Language Of Clothing As Shorthand Of A City

For me, it was that moment when I first helped my mother adjust the pleats of her saree. Watching six yards turn into an art form, worn with the soft power of a woman who was confident in herself, I knew I was a convert.

The simple act of selecting a saree—laying it out, choosing the blouse, matching the jewellery—became more than a mother-daughter bonding moment. It developed into a special ritual, a time of learning. From the Tanchoi to the Patola, my mother taught me about history, culture and the people who made these. She knew the difference between a Kanjeevaram pattu and a Pattupettu, but what was more important to her was the act of repeating and re-wearing. It was the only way to honour clothes made with such intricacy and reverence. Later, when my grandmother moved from Kolkata to Delhi, she brought with her an enviable collection of handloom sarees. Chanderis, Tangails, Kanthas—they felt so different. And they stood out in their own way, mirroring her large personality while adding heft to her rather small frame. Clothing has that power.

It is at equal times, personal and political.

By the time I was 16, I had started making a weekly pilgrimage to Fabindia. My first purchase— an exquisite Ikat maroon kurta—was worn on repeat. Later I wore another Ikat salwar-kameez when I went for an important admissions interview. Khadi Bhavan in the Regal Cinema building at Connaught Place was my go-to for fabric shopping, followed by a trip to the Cottage Emporiums on Baba Kharak Singh Marg. Delhi girls were regulars at the Dastkar Bazaar, we scoured markets for mirror-work skirts and belts, and wore anklets like the stunningly beautiful Banjara women. Slip-on mojris were all the rage as we hopped on and off DTC buses with insouciance. All our choices were based on textiles in possibly the most organic way. You touched it, you felt it, you lived with it.

And so, I packed all of this when I left for Mumbai at 22. Thinking my collection of jewellery and clothing—with all its natural fabrics and finishes—would be a perfect fit. I could not have been more wrong. In a city heavy with humidity and humans, no one dressed like me. There was a sea of polyester. In all shapes and sizes. Even the sarees were synthetic. Instead of mulmul kurta-pajamas on the streets, all you saw were Indo-fusion outfits. The dupatta long discarded. And the oddity known as the wedge-heeled Kolhapuri chappal was everywhere. Forget handmade juttis, all you could get were plastic “jellies” built to survive the endless monsoon.

That’s when I learnt that the language of clothing is almost the shorthand of a city. And Mumbai is the city of the shift dress. From the anti-fit to the A-line, something about this simple outfit allowed you to win Mumbai. And if your dress had pockets, you conquered the city. The ultimate rain-friendly outfit, it was age agnostic and travelled well from day to night (again, much like the city). If Steve Jobs had his black turtleneck, Mumbai girls had their dresses. A marvellous reflection of the city’s essentially democratic nature, practicality has always been the dress code. Wear something that will let you catch a bus, jump into an Uber, and cross the Sea Link—all in the same day. I joined the movement and chose to wear a dress. Every day. For the next 20-odd years. Bombay has that effect on you…It includes you and makes you its own.

I didn’t think too much about the tale of two cities, until I found myself working in Delhi but living in Mumbai, in 2016. As the former editor of fashion magazines, you tend to view the differences codified through clothing. Instead of hating it though, I found myself enjoying the individuality. Its peculiarities making each sensibility special. This is why I found myself really enjoying Fabulous Lives vs Bollywood Wives, Season 3. While the seven women have their distinct moments, the true hero of this Netflix series is the clothes. Kalyani Saha Chawla’s museum-worthy collection—from John Galliano’s Dior gowns to Amit Aggarwal’s sculptural pieces. Bhavna Pandey’s stylist approved pant suits showing a coming-of-age of style. And Shalini Passi’s exuberant love for the dramatic and haute couture. It’s all quite wonderful to see “cities as looks” facing off each other—ready to go to war. In many ways, the clothes on display were the finest example of India’s new era of luxury. Maximal, unapologetic, an over-the-top display of “I am what I am”. This confidence is a beautiful thing to see. In fact, I suspect a new fashion lexicon is currently being written and years later, we will refer to this moment as a tipping point.

Weirdly at this moment of celebration of the self, I did feel a little disappointed. The child in me felt a little let down. My love for clothing was defined by weaves. It was developed by the practical. But most of all, my choices were political. Adopting textiles connected me to my roots. Elegantly. Quietly. Minus today’s hyper-jingoism. Choosing to wear a uniform revealed a respect for my fellow travellers in an already crowded megapolis. Every choice we make with clothing is deeply personal and intensely political. I would have loved to see that reflected in the show. More than a battle between cities, perhaps we need to battle for our cities?

For clean air. Freedom of expression. Women’s right to reclaim the streets at night...

Clothing can do that, you know?

And that is the most powerful role fashion can play.

(Views expressed are personal)

Nonita Kalra is former Editor of Harper’s Bazaar India & former editor-in-Chief of Elle India. Kalra has three decades of media experience, in print and television. She is currently Editor-in-Chief, Tata CLiQ