As I watch my wardrobe being pruned of unwanted clothes, a thought crosses the mind. It’s a thought about the slow demise of the kurta pajama. Now when I say kurta-pajama I obviously don’t allude to that designer stuff in chrome yellow and turquoise blue, which is very much alive and kicking. What I refer to is that plain-white garb of cotton which till very recently prevailed as the staple evening-dress. I refer to those casuals which men slipped into once they’d decided to spend the evening at home. It is those casuals that I bemoan; the casuals that have been replaced by bermudas/trek-pants and T-shirts.
Not that I hold anything against the Ts, but it needs to be ceded that the gains the new entrants make in expediency are paid for in terms of grace. I somehow find it difficult to visualise my granddad attired in a pair of bermudas. Also, while we’re on the subject of endangered apparel, we might as well pay heed to that other candidate in need of resuscitative oxygen: the handkerchief. Okay, I agree the disposable tissue obviates the need for one, and that hygienists now deem the kerchief a less safer option for nursing a cold. But still, there can be no writing-off of the humble handkerchief. There’s something ineffable about it that renders it an old-world charm. As Robert De Niro says in ‘The Intern’, “a handkerchief is not for you to use. You carry it in case a lady needs it.” So I guess it’s not so much about changed fashion as it is about changed outlooks. Which brings me to my recent Jaipur trip and an afternoon spent with a wonderful lady and her husband. As my son bent down to touch this gentleman’s feet, he smiled and said that he’d rather shake hands. Since this dear friend - who’s not traditional in your copybook way – happens to be a medico, the reply I offered to his objection was an anatomical one. I told him that when it comes to tradition, I prefer to describe my inclinations as agnostic. Therefore, just like members of his ilk never bother to remove the vestigial appendix until it starts to be of trouble, I too prefer to let the traditions just be. Does that make me old school? I don’t know. But if it does, I would straightaway want to pin the blame on just that – my old school, Scindia. For this is an institution where we did both; we shook our teacher’s hand and we touched their feet as well. Importantly, we learnt to distinguish what occasion demanded for which of the two. And yes, we had the kurta pajama as well. A whole sea of it at the Astachal every evening. What about the handkerchief, you ask? Well, morning inspection duly ensured that each of us were in possession of one; even though that all-boys school wasn’t exactly looming with the De Niro contingency.
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September 2020
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