Whenever I am invited anywhere, the first thought that occurs is not what my speech will be, but this sentence running like a refrain through my head “OMG, I have nothing to wear!” I understand very well that this is a dilemma I share with all women. Our closets may be bursting, but it is, well, never enough. But this piece is not a self-indulgent, flippant piece on our gender’s weakness. For very early in life, an exquisite frock taught me about honour, artistry and death.
Circa the late Sixties. My father and I walked to a tailor’s shop in Laitumkrah, Shillong. Everything was bathed in the roseate glow of a summer sunset. A few cars purred by. I hopped and skipped with glee. We were going to get my birthday frock from the tailor. But we were in for a disappointment. The little shop had its shutters down. My quick-tempered father frowned. I stopped hopping and pouted. The salesman of a neighbouring shop said softly. “He committed suicide last week. Hanged himself inside his shop. I have the key. Let me see if he has completed your order.” With a bulky torch, the man let himself into the dark shop. With my father’s help, he ceremoniously handed the packet to me. All the way home I was silent. Why did people kill themselves? Was he tired of his life, always cutting material, running the sewing machine, stitching buttons, fixing lace, arranging pleats? My mother made me try on the frock. The material was a glorious profusion of dark pink roses. The stitching was perfect, right down to the delicate bow below the neckline. It was a work of art, executed by a man who had given up on life, but not his commitment to a little girl. Even today I feel a pang when I think of that long-ago frock and the sad death of a faceless man with magic hands.
Being of a certain age, I have seen fashion come full circle. I have seen and worn bell-bottoms, mini skirts, midi skirts, batik kurtas, curduroy jackets. My mother and aunt once dressed in Bollywood inspired pulled-tight saris, puffed blouses or boat-necked ones. My boyfriend wore flared trousers, platform shoes, hand-painted shirts and looked bohemian enough to fall in love with. That he was an artist helped, of course.
When I watch videos of celebrity weddings and see the lavish ensembles being worn, I don’t go all moralistic and decry such conspicuous consumption. But I can’t then help thinking how Bapu wore a hand-spun dhoti to lead our country to freedom and how Mother Teresa, in her blue-bordered white sari, reached out to the multitudes the rest of us forgot.
Fashion guru Karl Lagerfield once said, “Guilt feelings about clothes are quite unnecessary. A lot of people earn their living by making clothes, so you should never feel bad.” Point noted. But you cannot ignore what happened at Rana Plaza. On April 24, 2013, the Rana Plaza building in Dhaka collapsed, which housed five garment factories, sweat shops commissioned by top western fashion houses. 1,132 people died and more than 2,500 were injured. For a measly minimum wage, thousands of men and women toiled long hours in these factories, with the barest of facilities and no compensation for injury.
But it is not just humans who are mere fodder for the fashion industry. Animals ranging from foxes, deer, racoons, rabbits, crocodiles and cattle are ruthlessly trapped, housed in filthy cages or pens, starved, then savagely killed and skinned – all for a hefty profit. In recent years, designers are shying away from fur after the outcry from animal rights groups like PETA, but in countries like China, there are entire cities concentrating on the sale of rabbit fur and garments like fur coats, jackets, shoes and bags.
Let’s now talk about clothes that caught our imagination in our young years – the superhero costumes our favourite iconic characters wore. Wonder Woman had a star spangled charm in her costume. She was all limbs and sleek strength, and her costume gave her the mobility which, well, a sari maybe could not. In my teens, a staple diet consisted of the comics featuring Modesty Blaise. Modesty is an unusual woman with many talents and a criminal past. With eyes like Sophia Loren and wasp-waisted to boot, Modesty wore revealing outfits, cocked a snook at the world and handled the gun like a virtuoso; which repressed Convent schoolgirl would not like to be her?
In those days, the newspaper was an inter-generational thing. Grandpa read it in the morning, Dad in the evening, and I got the Phantom strip after homework. More than his form-fitting purple body suit, I liked him in mufti, dressed in a stylish trench coat and hat as Mr. Walker. I think he was my first crush.
I want to write about four women before I wind up. Indira Gandhi had impeccable taste in clothes and her saris celebrated India’s rich textile tradition. Jackie Kennedy’s classic sense of style continued with each decade of her life. A besotted Marilyn Monroe sang, Happy Birthday, Mr. President on JFK’s 45th birthday, wearing a sheer, flesh coloured marquisette fabric gown with thousands of rhinestones stitched into it. That was said to be the moment JFK made up his mind to dump her. So much for making an impact.
The late Lady Diana had her very own revenge dress, a wicked off shoulder affair she wore the day her estranged husband Charles admitted to having an affair with Camilla.
In the end, let us strive to be more worthy than the clothes we wear.
Indrani Raimedhi