Ooooouch!” Mrs Kamaal Batak yelled at me on the dance floor. “Can’t you mind your step?” We were doing our bhangra thing over Simranof (sic) at Djinns in Delhi when my eyes wandered into the distance. The bum-tit-tit-bum beat had reached a crescendo as sticky bodies jostled for space. A couple of turbaned youngsters had been trying their hands out in the dark, humming chak-de, chak-de, chak-de. They did not go unnoticed, for the DJ quickly switched to the re-mix version of choowon na, chhoowon na mujhe. But the turbanators did not take notice. They’d lick for chak-de anytime. Every time!
And here was Mrs Batak, her ample bottoms shrouded in a Dhaka, yelling oooouch! Only because my eyes had wandered... “Tussi great ho, madam,” I replied, my head bent down, my eyes piercing her navel. Stretch marks crisscrossed her wholesome midriff. An entire patch of brown had been devasted. As if, Mother Earth had been nuked. I looked up in horror. Mrs Batak winked, then smiled. I turned my gaze to the centre of the floor and snaked my way to the middle. My eyes wandered in a sea of bodices from Bal to Rodriques to Kumar to Vallaya to Beri. Beri-beri is good, in different shapes and sizes. Meri Beri ke ber mat todo... By now the floor was literally on fire as heaving bottoms and bosoms competed for attention, as if, in long-distance communion with Alicia Raut, the original item number. Ms P3P was standing 6ft tall in imitation Versace, doing the twirl with Mr P3P in his enormous frame, only 5ft4in from the ground, in godknowswhat. I was lost.
Indian fashion’s come a long way, baby. The problem’s you don’t know what’s what. There’s so much swirling lehnga and so little choli, all embroidered in silk and zari, their motifs lifted from artisans in the back of beyond. So, you often wonder, and rightly so, choli ke peechche kya hai, lehenga ke neeche ...? I better hold my tongue.
Come to think of it. Indian fashion? The blouse’ gave way to the spaghetti strap. The sari’s become a sarong. And the kurta, a kurti. But that’s only as much as meets the eye. What’s the difference? Our artisans have so much to offer. Giorgio Armani visited us some years ago crisscrossing the country, picking up threads and designs from rural folk out there in the open. John Galliano did his round as well and showed off his Indian tie and die on the catwalks of Paris. Last autumn, Calvin Klein flew in too in his private jet and did the rounds of the Crafts Museum at Ahmedabad. Yet not a big western fashion brand has made it to Delhi’s highstreets yet.
What you get to show off instead is the worn-out Levi’s, and the Lee Cooper cargo. Street fashion made its presence felt on the campuses. That’s all.
Back on the floor, I was in a mood to smirt. That’s what had drawn me to the centre in the first place. When my eyes wandered away from Mrs Batak. As I rolled my sleeves, shook my hair, and got ready to swing, my gaze struck upon a pair of wonderous eyes that made me freeze. She had pulled me in from the crowd and away from Mrs Batak’s admonition not so long ago. But now that I was there at the centre, I was wonderstruck. What eyes, what lustrous hair. And now, she didn’t seem to take notice. Here was Ms Beautiful Eyes doing the Hare Krishna jig unmindful of her surroundings, in a blue and pink bandhini lehenga, sequinned with mirrors and sporting a Sarojini Nagar T-shirt. No fashion designer worth his name could create such a work of art. I stood there, transfixed, my legs parted, my hands holding onto my hips, and my head tilted to the left. My eyes ran wild from her head to her toe...
In the distance, the crowd had worked itself into a frenzy to the tune of
It’s time to Disco...