Designer disaster

I Was Not Born for Couture

Hamsa-Damayanti (Swan-Damayanti), painting by Raja Ravi Varma (1899); Indian women have worn saris for centuries 

I think it is time I publicly confessed that designer stuff is not for me. I don’t recognise it, I don’t appreciate it, and I certainly don’t have the refined sense required to gasp at its pedigree. Hand me a ‘signature piece’ and I’ll stare blankly, wondering if the designer’s name explains why it costs as much as a week-long holiday. On me, even luxury looks ordinary, as if I’ve downgraded it.

Allow me to explain this embarrassing truth.

This happened with a close friend, in fact she is like an older sister to me and I call her didi, (Didi is the respectful way to address an older/wiser woman).

Mani and I had gone to visit them. Didi handed me a gift. Like a child on Christmas morning, I pulled a parcel from a large white bag with its brand name stamped in dull gold letters, one I’d never even heard of. One layer of fancy wrapping, then another of humble newsprint (old habits from my newspaper days made me pause to notice), and there it was: giant red flowers blazing on a sky-blue background. I blinked. She had promised me a sari. This, clearly, was not it.

Now, let me set the record straight here. Didi has given me several sarees and I being me, have shamelessly taken (‘accepted’ is mild) them. I have received them on occasions like my birthdays or for weddings and childbirths in their family. They have been among the best in my collection- exceptional fabric, smooth feel, great fall (sarees need that), unique designs, expensive of course, and none worse for the wear. I love them and others have also commented. A couple of times she has joked that some are outdated and I should get rid of them, but they are not the kind you get rid of. 

Coming back to the story, I carefully lifted the top fold, trying to understand what kind it was. Lightweight, soft to touch like voile, but it was the print which arrested my attention. I visualized myself wearing it- wrapped in a thin, limp bedsheet. I like even bedsheets and bedspreads in light colours, muted designs, so that in half-sleep, I am not shocked into wakefulness.

I stared at the piping on the edges of the sari. It matched the blouse piece that went with it- a red check gingham.

The excitement of getting a sari dulled a little. Whichever nerve connects my tongue with my brain went numb and fortunately for everyone downing chilli cheese toast with Glenfiddich, in that beautiful sitting room, I sat quietly doing arithmetic of thoughts.

I am unsure if Didi sensed it, she talked about getting the blouse stitched. I, on the other hand, was thinking this is not her style. I went into planning mode: will have to buy a matching petticoat. Could I wear it with one of the red blouses I have? This blouse piece, never, I would rather make a cross-stitch pattern and use it as table cloth.

For a minute, conversation around the big white marble table stopped. Mani looked at me, curious. I cleared my throat, lifted the sari, and declared, “See, I got a sari, see, I got a sari.” He looked, and mercifully, lost interest.

My thoughts were tangled in the sari folds. I put it back in the bag, decided to enjoy the sumptuous dinner, and shut my mind on it for the night. In the light of the next morning, I looked at it again and realized it was not the kind I could carry. Even if I kept it for the sake of it being cotton, the print… bah, said my mind. I read the care instructions, it needed babying.

And then I saw the price tag. What? My brain froze. A handmade Kanjeevaram, Banarasi, Kantha, Madhubani, Suzani, I could get it. But a printed 80:20 cotton: silk? Please! Are they selling a sari or taking away my life savings?

Mani was his sadistic best, thoroughly enjoying my discomfort, “Just think of the sari on you… or maybe the other way round?” he said.

My mind was in a whirl. Never have I worried so much about a sari! This is one six-yard piece of fabric which always brings joy to me, however much of a non-need it is. So, after what seemed like a long time, I decided to put it in my sari box and forget its existence till I could think straight.

I went about my day as normally as I could. But a sari is a sari even if you folks do not understand or appreciate this. When the household chores were done, I rushed to my desktop, searching for the label.

It is a fairly new player in the field of lifestyle brands, and sells everything -clothes, beddings, rugs, crockery, scented candles, and other knick-knacks, obviously, highly priced. I surfed through the saris, there were less than a dozen. I found two which I would have preferred. As I sat there thinking, Didi’s sentence slowly surfaced in my memory- “I have not removed the price tag in case you want to exchange.” At that time, in false bravado, I had told her why would I want to.   

But now, rather than let this couture masterpiece attain permanent folds in my box while I shuffle around in my comfort-fit kurtas, I decided to do the noble thing and exchange it. I spent hours gathering words and formulating sentences to tell Didi. The whole day, the more I thought of this non-sari, the more I disliked it. Finally, sometime the next evening I wrote to her, thanking Whatsapp I do not have to say it and realizing well the inconvenience I was putting her to.

But then she did what I love her the most for- be her generous self. She immediately agreed, told me she’d pick me up and we can go together. ‘Designer’ brands do not refund money, but I can exchange it for what I want instead.

The next afternoon I went to Didi’s house, and she had satvik vrat ka khana (pure food eaten on fasts) ready for me. My stomach happy and my senses satiated, we reached the store.

I would never have found this place, a renovated old world sprawling place, with tiny local stores bearing names I had not heard of, written in ‘artistic’ fonts.

This store had only two saris! Two saris? Ask an Indian woman! Do you even open a store to sell two saris? I shook my head at Didi.

All the choices that I had seen were only available online, I was told. In fact, everything they had, was in ones or twos. Exclusive to the core!

Didi picked up a bedcover from the four available and a pair of big cushions, we both decided were the best buy, and the prices of which nearly gave me a bodyache.

The building, the staff, the lighting, air-conditioning, packaging, no wonder they were charging criminal rates! But what truly warmed my thrifty heart was realizing that I live in a city where people actually make running such businesses profitable.

Didi saw the look on my face and hers reflected sympathy. She suggested we look around so I can pick up something I like. The more I browsed in the tiny stores around, the more I knew they were not for me. Very few items for sale, peculiar designs, unfamiliar names of fabrics, over the top prices, no or perhaps one customer, very quiet for a festival season afternoon. I came out undecided on their clientele as also about their business strategies.

Now I know why all those models who walk the runway in such clothes look so bored.

Then Didi steered me into an Indian brand, she had to get me a replacement gift. The moment we walked in, something clicked in my head. Familiar ground: natural fabrics my skin loved, a range wide enough to tempt, and prices that fit my ‘I-deserve-this’ budget. I was a child let loose in a toy store. She watched patiently, then added one more to my picks. When she tried slipping in a third, the total still less than the sari’s price, my inner greed alarm shrieked: stop here, save the promise for later.

I was a happier person now.

Go ahead and cancel my membership to the Sisterhood of Women Who Understand Luxury but I am genetically unsuited to designer things.

My punishment for not appreciating them? After all that netsurfing, brand recommendations are haunting my computer screen like relentless reminders of my failure.

Note: I have the sari-blouse photo, but not the budget for couture-level litigation. 

Printed saris are a staple in the daily wardrobe of Indian women.

                                                                                               -Anupama S Mani