Fashion statements

The mini version of the Kala Ghoda Festival is on in Mumbai at the moment. I have always wanted to wander through venue – regular or pint-sized – since it is now such an integral part of the city I call home and I have always wanted to see what pulls people into it. Is it all sales and interesting artifacts (apart from the ticky tacky tourist traps), or does it really showcase the history of one of Mumbai’s most significant and well-tended precincts? But aside from driving through occasionally and muttering rudely about traffic control and the lack of parking space in an already crowded area, I have done little to find out more about the event. This time, however, things were slightly different. I was dragged into becoming a tiny part of it, courtesy friends and am still not sure whether I approved of the whole shebang or whether I should stay as far away from it in the future as I have done in the past.

It began with a visit to one of the stores I frequent. It is a small boutique that specializes in traditional Indian crafts with a spin into contemporary styling where the clothes are concerned. The way I see it is simple: if I can find something to wear that is modern and global, yes uniquely reflective of the country I belong to, I prefer it to the anonymous brands that I can find in any store of the chain anywhere in the world. Makes sense, no? Anyway, I occasionally find the work of designers who serendipitously create the kind of style I like and so troll the shelves of the small space every now and then. Apart from which, as does tend to happen, I have made friends with the folks who run the store, and am always given a fond and friendly welcome, never mind whether I buy or no. So when they asked whether I would participate in their share of the festival, I agreed, with a little digging-in-of-heels just because that is the way I am.

You will model for us, the lady said with great confidence. Oh no, I disagreed, I am not in the right shape and am too shy. But it will be great, she argued, you have lost so much weight and look really good these days. And this is not a professional show, it is for real women. Which means women with curves, sometimes rather more generous than is forgivable. I still refused. But I did agree to compere the show, to make sure that I did a suitable patter for the event. The threat of being cajoled into wearing the store’s fashions and walking around on stage loomed. Then, as always, Fate stepped in, this time to save me. I got the flu, fairly severely, with the accompanying cold and cough that lingers even now. There was no way I could do a walk in front of so many people, no way I could practice for the show along with a group of girls who would also be models. The lingering question was answered – I would do the commentary, but not be a clotheshorse. God bless Fate!

I got my brief and prepared my ‘speech’. The day before the actual event I was at the store for a rehearsal. The racks were cleared away, the small space was stretched to its limits and the girls gathered, each facing her own demons and having her own special crises. I watched, feeling rather superfluous, until I found myself – to my own horror, I have to admit, because I prefer to stay away from emotion until it bashes its way into my head – playing mother hen, aunty, counselor, advisor and general dogsbody. There were tears and mini-tantrums, angsts and anger, all spilling out in a glorious vent of exhaustion, ego, inferiority and intense longing to be better than the rest. Just be yourself and enjoy what you are doing, I suggested, forget that it is a serious task you are undertaking and just have fun. Don’t worry about what who said when, I patted someone’s shoulder, these things happen in moments of stress. Smile, I threw at them all, don’t look like you are doing something grim and ghastly. It was Halloween that night, I forgot, or else I would have used that to make them less uptight. Soon I was the person holding the safety pins and Kleenex, finding solutions to little problems and providing consolation and an occasional cold shower when words rang loud and harsh.

The rehearsal itself began. There was one sequence where a group of overly generously proportioned women walked at a funereal pace in dazzlingly ugly clothes. My giggles threatened to burst out of the confines of good manners and spill into a room silenced by the sheer outrage of it all. Another routine had me looking pointedly down at my feet as models – the would-be Naomi Campbells and Kate Mosses of the Kala Ghoda mini fest – scuttled around getting in each other’s way and forgetting their poses. The choreographer clutched her aching head in despair, the manager yelled, swore and vowed never to use amateurs again and the owner held my hand and muttered anguish into my ear. I coughed sadly, still pushing semi-hysterical laughter back into myself, and soon ran out, telling everyone I would see them the next day.