Yesterday I was watching the fashion trends of 2019 for men. My scrolling finger stopped on a bearded model, dressed in a dark shirt printed with pink and red rose blooms. It was meant to be a formal party wear shirt for men. The model had paired with black slacks secured with a wide buckled belt. The picture triggered memories of an incident in my childhood.
It was 1973; my father went for ten-day trip to Mumbai. Prime agenda was to attend the premier of Rishi Kapoor-Dimple Kapadia movie, Bobby. A picture clicked with Raj Kapoor still hangs in his office.
During the Bombay trip, Papa’s pocket was picked in the local. His shopping plans were nipped in the bud. He only carried the gifts he had bought till the unfortunate day. Among them were the latest craze, the figure-hugging nylon saris (They made full-bodied women look slim like divas), few toys for me, and a glossy navy blue shirt material with huge rose blooms on it. He announced it was about Rs. 250 a meter (most shirting fabrics were Rs. 40-50 a meter then). According to him, it was a fad to wear printed shirts for fashionable men in Bombay.
With lot of zeal he debated with mom. Should he give the shirt for stitching to more traditional Vijay drapers and clothiers below the huge peepal tree, near the taxi stand or to the trendier Skylark Tailors near Chitra Talkies. The choices were limited in my pilgrim-oriented town of Haridwar.
The shirt arrived, he paired it with a bell-bottom trousers, sported a wide silver coloured buckle belt and broad toe shoes. For men’swear nobody wore such bold prints or colours in our town. He claimed to love the silky feel on his body. The thermal comfort was a bit low but then one was willing to over look that to stay in tandem with the Mumbai fashion. Something similar to what young Rishi had donned in Bobby.
He went down the stairs of our first floor home and kick started the Bajaj scooter. He wound his wrist to accelerate the engine and pushed the stand to steer the machine. A hand tapped his shoulder, “Kya baat Jain sahib aaj to poora chaman khila ke ja rahe ho! Kahan se mangayi shirt?”
My father always enjoyed attention, for new clothes all the more welcome. Papa failed to see the man had a wicked smile on his face when he gave the compliment. He cheerfully elaborated how he had bought the material in Mumbai.
A wide smirk played on his lips as he raced the scooter to the other cinema. Parking his scooter, he felt people’s gaze on him. Everyone seemed to stop and stare at his shirt. His partner greeted him with surprise, “Yahan koi nahi pehenta ye phoolon wali kameezen! Ladies print hai.” The happy grin was wiped off. He noticed the gatekeeper boys were hanging around the glass windows to take a peep inside, pointing fingers in his direction. They looked away the moment he looked that side.
Next came an agent Mr. S, who roamed cinema to cinema like Narad muni travelled between the worlds. “Bhai sahib Bhabhi ji ki nighty ka kapda bach gaya tha kya?
Mr. S had unknowing crossed an invisible line of decency. That was the last straw for Papa who had a temper like dormant volcano. All verdant and thriving till it decided to blast and spew out the fire. Mr. S got an earful on the sorry state of his turnout. How his hair were greasy, unclipped nails filled with grime, dirty shoes and clothes mismatched, to make him the last man worthy of passing a comment on the sartorial choices of others. He was suddenly fired from the next movie commission contract.
Papa returned home took off the shirt and threw it on the bed. He pulled out his regular dull colored shirt and wore it. “Yahan kisi ko akal hi nahi hai, Tamasha bana diya.” He gave the shirt to my mama’s teen son, who was mighty thrilled to wear the most expensive high fashion garment of his life.
I guess my father picked his shirt before its time and got questioned for his choice because the onlookers’ eyes had been trained to slot colours and patterns according to gender. Since times immemorial men and women have adorned their garments with motifs flowers, leaves, trees and birds, hand painted or embroidered on to the plain fabrics. Patterned fabrics are worn to celebrate nature, art and the wearer’s softer side. To balance the Yin with the Yang, the logical Left brain with the imaginative Right side.
It is a very old Western concept to wear only certain styles and colours to formal gatherings. To dress alike is a sign of wanting to blend in the crowd, desperation to fall in line with the rules. To dress in uniforms is severe curtailment of personality like in school dresses, armies or shop floors. That is why the gender-neutral prints are called the ‘Liberty prints’. They celebrate that colours and patterns are not for women alone. One can wear what he likes and be absolutely comfortable. The batik kurtas and not only for the dancing and singing Bengali babu Moshay, it is for every one to value and wear.
I have always seen my corporate employee husband dress in limited range of white, blue, grey and black. Though I know he loves the colours yellow and pink. If he would go to buy dresses for my daughter, he would invariably pick these two colours with prints full of blooms. For himself he restricts to pastel shade shirts of both colours in his closet. Only once I witnessed him pick a holiday half sleeves shirt with tiny red blooms on white. I wait for the day he wouldn’t bother if the shirt would be worn just for a few days and buy one with a big floral print.
Today facebook is full of beach holiday pictures of older men dressed in bright shirts and shorts, quaffing beer, their baldpates safely hidden under straw hats.
I feel nobody is wrong, just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Thoughtsmith's Corner 