deeper, into her personality and her soul, bringing to the surface the magic of
artifice and imagination.


I am delighted to confess that I remain enchanted with the heartiness of the heroines – their bold and blunt assumption of the right to self-expression, their determination to have
their cake and eat it, their reappropriation of the right to change roles out of womanhood and back again. As a child I never
sensed a feeling of disapproval from anyone around. There was nothing in the broad shape of the tale that needed censoring.
The anchoring of the tale in the lands of faraway, in times to which the clock cannot be turned back, was sufficient to contain
the threat of subversion while at the same time providing the inexhaustible and magical potential for self-fulfilment.


The obviously uplifting effect of the cross-dresser’s tale comes from two vital factors: the heroine receives unconditional
recognition for her achievements after which her lifestyle becomes a matter of choice. This transforms her status subtly, powerfully and irrevocably.


Transformation lies at the heart of the fairytale and the cross-dresser epitomises this process. Often, as in the narrative
of the night-watchman, the more crucial, inner transformation is overlaid by the concrete, outer change. But it is the internal
reversal brought about by the heroine’s experience that ultimately creates a new dynamic in the ‘old’ situation; a browbeaten
wife, though still performing the same duties, no longer feels put upon and the daughter who has had her father released from
the dungeon returns to the women’s quarters with a new appreciation of her role.


In my versions of the stories I decided to try in some way to articulate the internal processes of the metamorphosis from
dependence to independence. There was never any doubt in my mind that the heroines for my collection would come from legend
and tale but as I wrote I found that often I was serving my muse more than my discipline. As a folklorist I felt impelled to preserve the structure and content of the tales as I had first
heard or read them. As a writer I wanted to leave myself free to develop the characters beyond their mere function, examine
their motives, ponder on their problems, exult in their resolution. But fairytales are more like memories than fiction, perhaps
even like distant history. They existed before I put pen to paper and I found myself negotiating with them as one might, in
fictionalising the life of a famous person, negotiate with the truth, alter chronology slightly, highlight aspects of the
subject’s life, underscore certain elements – hopefully without distorting the essence of the whole. Or as a therapist participating
in situations where the unarticulated must be articulated, the unnameable named. Naming and then owning is the essence of
integration, the good, the bad and the dubious are all part of the whole, and the cross-dresser reflects the synthesis.


In some cases this has not meant much more than giving the heroine a name, while in others I have explored unnameable inclinations
– homosexuality, abandonment, the gender battle – those questions that felt so peripheral to a child of ten. I have tried
to draw out the tone implicit in the situations of the tale – they are bawdy, ironic, serious, riotous. The purist in me is
comforted by the knowledge that beneath the details, the plot remains unarguably the same.


I have written these stories in the spirit of the storyteller, resisting the temptation to bring a literary or historical
authenticity to the tales beyond my own cultural experience. Like a storyteller, I have indulged my instinct to flesh out
the personalities of the main protagonists, to stop along the way for reflection, to allow the peripheral characters to develop
and to explore the unanswered questions that were raised in my mind as an adult and as a child, thrilled and entertained by the daring and the
autonomy of women who wear the breeches.


Shahrukh Husain, London 1995

Vasily Vasilyevich? Vasilisa Vasilyevna? Is it a woman? Is it a man? The priest’s daughter? The priest’s son? King Barakat
was in a quandary. So perplexed was he that he even visited the palace backyard to ask the advice of the old hag who lived
there. And that was how Vasilisa’s servant knew about his confusion and his curiosity.


Vasilisa Vasilyevna slapped her thigh and laughed.

‘So the King wants to know if I’m a woman. I wonder why he’s so concerned?’

‘Well,’ replied the servant, ‘it isn’t really any wonder at all, I suppose. Where was it you said he came across you?’

‘I came across him,’ Vasilisa corrected her servant. ‘I was hunting in the woods; so was he. I had a sackful of game hung
up behind me on the back of my grey mare – you know the one with the grey mane – when along came the King with a very reasonable
catch. I saluted him from a distance and rode on.’


‘Well,’ completed the servant for Vasilisa, ‘it isn’t a wonder at all, then. You rode off without stopping to greet the King
as others would, so he became curious and asked his groom “Who’s that young man?” and the groom replied, “Not a man, sire,
but a woman – the priest’s daughter – Vasilisa Vasilyevna.” Well at the very same time another attendant was saying, “That’s
the fine hunter Vasily Vasilyevich.” So the King was confused.’


Vasilisa let out a loud laugh.

‘Who’s that man, eh? Not surprising, I suppose, not from that distance and with me in my hunting clothes. Well he’s not the
first I suppose, nor will he be the last. It’s a puzzle to many. Am I a man? Am I a woman? If a woman, why do I wear breeches?
Everyone wants an answer. Well you know, I never even thought about it myself!’


She stood up, knocking back her measure of vodka, hissed sharply as it hit the back of her throat and drew her lips back over
her teeth. She loved that hot feeling of the drink as it chased down her gullet and spread into her chest. She could drink
with the best of them, could Vasilisa Vasilyevna, though her father, the gentle priest Vasily, was always telling her that
drinking vodka was not becoming to a woman.


‘I suppose we’ll be hearing more from the King. Though what he thinks the old hag can tell him, I’m not sure, except a whole
lot of superstitious mumbo-jumbo.’


She chuckled to herself as she stood up, smoothing down her trousers. Her father liked to see her neat and tidy and she herself
was fastidious about how she looked. She wandered into old Vasily’s study, still chuckling. He would enjoy the story, she
was sure.


She entered, as usual without knocking, to see the priest reading a letter – and look! it is stamped with the royal crest.

‘Is that a letter from the King?’ enquired Vasilisa, not sounding surprised at all.

‘How did you know?’ responded her father, amazed.

‘Well, Father, let’s just say I was expecting to hear from him.’

Old Vasily shook his head but he couldn’t keep the smile from his lips.

‘Daughter, daughter,’ he declared, ‘I don’t dare ask you the reason behind this expectation.’

‘Well, Father, that’s a pity,’ Vasilisa chuckled, ‘because I came here to tell you.’

‘Then tell me,’ said the priest, resignedly.

So Vasilisa told her father about her encounter, then took the letter from him and read it.

‘Venerable priest Vasily,’ wrote King Barakat, ‘I would like you to permit your son Vasily Vasilyevich to attend me in my palace and break bread with me at the royal table.’

Vasilisa laughed aloud.

‘So is this because he wishes to dine with a woman?’ asked the priest, astutely. ‘Or a good hunter like himself?’

‘I’m a good hunter, whether you call me a man or a woman. But Barakat wants me to eat with him precisely because he doesn’t
know. Am I a man? Am I a woman? Am I the son of the priest? Or his daughter? Poor King Barakat! He’s so desperate, he’s asking
old crones for advice now. And yet it’s women they malign for their idle curiosity.’


Vasilisa Vasilyevna? Vasily Vasilyevich? Man or woman? Priest’s daughter or priest’s son? Vasilisa could barely keep the grin from her face when Barakat greeted her courteously, his suspicions superbly concealed. Vasilisa bowed low, made the sign
of the cross and raised her hands in prayer as she entered and the King was gratified at her formal and correct greeting.
In fact he was so hospitable and so charming throughout the evening that Vasilisa felt a tiny twinge of guilt at her deception
– though not for long. Barakat, after all, was hoping to dupe her too, pretending he was not confused or concerned about her
sex. She waited, alert, for him to spring the trap he had laid for her on the advice of the old woman. But she encountered
none and the evening came amicably to an end.


Finally, the King walked Vasilisa to the hall, thanking her for her presence and saying how much he had enjoyed the evening.
And as she returned his thanks and his compliments, her eye fell on a tapestry hanging on the wall beside a display of rifles,
swords and other weapons. A strange, rustic piece that you might find in the house of a peasant, bright and flamboyant, the
elements within it vying with each other, garish colours against exquisite embroidery, refined thoughts against coarse exposition.
The tapestry was remarkable by virtue of being on a wall amidst a collection of armaments, and because the vodka had relaxed
Vasilisa she spoke without restraint.


‘How strange to hang a tapestry among your swords, King Barakat,’ she remarked. ‘And not one I would expect to find in a palace!
You’ll find no such frivolous, girlish fripperies in my father’s house. We wouldn’t tolerate them, father nor I.’


And before the King could speak, Vasilisa Vasilyevna slipped away.

•

‘The King visited the old hag again,’ reported her servant, now turned spy. ‘He said her plan had failed.’

‘What plan?’ demanded Vasilisa.

‘Well, it would seem that the old woman told the King to hang a tapestry on the wall. “If she’s a woman,” she claimed, “she’ll
notice it straight away; if she’s not she’ll notice the rifles.” So that’s what the King did, but the plan failed.’


‘So it did,’ roared Vasilisa, her eyes streaming with jollity. ‘I barely mentioned the guns and I did speak about the tapestry,
if only to ridicule it. Poor King Barakat.’


Well it was not quite one week before the King sent another invitation to Vasilisa. This time too, it was sent in the proper
manner, to her father, seeking his permission to entertain Vasily Vasilyevich to dinner. Once again Vasilisa saddled her grey
mare, swung herself astride the faithful creature and made her way to the palace. And once again she could barely conceal
her mirth at the memory of the King’s frustration. All evening she remained alert for a trap. She enjoyed the King’s conversation
and his company but this time the food was not so good as before. Every time she took a mouthful, hard pieces ground against
her teeth in an unpleasant manner. At first Vasilisa was polite, surreptitiously spitting the pieces into her hand and flinging
them under the table. Eventually she scooped the food on to her spoon, examining it with a sidelong glance as she spoke to
the King to distract his attention. The offending pieces were round and glistened.


‘Pear. . .