Clothing Codes

The language of clothing is the shorthand of a city. In Mumbai, practicality has always been the dress code

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WHEN does a piece of clothing become fashion? When does it imprint itself onto your consciousness— transforming how you view the tactile and the permanent?

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.