Who's sari now?

Well, just about every woman who’s joined the #100sareepact

Rare is the Indian woman who doesn’t remember the first time she ever wore a sari, or indeed, the first sari she ever wore. All of us grew up playing with our mothers’ saris and draping them around us when she wasn’t looking, parading in front of her dressing table and fantasizing about how it would feel when we were grown up enough to wear them for real. In my case, my grandmother, who tended to treat me as her own real-life doll, would drape her saris around me for her personal amusement, even though the folds quite drowned my childish frame. And I loved every moment of it.

But that was just playtime. The first time I ever wore a sari out in public was serious stuff. It was the school farewell and the entire graduating class made a pledge to wear a sari to the party. After much agonizing back and forth between chiffon and cotton, printed or plain, I finally decided to go with the traditional option: a plain off-white silk with a red border. Called the garad in Bengal, this is the sari that has since been immortalized in the Dola Re Dola song sequence in Devdas, in which both Madhuri Dixit and Aishwarya Rai don the style worn by all Bengali women on Bijoya Dashimi as they participate in a ritual called Sindur Khela.

I can’t quite describe the thrill I felt when it was finally on. Looking at myself in the mirror to put on the finishing touch of a red bindi, I realized that I had never felt so beautiful, or even elegant, in my entire life. My teenage body suddenly seemed to acquire a sinuous grace that had until then been quite unknown to it. I stood straighter, I felt taller, and best of all, I looked like a grown up. In that moment, as I stood staring at the reflection of the stranger in the mirror, I made the transition from girl to woman (even if it was just in my own mind).

My story is far from unique. Ask any Indian woman and she will have a similar experience to narrate. For all of us, wearing a sari for the first time ever is a rite of passage. Most often, it happens for a special occasion: a family function, a wedding in the neighbourhood, a school social, a religious festival. And the process itself is marked by a sense of occasion. Everyone has an opinion on what kind of sari would be best, what sort of blouse would suit the most, whether the pallav should be worn seedha or ulta. Mothers and elder sisters fuss around as the sari is finally draped, while grandmoms get a bit teary in the background. And these days, no doubt, many selfies are taken to mark the occasion.

The sad part, however, is that these days for urban women like myself and those younger than me, the sari then gets relegated to the category of ‘special occasionwear’. We only pull it out when we have a special event in our lives: a presentation to the Big Boss; the college graduation; a friend’s engagement party; a child’s first birthday; a ten-year anniversary; a wedding. It’s only when we want to feel special that we drape a sari, folding ourselves into its special embrace. Otherwise, it’s all jeans and shirts, churidar-kurtas, salwar-kameezes, skirts and tops, short dresses. Oh, they’re so much more convenient, we tell ourselves, as we relegate our saris to that steel cupboard that never gets opened more than once a year.

Well, you know what? It’s time to change all that. It is time we reclaimed the sari for our own, and for the everyday – not just the special – moments of our lives. Not just because the elegance of the sari, the sensual beauty of its drape, would elevate even the most mundane day of our lives. Not just because the sari deserves its moment in the sun after spending decades in the darkness of the back of our closets. But because we need to reinforce its image as a living, breathing garment before our daughters and granddaughters dismiss it as a dead relic of the past, treating it as ‘costume-wear’ rather than ‘everyday-wear’ (like the Chinese treat the cheongsam or the Japanese the kimono).

If you are up for the task, then you can’t do better than join the #100sareepact . This is an initiative started by two Bangalore women, Ahalya (Ally) Mathan and Anju Maudgal Kadam, who made a pact between themselves to wear a hundred saris in 2015. They started a social media hashtag – which has since gone viral – to encourage other women to join in.

Joining the #100sareepact is simplicity itself. All you have to do is pledge to wear a sari on 100 days out of 365 (no, you don’t have to wear a hundred different saris; that would be plain silly), take a picture of yourself in the sari of the day and upload it on social media (Twitter, Facebook, or on www.10sareepact.com) with a small note on the sari itself, or the memories and stories attached with it for other women to share and comment on.

It’s been a week since I joined, and I have already chalked up five saris out of a 100. Several of my friends have too, and we haven’t had so much fun in a long time, as we bond over our saris and the stories that revolve around them. Come join the club. You have nothing to lose but those boring blue jeans!

Wear your attitude

And anything you damn well please…that’s the whole point of personal style

When I was growing up, there was an infallible way to tell when a woman had gotten married. She gave up on childish things like frocks and dresses, put away her jeans and skirts, and adopted the salwar-kameez or the sari as her uniform of choice. Okay, perhaps it wasn’t always by choice. Sometimes it was dictated by conservative in-laws, on occasion it was the husband who didn’t want her to dress ‘Western’ now that she was married, and at times it was just unspoken societal pressure. That was how married women were supposed to look: all wrapped up decorously in a sari, or a salwar-kameez at a push. And most married women complied, no matter what their private feelings on the matter.

I am happy to report, however, that this is no longer the case. Marriage no longer spells the end of edgy or even sexy dressing. Women, or at least urban women of a certain class, can continue to wear what they like even after they have that ring on that finger (or the mangalsutra around the neck). Nobody looks on with shock/horror if a married woman accessorizes her chuda with tight jeans or a short skirt. In fact, nobody so much as bats an eyelid.

Never was this brought home to me more forcibly than when my newly-wedded niece was taken shopping by her mother-in-law. My niece gravitated towards the churidar-kurtas, thinking this was an appropriate choice given that mum-in-law was paying. But even as she was riffling through them, she felt an urgent tug on her shoulder. It was her mother-in-law, who had found an outfit she thought would look amazing on her new daughter-in-law. It was a short, sleeveless, patterned dress with a halter neck. 

But it’s not just young, newly-married women who are dressing differently these days, eschewing conservative choices for more modern ones. It is women of all ages, all social classes, all shapes and sizes, and from all over the country. It is no longer unusual to see a young mother in a short dress or even a grandmother in trousers. Jeans have become a great equalizer, being worn by women young and old, with every body type, from all income brackets, and from every region. 

In my case, I have made quite the opposite journey. In my teenage years, I could not wait to get into the sari. Even the act of draping it in front of a full-length mirror made me feel ineffably grown-up. As a young professional in my first job, the sari’s natural grace and elegance helped me negotiate the new and tricky world of the workplace from within the security of its folds. It made me look like and act like a responsible adult even when deep down inside I didn’t really feel like one. The perfect camouflage, in fact, for faking it until I finally made it.

Now that I can class myself as a ‘woman of a certain age’, I still wear the sari. But now it is when I want to have fun and play dress-up, having tired of my everyday uniform of jeans and shirts. And sometimes I treat the sari like a secret weapon in the armoury of my wardrobe, to be deployed when I particularly want to impress. It is pulled out on special occasions, like formal dinners, weddings, or at important professional engagements when I want to feel the same security I felt as a young journalist starting out.

But for the rest of the time, my wardrobe has actually gotten younger as I have gotten older. These days I live in fuss-free, knee-length, crush-proof dresses that I can pull out of my closet (or increasingly, my suitcase) and step into without all that starching and ironing that cotton saris, or even churidar kurtas, require. There is none of the palaver of figuring out what goes with what, none of that nightmare called colour coordination. It’s simplified dressing at its best: pull on a dress, slip on a pair of flats, stick on the sunglasses, a slash of eyeliner, a dab of lipstick, and you are good to go.

Did I hear you mention the words ‘mutton dressed as lamb’? Ah yes, I thought so. But you know what, the best part of growing older and becoming comfortable in my skin (not to mention my dress) is that I no longer care what you think of me, my clothes, my sense of style, or for that matter, my bare arms. I will wear what I like, thank you very much. And in the famous words of Rhett Butler, I really don’t give a damn (what you think about it).

And I am rapidly coming around to the view that, no matter what your age, this is the key to personal style: it has to be a personal choice (not made on the basis of the diktats of some fashion magazine); and you have to own it, no matter what other people may think (or say) about it. Feel like wearing a sari? Do it. Want the comfort of a pair of lived-in jeans? Knock yourself out. You’d rather live in a dress? Go right ahead. 

There is no one you need to please but yourself. Tell yourself that the next time you go shopping. It will make things so much simpler.

Yes, we Cannes…

Rock the sari and the lengha on the red carpet; as both Vidya Balan and Sonam Kapoor proved

As it happened, I was in Cannes when our media went into overdrive about how the Indian presence at the film festival had turned the red carpet even redder with sheer embarrassment. So, I missed all the stories that basically went along the lines of: “What on earth was she/he (insert name of concerned actress and the designer who dressed her) thinking?”

It was with some bemusement, therefore, that I caught up with all the shock-horror and of course, outrage, on my Twitter feed. Well, I’m sorry guys, but this time I disagree. In fact, I am going to stick my neck out here and say that – some minor reservations aside – I actually loved how Vidya Balan and Sonam Kapoor made their mark in Cannes (alas, I missed Aishwarya Rai; a late arrival this year).

See, here’s the thing about red-carpet dressing. You have about five minutes (ten, if you’re lucky) to make an impact on the international media gathered around. And given that the tapis rouge (just to go all annoyingly French on you) is awash with drop-dead gorgeous women in the most amazing costumes ever, you have to raise the bar to be more than just a blimp on the fashion radar.

So, first up, the key is to be visible. And there is no better way to stand out in a sea of couture gowns than by wearing Indian clothes. There was no missing Vidya Balan in her Sabyasachi wardrobe. She started off in a stark maroon lengha-choli, went on to dazzle in a white, beige and gold sari, and then at the opening, wore a cream lengha-choli, with her head covered with a gauzy dupatta (no, I didn’t get that either; sorry Sabya!).

Sonam Kapoor is so gorgeous that she can carry off both a Dolce and Gabbana couture gown (as she did on her second red-carpet appearance) and the Anamika Khanna white and gold sari she wore for The Great Gatsby premiere, paired with a long metallic coat which subtly referenced the jazz age re-created by the movie. The sari was accessorized with a large, diamante-studded nose-ring; again an attempt to push the fashion envelope. I am not entirely sure that it worked; in my view it would have been a far more subversive choice to pair the nose-ring – what we call a ‘nath’ in these parts – with the couture gown.

But the ‘nath’ was clearly a popular choice (the ‘maang-tikka’ is obviously far too ‘safe’ these days) with the Indian designer duo of Anamika and Sabyasachi. It was back the next day, this time in chunky gold and perched delicately on Vidya Balan’s chiselled nose, as she walked the red carpet in an uncharacteristically low-key number from Sabyasachi, so subtle that it came within a hand-weave of being downright matronly. It is entirely a tribute to Vidya’s expressive face that she managed to pull off the look without straying into headmistress-at-a-school-function territory.

So, did it all work? Well, if you ask me, on the whole it did. Our ladies managed to cut a dash and score with the paparazzi who were grateful to see something other than a floor-length gown with a train. You may quibble about the accessorizing – as many of us did – but there was no denying that our actresses looked absolutely radiant no matter what they wore. And it is a testimony to our self-confidence as a nation that they now have the chutzpah to wear Indian clothes in a Western setting, secure in the knowledge that they can hold their own in a sari.

It may, however, be useful to remember that when it comes to Indian clothes, there is a thin line that separates couture from costume, and costume from caricature. And sometimes that thin line is a nose-ring.

The Dress Code

It really doesn’t matter what you wear; you can be a feminist in both a sari and a skirt

Women and clothes. It really doesn’t get more complicated than that. There’s conflicting advice coming from every corner. Everyone has an opinion on what you should or should not wear (and where you should or should not wear it). There are people who seem to believe that your choice of outfit has a direct connection with your personal safety. But no matter how much care you take to dress every morning – or evening – you can rest assured that there will always be someone out there who believes that in those clothes, you are simply asking for it.

As for me, all through my life, I have tended to take the path of least resistance when it came to clothes. Growing up in Calcutta, where I went to a school and college run by nuns, there was a certain assumption that ‘good girls’ always dressed conservatively. And quite frankly, I never had a problem with that. I wore salwar kameezes and churidar kurtas routinely and felt incredibly grown-up whenever I wore a sari on special occasions.

Looking back, I often wonder why more of us Loreto girls didn’t rebel against the unspoken dress code that even outlawed something as tame as pedal-pushers (if you have no idea what these are, consider yourself lucky). My guess is that it was mostly because we never really paid that much attention to what we wore. We didn’t see clothes as a means to making some sort of political statement. And I most certainly didn’t think that they defined who I was in any manner.

Clothes definitely did not make this woman, I would have said if I had given any thought to the matter. But quite honestly, I never did. I had more important things to think about (like when I would finally get through the interminable James Joyce opus; and why I could never keep all the characters in War and Peace straight in my head).

After college, I began working at the ABP group, which – in those days at least – was a bastion of orthodoxy. All the women wore saris to work (only one lady with a particularly racy reputation would wear tight kurtas with trousers, which was regarded as the height of daring) and I duly took my cue from them before relaxing into the odd salwar-kameez and finally graduating to that old journo standby, blue jeans.

However I may have dressed on my time off, at work I always veered towards the line of sartorial safety. I would no more have worn jeans and a T-shirt to cover an election rally in a rural area than I would have worn a bikini to an official banquet at Rashtrapati Bhavan. The idea was always to blend in, to seem non-threatening. If I was going to be the proverbial fly on the wall, then I had to be a cipher, nondescript enough to disappear into the background. I couldn’t be that girl in a Bermuda shorts, who thought she was striking a blow against patriarchy by showing off her legs.

But then, these are choices that most women of my generation made, because we wanted to be taken seriously – and we had bigger battles to fight. So, we wanted attention to be focussed on our brains rather than our bodies. And we wanted the conversation to be about our talent and professional abilities rather than our clothes.

I guess we’ve come a long way from that (er, baby, as the sexist Sixties line would have it). And in a way it is comforting that we now take enough of our freedoms for granted to finally be able to have that conversation about clothes. At some level, I suppose it must be seen as a sign of progress that women are all charged up to fight for their right to wear a mini-skirt and not be leered at.

But speaking for myself, I still find the idea of a Slut Walk risible in the Indian context, when women in rural areas who are wrapped up in six yards of fabric get sexually molested, assaulted and raped every day. And call me sexist if you will, but I find it hard to sympathise when women complain of being leered at after putting their breasts out on display in their latest push-up bras. Hell, there are times when even I gawp in horrified fascination at those acres of cleavage on display, so I’m not one to point fingers.

When it comes to clothes, though, I think the common-sense argument is the most compelling one. Of course, you can wear what you like. Of course, you can go where you like while you’re wearing it. And of course, nobody has the right to molest or rape you because of the way you’re dressed. But there is such a thing as ‘appropriate dressing’, and we would be fools to deny it just to sound politically correct. For instance, I still wouldn’t wear a short skirt to a political press conference. And I certainly wouldn’t wear a skimpy top while reporting from a rural area.

At the end of the day, it’s important to remember that clothes are really not that important. Because what you wear is not who you are. So, let’s not make the mistake of believing that our identity is wrapped up in our clothes. It is possible to be a feminist in a sari as well as a skirt – and we should never forget that.

So, who’s sari now?

Why do Indian actresses make such a fetish of wearing gowns at international events?

Try as I might, I can’t understand why Deepika Padukone got such a bad rap for wearing a sari at the Cannes Film Festival. The sari itself was faultless, a tasteful creamy white affair with gold embroidery, designed for her by Rohit Bal, and worn daringly low on the waist to showcase her washboard stomach. The choli was a skimpy, shimmery little thing that made the most of her perfectly chiselled arms and shoulders. And the entire ensemble looked just about perfect on the tall, willowy Deepika. She looked sexy, elegant, dignified and sophisticated, all at the same time – a feat almost impossible to pull off on the red carpet.

Well, at least, that’s how it seemed to me. But given the kind of criticism her appearance attracted, mine was clearly a minority opinion. There were those who were unhappy with the choice of sari (too drab, too understated), others who found fault with the blouse (too short, it made her torso look abnormally long), her jewellery (she had worn it for another function earlier) and the hair-do (the prim bun made her look much older than her years). But mostly, the critics couldn’t understand why she had chosen to wear a sari when she had the perfect figure of carry off a gown.

Well, call me insular or just plain jingoistic, but the sight of an Indian actress walking the red carpet in Cannes wearing a sari made me feel rather proud. What a welcome change from the usual parade of Indian stars and starlets (i.e. everyone from Aishwarya Rao to Mallika Sherawat) who insist on wearing Western-style long, clinging gowns, slit to mid-thigh, and slashed low at the neck, whenever they attend any international event.

In the case of Aishwarya Rai, the oft-cited excuse is that she appears at Cannes in her capacity as L’Oreal ambassador and that the brand decides what she should wear. Hence, the sweeping, floor-length gowns, the elaborate up-dos for her hair, and the joint appearances with American celebrities like Eva Longoria.

But everyone thought that things would change with Freida Pinto, the unlikely star of Slumdog Millionaire. Here was a sweet little girl-next-door type who had gone international. And maybe she would take Indian style international with her. No such luck. Unlike Deepika, Freida chose Galliano over Gudda, wearing Dior at most of her red-carpet appearances and for fashion magazine covers.

But perhaps when you are trying to break into Hollywood, it makes sense to play down the exotic Indian angle and play up the international beauty bit. You need to show directors and producers that you can carry off a thoroughly modern look; and you can’t do that in an Indian outfit. Hence the recourse to such labels as Armani and Chanel and the refusal to wear a sari, I guess. (And it did work for Pinto, who was signed on for a Woody Allen film.)

But that’s exactly why I would award Deepika Padukone full marks for choosing the sari over a gown. I am sure that she wouldn’t be averse to a role or two in a Hollywood project either, but did she let that stop her from going all traditional on the Cannes red carpet? No way.

And how very nice it felt to see a young Indian girl taking pride in being Indian on an international platform! To see her walk the red carpet wearing a traditional sari in the traditional way and looking absolutely smashing in the bargain.

But perhaps this little vignette reveals a bit more than just Deepika’s wardrobe choices. Maybe it suggests that the Indian stars of this generation have finally found the chutzpah to be confident in their own costumes on the international stage. They no longer feel the need to fit it by wearing identikit gowns that you can’t tell apart from all the others on the red carpet.

They are now happy to be themselves, secure in their own skins and sexy in their own saris.

Sure, they want to conquer the world, but they want to do so on their own terms. They may want to go international; but they still want to look Indian while they do that.

Think about it. While Preity Zinta and Bipasha Basu choose to wear Western designs at film events even back home in India, the younger stars are falling back on the glamour of the sari. Kareena Kapoor has made the chiffon sari with halter-neck blouse her signature look. Priyanka Chopra is happy to repeat her ‘Desi girl’ style at all award functions. And now you have Deepika Padukone strutting her stuff in a sari in Cannes.

Yes, our Indian stars are still intent on conquering the world. But this time round, they are confident enough to do so dressed as Indians. How could that possibly not make you proud?