Fifty shades of pink

Yes, that's right; we Indians are not afraid of colour and we have the wardrobes to prove it

I still have crystal clear recollection of my first encounter with that strange beast known as a fashion designer. I was just out of college, working on my first job at a weekly magazine (now sadly defunct) called Sunday, when I sent off to work on a story on the burgeoning design revolution in India. This was in the late 80s when fashion design was a concept largely unknown in this country. But there were a few early pioneers who were trying to sell us the concept of designer lenghas and couture kurtas.

So, there I was, on a hot summer day, at the south Delhi house of the late great Rohit Khosla. I entered his office -- set up in the garage of the family home -- to find him hard at work behind his desk. "Ah," he said, looking up to greet me, and flashing the most dazzling smile that has ever been bestowed upon me, "I'm glad to meet a girl who is not afraid of colour!"

Quite frankly, until that moment I hadn't realised the colour was something to be afraid of. But as I looked down at my parrot green kurta, paired with a bright orange churidar and a psychedelic dupatta that took in all colours of the rainbow and some that didn't even exist in nature, I had to concede that the man had a point.

I was a girl who was not afraid of colour.

But that was not some act of conscious bravery. It is just that, growing up in India, I had never seen colour as something to be afraid of. It was just a part of life, and I embraced it as matter of course as I went about my daily business.

On that day, however, I realised that this was something of an Indian peculiarity. We were the only ones who were not scared of wearing something in searing red or brilliant yellow. Or, as Khosla explained kindly to me, quoting the legendary fashion doyenne, Diana Vreeland, "Pink is the navy blue of India."

Or, to put it less pithily, just as the West regards navy blue as a safe colour, a neutral shade that works best in all circumstances, we in India regard bright shocking pink in much the same way.

Vreeland apparently made this observation based on the clothes worn by the women of Rajasthan, they of the bandhini ghagaras and lehriya duppatas coloured in shades of crimson, saffron and, yes, magenta. But frankly, this is as true of the rest of India as well.

Wherever you travel in our country you will find men and women who are not afraid of colour. Who, like me in more innocent times, don't even realise that colour is something to be afraid of. They just routinely pick up that turquoise sari or that orange shirt in the morning as they are getting dressed and go about their business without worrying about how brightly coloured their clothes are.

Travel in Punjab and you will find that the turbans of the men are as colourful as the salwar kameezes of the women. Go down south and you will be blown away by the brightly patterned lungis and the high contrast saris of the women on the street. Both Gujarat and Rajasthan use the most colourful dyes in their bandhej techniques. And then, of course, there's Bengal, with its jewel-hued tants, Tangails and Dhakais, where all the women seem to believe that red blouses go with everything (hey, what do I know? Maybe they're right!).

These sights are so common, the colours so much a part of our daily life, that we don't see them as something out of the ordinary. Colour is something that we do quite effortlessly and without giving it much thought. We will pair a red churidar with a purple kurta. We will wear a green sari with a pink blouse. We will wear purple from head to toe. We will stick on an orange bindi for good measure. We are not afraid of colour.

Which is why I am always surprised when I come across fashion features in foreign publications titled: "Scared of the bold colour palette of this season? Here's how to wear it!"

The feature nearly always dispenses mealy-mouthed advice like "just stick to one strong statement piece and pair it with a neutral shade" (which roughly translates as "if you're wearing a bright yellow jacket, make sure you pair it with cream or black trousers; or maybe blue jeans if you are really pushing the boat out"). Or even "start off with an accessory and then gradually ease yourself into the big-ticket items" (in other words "buy a green pair of shoes or an orange bag if you're too much of a wuss; and then try and work your courage up to get into that stonking pink overcoat!").

Well, if you ask me, these colour cowards should just take a leaf out of our brightly-coloured book and go the full Monty. Ditch those dark trouser suits and go in for a strong burgundy. Throw out the safe monochromes and explore the possibilities inherent in strongly-contrasting shades. Eschew those pale pastels and embrace the strength of reds, blues and pinks. Go on, do it already. You have nothing to lose but your boring beige and grey.

Pink may or may not be the navy blue of India. But colour certainly is the very soul of India.

You're not wearing that?!

The story of a woman's life retold through the prism of gratuitous fashion advice

It starts soon after birth. Girl babies must be dressed in pink. Their dresses must have plenty of frills and ruffles. A bit of sparkle wouldn't go amiss. And it doesn't matter if the poor mite is virtually bald, stick a shiny headband or a shimmery barrette on for good measure.

Girls, you see, must look like girls. If you must dress them in trousers be sure to slip on a floral T-shirt on top. If you put them in shorts rather than skirts, make sure they are wearing delicate ballerina shoes not sturdy sneakers. And if they are on the beach or at a swimming pool they must wear proper swimsuits, with a bikini top that covers breasts that they haven't yet sprouted.

And from then on, the fashion messaging gets rather relentless. Girls who want to wear jeans and shirts rather than pretty little dresses as they grow into their pre-teens are described indulgently (and sometimes exasperatedly) as 'tomboys'. The subliminal message is that this is a phase they will grow out of, once they have gotten in touch with their femininity. Because this is clearly not how girls are supposed to look.

Teenage brings with it it's own set of rules, depending on where they live. If they live in small towns or in rural India, then this is the time to put away their frocks and skirts and seek shelter in the 'safe' haven of a salwar kameez. If their parents are more 'liberal' than most, then they can wear jeans with a kurta, if it is long enough to cover their derrières. But that's only until they get married. Once they are in their husband's home, the in-laws decide what they get to wear. Salwar kameez or sari. Head covered or uncovered. Goonghat or no ghoonghat.

The fashion lives of urban women are relatively unrestricted -- but only up to a point (at the end of the day, they are 'girls' after all). And so long as their parents, brothers, husbands, in-laws, and larger communities are on board.

So college girls in the major metros can, in theory, wear dresses, skirts, jeans, shorts or whatever the hell they please. There's just one catch. The fashion police that parades every campus, indeed every street, in India must approve. And if they think that tight jeans are 'distracting' or that short skirts are a 'provocation' well then, they wear that kind of stuff at their own peril.

In fact, as girls grow into women, it is quite amazing just how many fashion choices come attached with a tag titled 'Asking For It'. That sleeveless top tucked into the waistband of your trousers; that sari blouse tied across your back with a couple of strings; that skirt that rides up your thighs when you sit down or cross your legs; the leggings that show off the shape of your posterior; the dress that reveals cleavage when you bend down; or even the otherwise staid sari that shows off your midriff and stomach. No matter what your choice of outfit and which body part it exposes (or conceals), there is always a good chance that you are 'asking for it'.

What did you say? What are these women 'asking for'? Well, that depends. It could be anything from being cat called on the street, being followed home by putative stalkers, being groped in buses, marketplaces or on the Metro. And that's if they are lucky. If they aren't, they could even be 'asking for' being molested, or even raped by hapless men who have been so thoroughly 'provoked' that they can't be held responsible for their actions.

This scenario gets even more complicated if you bring the entire world into the mix. You can't wear bikinis in Iran. You can't wear burkinis in France. You can't leave your head uncovered in Saudi Arabia. You can't cover your face in Belgium. And so on and on and on.

Nor does it get any better as women get older. They might think that they have now passed the stage of being seen as sexual beings. And that they can now relax and wear whatever the hell they want. Well if they do, they have another think coming.

Once they are in their 40s, the fashion advice comes couched in 'mutton dressed as lamb' terms (sometimes from their own daughters who scoff: "Are you really going out in that?"). Anything above the knee is a strict no-no. Tight trousers or dresses are seen as a dodgy choice. And bare upper arms or a dash of cleavage invites exhortations of "Just put it away, dear!"

Even when women are post-menopausal or well into their 60s and 70s, the gratuitous tips doesn't cease. And in India, it gets particularly intrusive if they are widows. Don't wear bright colors. Don't use so much makeup. And is that bindi really a good idea? In fact, the style rules still apply even when they are dead: a red sari for the pyre if her husband survives her; a white one if she is a widow.

As far as dress codes go, there's none quite as stringent as the ones prescribed for women: from the moment they enter this world to the time they depart it.

This really is a life-long service. And it matters little that you didn't sign up for it.