Style files

Tracing your life story through fashion can be both fun and traumatic…

You know you are getting on when a ‘period film’ is set in a period you remember all too clearly. Well, at least that’s how I felt when I watched The Wolf of Wall Street, set in the late 80s to mid 90s. Yes, I know. I am a bit late to this, but all those reviews about the debauchery and drug taking kind of put me off the movie, Leonardo DiCaprio notwithstanding. But when I finally got to it last week, it wasn’t the drugs and sex – not to mention the midget throwing (don’t ask!) that got me. It was the clothes.

There they were, the fashions of the late 80s and early 90s on display in all their power-shouldered wonder. Double-breasted suits worn with loud, wildly-patterned ties. Polo shirts paired with high-waisted linen trousers. Ruffles and padded shoulders for the women. This was Giorgio Armani and Chanel, all right. But not as we know it.

Except, of course, that I knew it all too well. This was the period when I came of age. The decade when I left college, began my first job, and began earning my own money, which I could spend on the fashions of the day. But now that it was being paraded before me, two decades later, all the outfits looked clunky and clumsy, over the top, and sometimes downright vulgar. Had we really dressed like that in the 80s and early 90s? What on earth were we thinking?

Well, now that you ask, we thought we looked pretty darn good. We loved the exaggerated silhouettes, the loud colours. The brash exuberance of that decade was perfectly articulated in the clothes. And we embraced those fashions with all the wit and style at our command. Those padded shoulders were our armour of choice as we set out to conquer the world – until Armani gave unto us the deconstructed jacket.

It is only in hindsight that the fashions of the period appear a tad absurd. When I pull out my photographs of that period, I can’t help but giggle at some of the images. But at the time, they looked perfectly stylish. And who knows, they may well be back in vogue in another 20 years, just like the 60s fashions that saw a revival in the early 21^st century.

It is all too easy to trace our lives in fashion by picking out just one outfit from every decade we have lived through. And my suspicion is that if we store these in the back of our closets for long enough, it won’t be long before each outfit comes back into fashion.

In my case, this has already happened. The leggings and T-shirt/ sweater combination that I lived in during my college days and my first few years as a working journalist have now become trendy once again. Patiala salwars have seen a revival as have dhoti pants. Flared jeans had a brief time in the sun before giving way to jeggings. The platform heel and the wedge have stomped back into fashion. Even the humble handloom sari – which had been cast into oblivion because of our obsession with Western styles – is experiencing a new wave of popularity.

And that is good news for a world-class hoarder like me. I can pull out clothes that haven’t had an airing in years and look completely on-trend in them (if you ignore the suspicious whiff of mothballs). And what is even more fun is that I can see my life flash before me in all the fashions of that particular decade.

The 70s come to life in the flared trousers I wore to a school picnic, inspired by Zeenat Aman in Hare Rama Hare Krishna; the shiny garara-set I donned for a family wedding based on all those ‘Muslim socials’ that were a staple of Hindi cinema in those days; and the floppy hats and oversized sunglasses that were all the rage in those days, and turn up in almost every photograph of that time.

The 80s are universally known as the decade style forgot. And my picture albums certainly seem to bear that out: flounced skirts, pedal pushers, flowery trousers, padded shoulders, all of it accessorized with big-hair (think Joan Collins in Dynasty) and much too much eye make-up. I can hardly bear to look at the photos without cringing and wondering how I dared to go out in public dressed like that.

The 90s were rescued for me by Donna Karan and her easy-to-wear aesthetic and I still have her ‘body suits’ (T-shirts and shirts that were designed like swimwear so that you had no ‘bunching’ when you wore them with trousers) nestling safely in my wardrobe. That was also the decade when I discovered Anokhi and the pleasures of vegetable-dye, indigo and block printing.

The start of the 21^st century in fashion terms, for me at least, was all about two names: Abraham and Thakore. And even ten or more years later I still swear by their understated, pared-down and sophisticated aesthetic sense. Those elegant linen trouser suits, the silk tunics and skirts, the long kurtas with delicate embellishment, and the beautifully-designed saris: these are the looks that will last the ages.

Well, at least, I think so. But should you really trust a woman who dressed in pedal pushers back in the day? Probably not!

Are you wearing that?

Celebrating the women who found style by forgetting fashion

Is it just me, or has the fashion world gotten completely out of hand? Every four months or so, we are presented with a new look and asked, in all seriousness, to overhaul our entire wardrobes if we want to stay on trend. I am sorry, but who has the money, the time, the inclination, or even the energy to do this sort of thing, year in and year out? 

Ah, yes, of course, the professional fashionistas. You know the kind of women I mean, don’t you? The ones who dutifully ditch their skinny jeans when ‘boyfriend’ jeans come back into fashion. Who go monochrome when the catwalk does, and rush out to buy animal prints when the glossy magazines sternly instruct them to update their look. Who strap on the stilettoes when they are in fashion, slip on the ballet flats (heaving a sigh of relief, I imagine) when they come back into vogue, and veer between platforms, wedges, kitten heels, and God alone knows what else, depending on what’s ‘in’.

Speaking for myself, I can’t think of a bigger waste of time, energy and money. If something works for you, then surely, it makes sense to stick with it, no matter what the fashion world is currently salivating over. But given how women are beginning to dress like identikit versions of one another, right down to matching handbags, I guess it requires courage, and even a certain bloody-mindedness, to ignore the ‘latest’ fashions and stick to the same wardrobe year after year.

Which is why I can’t help but admire those ladies who resist the tyranny of fashion, ignore all its diktats, find their own style, and then stick to it, come bell-bottoms or high heels. As that old cliché goes, fashions may change every season but style is eternal. So here, in no particular order of importance, is my list of stylistas, who, in my reckoning, out-class the fashionistas in our midst, without even trying!

• Vidya Balan: Come rain or shine, Cannes or Kanpur, you can depend on Vidya to roll up in a sari, with three-quarter sleeve blouses, and her hair cascading down in unruly curls. You can call her a behenji or an aunty – and many people do – but does she care? Not a jot. And more power to her.
• Sonia Gandhi: You may disagree with her politics but her styling is always impeccable. Handloom saris (many of them hand-me-downs from her redoubtable mother-in-law, Indira) impeccably draped and pinned into place, sensible shoes, and no handbag, ever. This is pared-down dressing at its best, and it works like a charm.
• Rekha: The original diva. Her Kanjeevarams are the stuff of legend, the bright slash of sindoor is flaunted like a red rag to the media bulls and is a perfect match to the matte lipstick, and when it comes to jewellery, this actress clearly believes that nothing glitters quite like gold.
• Naina Lal Kidwai: The boring uniform of a black trouser suit is not for this financial powerhouse. She prefers the soft drape of a sari to camouflage those killer business instincts, her version of the iron fist in a velvet glove.
• Michelle Obama: Fashion designers from across the world may be lining up to dress the First Lady of the United States but they have to work with her own aesthetic. That means no sleeves (to show off those toned arms); empire waists to emphasise the thinnest part of her body, and hems that hover around the knee.
• Harsimrat Kaur: There is a certain charming insouciance to a modern Sikh woman whose public persona is built around a wardrobe of salwar-kameezes, with a dupatta draped firmly over her head. Stereotype her at your own peril.

And no, I don’t think it is a coincidence that all these stylistas are women of a certain age. Rare is the woman in her teens and twenties who can summon up the courage to go her own way when it comes to fashion. You need the confidence and self-knowledge that comes with age to make your own rules and stick to them, no matter what the world may say. And to know that style trumps fashion every time.

True to type?

Is it really necessary to slot people into one box or the other?

It never ceases to amaze me how quick we are to stereotype people. It could be based on how they dress, where they went to school, in which area they live, where they holiday, the accent in which they speak. In fact, almost any – and every – detail about a person is used to slot him in one category or the other.

If you went to a posh boarding school like Doon or Mayo, then you must be a child of privilege, a spoilt rich kid coasting along a path smoothed by Daddy’s millions. If you studied in an Ivy League college or in either Oxford or Cambridge, then you are an elitist snob who could never understand the concerns of common folk.

If you dress in a salwar-kameez or a sari, then you must be a behenji; if you wear a short skirt or a tight top then you must be a slut who is up for it; if you are into computers you must be a nerd; if you are fat you must be greedy; if you wake up late in the morning you must be lazy.

At one time or another, all of us resort to this kind of shorthand. Punjabi = loud and crude (I guess I can say that without fear being a loud and crude Punjabi myself). Bengali = ineffectual but intellectual. South Indian = brainy bureaucrat. Sindhi = crooked businessman. Gujarati = canny stock-exchange whiz. And so on.

Our propensity to stereotype people was brought home to me anew lately, thanks to my recent experiences on Twitter.

A couple of Pakistan-related tweets (I am as hawkish on the subject as you can get without turning into Arnab Goswami – no relation, I hasten to add) brought in such a flood of responses from rabid Hindutva types that I spent the rest of the day explaining that in my book anti-Pakistan does not equal anti-Muslim.

A series of anti-Shashi Tharoor tweets elicited much abuse on the lines of “You bloody BJP so-and-so, what do you know anyway?” as if nobody could have an independent view on the subject without subscribing to one political party or the other.

But what was far more disturbing was one lengthy exchange I had with another tweeter about a post on my blog. The piece was about my reaction to the ban on the burkha in some European countries and this lady wrote to say that she couldn’t believe that someone who wrote about Hermes scarves and Louis Vuitton bags could also write about such serious issues as the burkha.

Well, why ever not?

Why should we slot people into these little categories and take the view that they couldn’t possibly do anything else? It is possible to be interested in both fashion and finance, to have a view on both peep-toe shoes and politics, to be moved by both babies and Bach, to be a champion of women’s rights and yet oppose the Women’s Reservation Bill.

And yes, it is possible to write about both bags and burkhas.

Nonetheless, many of us find it hard to wrap our minds around the fact that every person is a sum of many parts. And while one of these parts may lust after a pair of red-soled pumps, another might want to embrace a red-hued political philosophy; one part may like the uplifting sound of a choral opera, another might be a fiend for hard-core heavy metal; one might have a strong streak of political activism while the other loves trawling glossy magazines for the latest celebrity gossip.

But few people are willing to take this idea on board. After all, it’s so much simpler to just stick people in one bracket or the other. It makes life much easier, doesn’t it?

So, those who read romantic novels must be frustrated in love and looking for the excitement they could never find in real life within the pages of a book. Detective stories and thrillers are for worthless, frivolous folk who would benefit for having their noses stuck in an improving biography or two. And classics of English literature are for those with intellectual pretensions, who like to pretend that they are too good for pulp fiction.

I should know how this goes. Over the years, I have taken a fair amount of flack over my reading habits. One former employer went into paroxysms of laughter when he saw me reading Georgette Heyer at an airport lounge. Only when no less an author than Amitav Ghose told him (much later) how great Heyer was at evoking an era, did he stop taking the mickey out of me. (Not that I cared; I am the kind who feels no shame in reading a lurid paperback in public.)

These days, some of my more politically-correct friends make much fun of the fact that among the many news sites I visit every day (Times Online, The Guardian, The Daily Beast, Huffington Post among others) is the Daily Mail’s online version. Suffice it to say that the words ‘Enoch Powell’ have been thrown around and on one occasion I was even likened to the Sikh who joined the BNP (no, seriously, I kid you not).

But you know what? I really don’t care. As far as I am concerned, this kind of stereotyping says more your prejudices than mine. And no, I wouldn’t dream of sticking you into one box or the other.