Desicritics Category: Culture: Fashion

Material Girl

IdeaSmith — Sun, 1 Mar 2009 10:20:27 EST

I went diamond-shopping this weekend. Last year I received a corporate pat-on-the-back with a financial award. Someone suggested that I spend it on jewelery instead of frittering it away on clothes, books and shoes. It took me months but I finally agreed.

It's not even the first major purchase I made, even for jewellery. I saved up on my first job and bought my father a new cellphone and my mother, a diamond ring. That was a funny feeling. A memorable feeling, a funny one and one I'll treasure all my life - the exhilarating thrill that comes from being able to buy something for the people you love, who have provided for you all your life.

A few years later, I'm going big-purchase-shopping again. But it just is different. A different kind of different.

I think in my head, despite all the wondrous freedom of financial independence and mental release, my liberated-ness has a few gaps in it. Like little stitches still binding me to old ways of being, long after I've snipped away the life I want to wear.

Diamonds are usually received as gifts, not bought for oneself. Gifted by a man - a father, a brother, a lover, a husband. If diamonds are a girl's best friend, it's because those sparkly stones carry the monetary value that they were bought for, but also the power of being cherished and indulged by men.

Diamonds have been symbolic for years and they continue to be so. Only my diamonds don't list out the men who will lavish their affections on me. They remind me of everything that I've worked for and achieved. The power to buy a diamond as well as the right to wear one that is truly my own. It's just odd how long it took me to accept the feeling. Not feel guilty about lavishing it on myself, not feel obligated to spending it on someone else or something more important/intelligent, not wonder if brandishing my economic power made me seem like even more of a man-hating feminist than people usually accuse me of being. It took me a long time to accept that it was okay to buy a diamond for myself and feel good about it.

Newfound power doesn't come easy; it's scary.

Poetry: Matte Finish

IdeaSmith — Sat, 13 Dec 2008 10:45:15 EST

Skin powdered to smooth perfection
Lipstick patted dry to a subtle, near non-erasable hue
Eyes smoky and heavy-lidded
Colours muted enough to be classy

The voice pitched a tad above inaudible, just below husky
And her movements just the right side of languid,
Never erring into lethargic,
Shying clear of boistrous

And yet, through the night
She is, as a beacon
Moths or fireflies perhaps,
Flocking to her banked flames

Later, much later, early in the a.m.
She washes her face
Patting it gently dry as the beauty manuals advocate
But the shining in her eyes stays until she shuts her eyes

Gilt may turn to gold and back,
But tears and pearls can never be changed.

Give Me a Dhoti to Wear

Vinod Joseph — Tue, 4 Nov 2008 09:45:23 EST

The other day I met up with a school friend with whom I had been out of touch for many years. My friend is a senior executive at a reputed company in Kochi and I met him during the lunch hour, on his way back to his office from a meeting. Dressed in a well-cut suit and tie, his feet clad in Gucci shoes, my friend was sweating profusely by the time he got to the restaurant where we had arranged to meet. The restaurant was air conditioned and quite cool, but my friend nevertheless asked a waiter to turn up the a/c.

‘I wish I hadn't walked,’ he told me as he sat down. 'My driver was on his way to pick me up from Katcheripady and bring me here, but he was held up in the traffic and instead of taking an auto, I stupidly decided to walk here.'

‘I guess your driver will pick you up from here and take you back to the office,’ I said. My friend's office was a ten-minute walk along M.G. Road

‘Well yes,’ he admitted with a laugh as he enviously looked at me in my holiday shirt, slacks and sandals.

‘Tell me,’ I asked him. ‘Are you really required to wear a suit everyday?’

‘There is no hard and fast rule,’ he told me. ‘But everyone wears a suit these days.’

And you don't have the guts to be different. Not, I didn' tell him that or I would have lost a friend.

I remember a time when people hardly wore suits in Kerala. Even in Mumbai where I used to work (from 1998-2002), suits were the exception rather than the rule. You wore a tie if you had to meet with a client, and that was it. Suits were reserved for conferences, though the moment you were about to sit down, you took off your suit and hung it on the back of your chair. The economic boom seems to have triggered a desire among professionals in India to be as western in appearance as possible. There are a lot more people wearing suits (and sweating profusely) than there were a few years ago. Air conditioners are therefore a necessity rather than a luxury. I’m not sure if many people have noticed the absurdity of wearing a suit and turning up the a/c.

My job in London requires me to wear a suit and tie everyday, and I don’t have a problem with it. For one, a suit keeps me comfortably warm. I’ve always believed the neck tie to be the most useless of all appendages, but when it’s really cold, even the tie contributes to the feeling of warmth. The first thing I did when I reached Kerala a couple of weeks ago was to change into a lungi (a colourful local version of the dhoti) and discard my shoes. And it was so comfortable! However, it is no longer socially acceptable in Kerala to go out in a lungi. One usually wears trousers, though once in a while you do see a brave soul wearing the double mundu, a formal version of the lungi. As long as I don’t have to wear a tie or shoes, I don’t really mind wearing trousers even though a simple lungi is actually a lot more comfortable than wearing trousers.

When I was in school, I had to wear shoes, socks and a tie as part of my uniform. When I look back, I'm not sure why I was made to wear all that. It goes without saying that the classrooms were not air conditioned. Even now I don't think there are many schools with air conditioned classrooms, though I think a lot more school students these days wear a tie. Is it meant to instill in students a sense of discipline? Or is it mean to add to a 'western education'?

The other day I was talking to a software engineer who recently finished his MCA from a reputed college in Bangalore. When I asked him what he liked most about his new job, he told me without hesitation, 'the informal dress code.' Then he added, 'I had to wear a tie every day for three years during my MCA course'. I couldn't believe my ears. Why on earth should post-graduate students studying computer engineering have to wear a tie? 'It makes them take their studies seriously,' I was told. Do you really need to half-choke students to make them take their studies seriously? And these are not students who receive a subsidised education that will lead to permanent unemployment, the fate of the bulk of India's college students, but students shelling out a lot of money for an education that despite the recession, guarantees a job at the end.

In a warm climate, the only joy one can get out of wearing shoes and socks is to anticipate the pleasure of taking them off. No, I don't wear chappals when I am in Kerala except when I go to church where we are required to leave our footwear outside for the benefit of thieves who nick them. Instead, I don a pair of leather sandals which allow my feet to remain fresh. Come to think of it, why on earth should feet be enclosed in shoes unless cold weather requires it?

This has set me thinking. Why don't Indian office workers wear Indian clothes at work? I am not saying this because I am anti-West or anti-MNC. I’m saying this simply because Indian clothes – dhotis, kurtas, mundus, lungis etc. – are so much more comfortable in the Indian heat. What’s more, with global warming and the need to save energy, we’d save a shit-load of money if everyone went to work in short sleeved shirts, a dhoti or trousers and sandals and switched off the air conditioners.

Last year Shashi Tharoor set off a controversy when he wondered aloud in his Times of India column why Indian women have stopped wearing the saree. Tharoor cited tradition and elegance as reasons for wearing the saree. ‘Comfort’ was not one of the reasons mentioned in his article, though many of those who attacked him did specifically say that they didn’t wear a saree because it was so inconvenient or uncomfortable. ‘Try catching a bus in a sari,’ someone is supposed to have said. I have never worn a saree in life and so I am not in a position to comment on how comfortable or uncomfortable it is. I have a feeling it is not particularly comfortable and I have no clue as to what would be the most comfortable dress for women to wear in warm weather. For this reason alone, I am going to restrict my piece to men’s wear.

I don't really know what could be done to promote Indian clothes among Indian office goers. Don’t forget, it has to be promoted to a generation which associates attire such as the dhoti, the kurta, the veshti and the mundu with backwardness and ignorance. A suit is always associated with intelligence and more to the point, (western) knowledge. Our politicians have always worn Indian clothes, but then, our politicians are not exactly role models, are they?

Maybe I am asking for too much when I say we should go back to traditional attire like the dhoti or the mundu or the veshti. Maybe we should just start wearing clothes appropriate for the weather - short sleeved shirts and slack trousers and sandals – when it is warm and sweaters for northern India when it does get cold during winter. Hold on a minute. What about the safari suit? Yes, I am talking about that very interesting attire (half-sleeved suit-like shirt with trousers of an identical colour) which used to be de rigeur for bureaucrats all over India. I don't see many safari suits these days, though I am told that some of our bureaucrats still wear it. No, I don't think the safari suit will become popular with the private sector crowd. It is associated with old-style Indian bureaucracy and inefficiency and redtapism, even though it is actually perfect for warm weather.

This brings us to the nub of the problem. It's all about image. I have no doubt that most of us wouldn’t have any problem running to catch a bus in a double mundu or a dhoti or with sandals on. But if you wear a double mundu and want to sell a cutting edge banking software to an MNC bank, you are not going to get far. I'm sure that the woman who asked Shashi Tharoor to try catching a bus whilst wearing a saree will don a saree in no time if a saree is what's needed to project the right image. People are very much willing to wear the most uncomfortable clothes possible in order to show themselves in the right light. Western clothes are reasonably comfortable in a cold climate. They are not suitable for a warm country like India. Israel is a warm country which has a reputation for informal clothes. When I visited Israel, I didn't see anyone wear a suit except the haredim whose religious beliefs require them to wear long black suits.

Arabs wear their traditional clothes even when doing business, but then, Arabs usually hold the purse strings and when you do that, you can wear pajamas and still get away with it. I wish I could say that as India's economy grows, Indian businessmen and executives will start asserting themselves and wear traditional Indian clothes while doing business in India, but I'm not too sure of that. Look at Japan. You almost never see Japanese businessmen or executives wearing traditional clothes when doing business. We all have a tendency to imitate the sucessful and the West has been succesful in doing business and generating wealth to an unbelievable extent. We Indians want to copy their success and we make no bones about it. I just wish we could do so wearing the right clothes for India's climate.

Fiction: Dreading Ugly Girls

Chaitanya S — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 13:22:46 EDT

The sun beat down harshly, immediately distorting the contour of my expression. With crinkled eyelids I stared blankly at the buildings below as a whiff of smoke escaped my tanned pursed lips. I paced around slowly. The brain was ticking and the lungs were puffing. The terrace of my office building was an ideal place for my “brainstorming breaks”. Creative ideas blended with a dash of black coffee and a hint of smoke made a magic potion. The potion on which I believed my modeling agency thrived on. Minutes would turn to hours at times; thinking of the next fashion show or the next magazine shoot. Faces of fashion photographers, choreographers, designers, stylists and models would emerge through the smoke and spin in my head like a jackpot machine. The risks and benefits of every combination would be calculated in my head. Suddenly there would be a glimpse of light in my clouded mind and I’d run down to break the plan of action to my team.

My mind was focused on a print shoot for a ladies denim commercial for the Middle East. I had already zeroed in on the photographer. The only bone of contention was which young ladies to select. They had to look beautiful, nothing else, simply gorgeous. Tall, slim, good features, nice long hair and fair. The industry demanded fair girls for print shoots. Dusky girls with average features were useless for this. They were good enough for the ramp if they were tall and slim enough. But even they were taken grudgingly. I was an integral part of a shallow world. But that shallow world paid for the comfortable lifestyle which I led. Changing the world or people’s perception wasn’t my concern. My mind shifted to the numerous aspiring models that came to me for work. I didn’t give two hoots to their “talents”. If they did not fit the “conventional” look, I offered them tea; chit chatted, took their photographs and assured them that someone from my office would get in touch soon. I didn’t have the heart to say, “You are no good. Your looks will never work. Please go back home and do something else.” The pictures were immediately confined to the welcoming bosom of my trash can.I still wasn’t part of the shallow world though. After every such meeting, I needed a fag to get over the uneasiness. It was the hope in those eyes. The hope and trust which would haunt me. The hope and trust which I strangled, the moment the pictures touched the bin.Then slowly I turned cold. I assimilated myself in that world. My job was to sell dreams. I started living in a dream myself. My smile became my mask. I became a parody of myself. I started disliking people who were not good looking. I felt they were coming to office and wasting my time. The same time which I could dedicate to “deserving” people. At times I made it a point to tell them that. Mostly I did it in a politically correct manner. Sometimes I was blunt. But I didn’t care. I had a business to run and salaries to pay.Gradually the sight of bad features, bad hair, bad dressing started making me uneasy. My soul turned shallow, then dry and finally I could feel it die. I know it died because I felt empty. It lay buried somewhere in the four walls of my agency. I never quite realized the subtle transition of my soul into arrogance. The only thing that remained of my previous self was my “carton of 20”. The hopeful eyes still haunted me though. But I knew a drag was all it took to cloud those thoughts away.Outside the office, I was myself again. Maybe that’s why I always liked going to the terrace to think. The fresh sea breeze felt liberating. It allowed me to think in peace without being disturbed. My soul felt alive again. It was the only place where I could be at ease with my “oral companion”.

A trickle of sweat ran down my neck and made me wince. Another drag before I shifted base to the cooler confines under the parapet on which the water tank rested. It was when I moved there that I realized that I was not alone on the terrace that evening.

My soot stained lips broke into a genuine smile on seeing her pudgy dusky features. However, the hint of coldness in my heart screamed, “For that skin tone, at least use a hint of bronzer to liven it up”. Her hair was tied neatly in a tight pony tail, a far cry from the cute step cuts which were in vogue. Her simple denims and tee did not make any attempt to hide her ample frame. In my office, a girl looking like that would have been spurned. I disliked bulky people. I just felt they were too lazy to exercise. “I hate people who abused their bodies”, I would tell my near and dear ones even as an extra layer of soot collected over my lungs. “How many times have I said no wearing sneakers on flared denims”, my heart wailed. She was a stark contrast to the girls who visited my agency and those who worked there. But that day she did not flash her pearly whites on seeing me.She worked in the office next doors. We would often meet in the corridor or elevator and exchange pleasantries. Then we started having brief conversations since the car park where I kept my car and her bus stop were in the same direction. She was a well read girl and we would discuss books for that brief period. She was sharp with her words and fluent in Hindi and English. She could think on the spot and had a ready wit. I called her a walking talking lexicon. These qualities helped her become an accomplished telemarketer. At the end of every month, she would proudly tell me that she had over achieved her targets. I always appreciated and related more to self made people.

She never quite knew why her boss never sent her out for client calls. Such marketing offered higher financial rewards and better networking opportunities to further ones career. She definitely had the capabilities of pulling it off. I expressed my curiosity to her boss once when I bumped into him in the elevator. He smirked and patted my shoulder. “We sell high end perfumes, son. I don’t want to scare my clients. He gave a chuckle. You know what she looks like! And her dressing, she needs some tips from your staff!” We had reached the landing to our office as he completed his sentence. My soul always disappeared on that floor. I smirked and chuckled harder than him. I was amused by my own stupidity.

I walked up to her. My grin was genuine and my mind was clear of the modeling world. “Hey. And how are we doing today? Good girls shouldn’t be sitting in “shady” places all by themselves”. I ruffled her hair playfully and sat down on the cement flooring next to her. She gave me a blank look; her eyes were of a crimson hue. She’d always been cheerful whenever I’d met her. This was something I wasn’t used to.

She sniffled and looked me in the eye. “Got another drag?” I crossed my eyebrows. I wasn’t expecting that. “Yeah I do. I didn’t know you smoke. I don’t think you should.” She eased my companion out of my fingers and took a deep puff. Her eyes burned with a sanguine radiance as the smoke hissed out of her lips over my face. Then she coughed and tears ran down her dark cheeks. Immediately taking the stub out of her hand, I extinguished it on the floor. I put my arm round her comfortingly and smiled lightly. “Don’t worry. I’m here for you. Let those tears flow and it’ll make you feel better.” My shoulder got wet as tears flowed on it. I sat still, not knowing how to react. I needed to think. To think I needed a quick drag.

I stroked her hair comfortingly while my brain raced. “Maybe she’s had a fight with her boyfriend”, I said to myself. Immediately a voice from within smirked, “Do you really think she will have a boyfriend. I mean look at her. I wouldn’t date her if she was the last woman on this planet”. “Love is blind”, I countered. “Of course it is. Else ugly people would never be loved.” I quickly pulled out a cigarette and popped it between my lips. With slightly shaking hands, I flicked open my Zippo and readily inhaled the soothing draft of air. It had a magical effect and squabble within me ceased immediately.

She moved her face off my shoulder. I gazed into her pink orbs and smiled lightly. I could see pain, hurt, confusion and embarrassment all rolled in one look. I handed her my cigarette. That was the only cure which I could vouch for and the only one which was at hand. “Thanks”, she muttered coldly before closing her eyes and taking a drag. A tear rolled down the side of her eye as I lit a cigarette for myself.

Weeping girls made me panic. Most of the girls I knew could open a faucet within themselves at the drop of a hat. They could use those tears as a weapon to attack you or as a shield to defend their actions. Either way men had no chance of fighting back. Reasoning was always futile; I had learnt the hard way.

I glanced at her. The nicotine in her blood stream seemed to have a calming effect on her. Balancing the cigarette in my lips I pulled out my handkerchief and handed it to her. I took her hand gently in mine and took a drag before speaking in a low voice, “Hey, thank God you don’t wear any makeup, these tear stains would have definitely ruined your pretty face”.

“Pretty ! Pretty ! You think this face is pretty !”, she exploded. She hadn’t released the smoke before screaming and her words were drowned in a bought of heavy coughing. She jerked her hand out of mine and gave me a hard look. “You bloody well know I’m not pretty. And it’s no secret either. I’m ugly, goddamit and you would be the first person to notice that”. My eyes widened and I took a couple of quick fags to calm down. What she said wasn’t completely untrue. It wasn’t what she said that shocked me, but the way in which she said it.

“Who the hell told you that? Of course you are pretty”, I spoke calmly. “You’ve got a wonderful personality and you are a good person and it shows on your face……In your body language. Trust me, I’m your friend.” I smiled lightly as I watch her aggression subsiding.

“Then why the fuck do guys reject me for marriage on the basis of my looks?” she mutter meekly. For that I had no answer. I did not even know her family was out looking for prospective suitors. Marriage was an alien concept to me and it hardly ever crossed my mind.

“Every time I meet someone, the reply the very next day is the same. NO. My parents are too embarrassed to tell me, but I’m not stupid. I understand. My parents drop subtle hints, asking me to lose weight. I can do it for health reasons, but why should I change myself for someone else?” Tears started bulging under her eyes again and I quickly gestured towards the handkerchief.

“I’ve never even had a boyfriend. I know it’s my looks. But how can I help it if I was born this way? I have dreams too; I want to have a family. I want to have kids. But everywhere I go, I get a look and I know what it means. Guys want fair, slim girls. Why is dark considered ugly in this country?”

I listened quietly. I had never imagined girls could face such problems. Why an independent and intelligent young lady being reduced to tears because of a frivolous thing like marriage was beyond me. But again it was a question of priorities. She wanted a family and kids of her own, and I respected her priorities.

“I wanted some good photographs, remember? I’d come to you and you said you’d get back to me regarding that. You never did. I wanted them for a marriage website and I’d heard you bragging about making people look prettier than they were”. I cringed. I remembered that meeting and how I had reacted. I always felt shooting someone ugly was an insult to my skill and my camera. I was an artist and I chose whom I wanted to shoot. Despite being avarice, I’d rather give a monetary loan to somebody than shoot pictures of a person with average looks. “You know how busy I’ve been”, I muttered timidly.

I managed a smile and took her hand again. “Forget the photographs for now. You don’t need all that. You are an amazing girl and that’s what’s important. You don’t look ugly. You’ve got lovely features; you just need to smile and show off your pearly white teeth to accentuate them. And there is nothing that a nice haircut can’t fix. We just need to change your dressing slightly and you’ll be physically all ready to have guys drooling when you walk. And don’t feel as if I’m changing you, you’ll still be yourself. I’m just suggesting some minor tweaks. And don’t feel you are doing it for a stranger; just think you are doing it for me”.

“Once that is taken care of, you’ve got everything a guy would want in a girl. You are intelligent. You can talk on varied subjects. And have I told you I love your sense of humor? You are the only one who makes me laugh so much after a long day at work. And your poems are some of the best which I’ve heard in ages. And you have a way with words which is very flattering. I love the way you speak sweetly over the phone with your clients”. She had tossed the cigarette aside and was gazing at me and listening intently as I spoke about her. I highlighted all her positives and it took a while since she really was talented. I mentioned how good she was around people and how she made everyone comfortable in her presence. We continued to talk for almost an hour after that. She smiled and finally she was laughing again.

I glanced at my watch. I had a client to meet in office downstairs and even she had been away from her desk for a while. As the sun started setting in the sea across our building, the sky was filled with a crimson hue. It was the same hue which was visible in her eyes an hour ago. As the day was coming closer to its conclusion, so was our conversation. We got up and took the stairs down to our office floor. I was repeating all her qualities to drive them in her brain and boost her confidence. She was smiling and she seemed to be in high spirits again. I could see the joy in her eyes, something which I hadn’t seen for ages. I tossed the cigarette aside. I could feel good without it.

Just one more flight of stairs down and we would have reached our destination. Words were flowing consistently through my lips. “So anyone who says no to you isn’t worth your time because you are precious. And you know….Any guy who marries you will be the luckiest guy in this whole world….And…” “She grabbed my hand and turned me to face her. Her hope filled gaze was locked in mine. She spoke in a low expectant voice, “Will you marry me?”

My soul always disappeared on that floor. I turned cold. My job was to sell dreams. It was the hope in those eyes. The hope and trust which would haunt me forever. “No”, I said coldly.

The hopeful eyes still haunt me. Even a drag isn't enough now to cloud those thoughts away.

I Refuse To Be Fashion Conscious

Deepti Lamba — Mon, 23 Jun 2008 05:17:42 EDT

Big seems to be in. Whether it be the bumble bee shades or the tent like tops with tights people have now gone crazy looking their worst.

It is my personal perception of course, others who love wearing polka dotted sack clothes are welcome to disagree with me. But to expect me to be part of the herd and wear such clothes or look like a female mobster in big dark glasses is just not going to happen.

As it is after buying a shit expensive Da Milano bag I lost my mind looking for the house keys in a bag bigger than a black hole. But thanks to the trend of big bags and me being putty when it comes to shoes and bags I fell victim and spent five minutes outside the house looking for the keys and throwing all the contents of the bags on the bed to get to the cell phone later on.

In the end I found myself reverting to my old functional bag where things didn't hide in unchartered leathered territories.

Even Indian clothes have become jazzy with loud embroidery and flashy rhinestones.

The eighties seem to have returned and even though some of these clothes look nice on mannequins I look absurd in them. In Western outfits I look all boobs and legs and in Indian jazzy clothes I look like a bling bling Bhapi Lahari. Okay, the Bhapi Lahri part was taking it too far but you get what I mean- there is just too much bling in the sarees and don't get me started on the designs on some of the saree blouses.

Even men's formal Indian clothes have gone metro sexual with loud embroidery. Some shirts are transparent and show the male nipples!! Those, of course, as I had been told by a huffy boutique owner are for Western-cum Indian occasions- whatever that meant.

I wanted to tell her that it would be disconcerting for me to stare at some strange male nipples at a party but adhered back to my old mantra of keeping my trap shut.

When it comes to shoes, things have changed as well but having small feet I've always gone in for Flashy shoes and fell in love with a pair of high heeled fiery red shoes though they hurt like crazy.

Thankfully block heels continue to be the rage. They are comfortable, make the woman feel on top of the world and I absolutely love the animal prints on them.

But that is where my being fashion conscious stops. No Empire waist clothes for me or plastic bangles, massive belts or tights over my chubby thighs. I am strictly a jeans and t-shirt girl and if I am considered to be dowdy- so be it.

Movie Review: Sex And The City

in search of sanity — Sat, 31 May 2008 12:02:35 EDT

Sex And The City, the movie that follows that cult TV series which brought the lives of four New York career women into our living rooms and also shaped up the attitudes, lifestyle and relationships of hundreds of working women across the globe is here.

Somehow the rest of the world has moved on in the meantime and it fails to add anything substantial to the previous plethora of ideas and issues raised. The chief message emanating from this movie is that it IS possible to get married wearing a dress ‘made by nobody’ and also without a bird perched on your head!

The ‘girls’ go through a series of problems. Miranda has to deal with that ‘single isolated act of indiscretion’ on the part of her husband and refuses to forgive him. Although given the fact that he was treated like an unwanted Christmas present poodle, that you cuddled maybe once in a while but didn’t care enough to spend time with or bond with, the act actually seems like vindication for him and totally fails to bring out any sympathy for the ‘wronged wife’.

Samantha finds she cant get enough sex from her toy boy anymore, as he is busy trying to shape his career. Just to get this in to perspective, this is the same man from the TV series who sticks by her through her chemotherapy months. So, he obviously has to get booted off now. Somehow the same mantra of ‘live for yourself’ that came across as fresh and novel in the TV series, that asked women to put themselves first and enjoy life to the fullest without waiting for a man to make their life worthwhile seems jaded and overused here.

Obviously a lot of cocktails flow under the Brooklyn bridge and hundreds of ridiculously expensive shoes, bags and dresses later, each one comes to terms with the issue in her life. Carrie realizes that a few tonnes of satin and silk fluffed up round your ankles do not guarantee a bloke.

One of the most annoying things about the movie for me was the attempt to make light of anti-fur protests and actually try and portray them in a comic way. The upshot of that scene where Samantha gets brightly coloured fluid splashed onto her colossal fur coat seems to be to be ‘fashion triumphs’. Really? Surely there has to be more to life beyond dresses, shoes and a succession of one night stands in a row.

I may be clueless to the life of high glitterati in New York, but to imagine that every freelance columnist writing about her life, potters around the streets of NY in Versace frocks and Manolo blahniks, is stretching the imagination a bit. And again, which career woman, trying to earn a salary to afford this lifestyle, sashays round in an off shoulder dress with an enormous daisy growing out of it? Miranda’s trouser suits and slightly severe skirts are far more realistic. I doubt if very many independent career oriented women will identify with the ethos of the movie.

Good way to spend two hours though, as long as you do not pitch your hopes too high. There are the inevitable light-hearted conversations, funny moments and attempts to scandalize that some of us may enjoy. Its a colourful movie with potential to make up an evening if its relaxation with nothing too taxing for the brain that you are after.

Rachael Ray Serves Iced Coffee and Jihadi Donuts

smallsquirrel — Sat, 31 May 2008 00:02:11 EDT

I am no fan of Rachael Ray. Let's get that out of the way up front. I am much more solidly in the Anthony Bourdain camp. I do not do cutesy, especially when it comes to cuisine.

But when I read this article I nearly lost my mind.

Rachael Ray is now shilling for Dunkin Donuts here in the States. And apparently for one of her commercials, her stylist added a silk black and white paisley scarf as a wee fashion accent. But then Jewish blogger Pam Geller comes on the scene and accuses Ray of wearing a keffiyeh and being a "jehadist tool."

What the f**k?

I wish I could use nicer language, but really! I just can't. Ray as a jihadist? This woman could not find her way around a political debate with a map and Kissinger as her personal guide. She would quickly change the topic to EVOO and making "easy peasy fruit stacks."

Geller's outcry was followed by equally ridiculous ranting from Michelle Malkin. Malkin went on to bring up beheadings and hostages in what can only be described as typical far right-wing posturing at very best. She also said that wearing keffiyeh has now been adopted by left-wing icons and calls it "hate-coture." (insert eye-roll here) It is hard to take this seriously coming from a woman who has found it acceptable to justify racial profiling. And she's a minority. Can we say self-hatred?

Anyway, Dunkin Donuts did the only thing it could do and yanked the commercial.

Oh Jesus! Can we give this a rest please? Seriously. First of all if you look at the item in question it's nothing more than a damned scarf. I might be wrong, but I don't think that a keffiyeh even has fringe, does it? This is a simple scarf.

The woman did not march onto the set with an "I heart Hezbollah" t-shirt. She did not promote a new breakfast sandwich with all proceeds going to the PLO. No, the woman wore a scarf.

How far is this ridiculousness going to go? OK, well here we go. Let's make a list. No red because of the Bloods, no blue because of the Crips. Holy people of many religions wear saffron so that is out. Black is symbolic of evil, so scrap that. Green is symbolic of envy and that is one of the Seven Deadly Sins... nixed. No short skirts as they are too provocative, no long skirts because they are too puritanical. No suits because they are elitist. Better avoid ethnic wear altogether because someone will feel left out.

But let's take this even further. What's with the anti-Arab sentiment? As far as I know, the keffiyeh is worn by all sorts of Arab men, and it's worn to protect them from the heat and sun. OK, right, so Arafat was also famous for wearing one, yes. But Palestinians are not the only Arabs. And even if they were, not all Palestinians are terrorists. So how is that characterization even acceptable? And is that what we do now? We don't like something so we link it to terrorism? Yeesh!

All this hyper over-reaction makes me nutters. It is one thing to react strongly to overt displays of offensive behavior. But to come out with both barrels smoking over something that is not even riding the line of acceptability is one thing that is seriously messing with.. well, everything. People are so angry. So reactionary. So partisan and ready to posture and find fault.

I am sorry to get so existential here, but all I can wonder is "where the hell are we headed?" Sadly, I think the answer is "to hell in a hand basket."

Just be sure to accessorize appropriately.

Much Ado About the Moustache

IdeaSmith — Wed, 14 May 2008 14:36:47 EDT

There are men who look good with facial hair. Greek gods walk in our midst after all.

Then there are those who're passably nice looking and on whom the facial fuzz can act like the proverbial Fairy Godmother (oh okay, magic potion a la Shrek) completely transforming their faces into something else altogether!

Of course every once in a while we do come up against a case of the mustache making the man (and not vice versa). These are those speciMENs that are ordinary, even laughable clean-shaven (remember Lamhe?) but add some fuzz and voila - a star is born!

And then there are all those images one has, leftovers from too many childhood stories, of Chinese gentlemen in floor-sweeping rebonded-straight mustaches. Are those supposed to be shampooed? :-)

Back in Idli-land where I come from, a mouch is considered a sign of manliness so you'll rarely spot a clean upper lip. Facial fungus rules! Oh ewww I shudder and tell my family.....

(Click on thumbnail to view comic)

Why am I so acerbic? I've lived all my life with a mustachioed man after all. But then again there's no one quite like Dad. Besides I have nasty memories of horrid punishments that involved the moochie. When I was extra naughty, dad would grab me and rub his cheek on mine. Far more effective than spanking, it was like being sandpapered. So now when it comes to gentlemen professing l'amour for me, smooth faces get brownie points...I have no intention of thinking of childhood punishments and dad in the midst of such activity.

The moustache is so much more than a line (or jungle) of hair. It's a style statement, an extremely sexual one at that! It's probably the oldest icon of male vanity (not to mention the oldest excuse men use to gain our sympathies in the 'how painful to scrape one's face everyday' school of thought).

The goatee or French beard (I can't tell the difference - is there one?) straddles the machismo of the moustache as well as the dandiness of vanity - the perfect accessory for a Metrosexual Man (which is probably the only reason I resist it). Then again, faces can look quite appealing with the mini-mouch (muhahaha..) except for the ones with too much of baby-fat (but there's very little to improve those, one supposes!)

So finally, how do you like your men? Mustachioed, in-between or not at all?

Bebo's Disappearing Act

Hilal Nakiboglu Isler — Fri, 18 Apr 2008 00:03:18 EDT

In a country where half the population suffers from chronic hunger, and about 350 million are considered food-insecure, the number of teenage girls who are starving themselves voluntarily is growing.

Anorexia isn’t a big problem in India. Yet. But some fear that might be changing.

Hollywood movies are more accessible than ever before.

Of course now, there’s the issue of the shrinking Bollywood starlet.

Take Kareena Kapoor for instance. She’s been all over the place lately, grabbing headlines after whittling her waist down to a mere 23 inches (she’s now a size zero).

She did it, she says, in preparation for a bikini scene in her new movie Tashan.

Kareena has always been beautiful, always A-List, but since losing weight (apparently she’s 45kgs—that’s 99lbs) she’s been getting all sorts of attention; lots more, in my opinion, than she ever has before.

The Hindustan Times tells us Kapoor, 27, now charges Rs 3.5 crore per film—up substantially from her pre-weight loss asking price of 2 crore (Ash gets about 4).

It might be too reductionist to say this is the only reason behind the pay raise, but the connection between waistline and bottom line seems clear.

Kareena recently landed a flashy, full spread in Vogue and snagged a Filmfare Award for her performance in Jab We Met earlier this year. Papers in India have been paying close attention to what they’re calling the Kareena-inspired Size Zero Phenomenon.

Some of those papers seem to be part of the problem.

Especially tabloids like SAWF which recently had: ”Will we ever see Aishwarya svelte again?” as a headline.

“A lot of calories have flowed through (Ash’s) system” since she married Abhishek, said the accompanying piece, and “many, it would seem, have found a home there.”

First the country’s preoccupation with fairness, and now this?

I worry that the forecast for India’s young women looks increasingly grim.

The Return of the Sari

Rumana Husain — Sat, 8 Mar 2008 01:29:06 EST

I was only sixteen then. Although they say it is the sweetest of all ages, and there is a lot of hype about it, the fact is I was extremely self-conscious and did not want to look different. Strangely, I wanted to look the same as everyone else did.

We were planning to go to the movies that day. This was in Bombay, where I was visiting from Karachi for a summer-holiday. "I want to wear a sari, like everyone else," I confided in my cousin who was much older. She obliged and, minutes later there I was, standing in front of the mirror marvelling at her ingenuity. She had not only managed to drape me in a sari, she had secured it in place with safety pins as well. I still recall the careful, calculated steps I took on our way to the cinema, despite assurances that all was well and I could take long un-lady-like strides if I so wished!

Thus began my romance with the sari and for several years now, my reasons for wearing saris remain multi-fold: The grace, poise and charm of other sari-clad women led me to believe that I too could look like them. Saris hardly ever age. I could therefore borrow my mother's saris and get away with it. It is much cheaper to invest in a sari than in a shalwar, kameez and dopatta suit, as these fashions keep changing. Moreover, cotton saris are a boon to wear in the hot summer months, especially since the dhobi charges are nominal and I get to wear a crisp, starched sari every morning without having to iron it. A sense of easy luxury pervades. I also get thrills knowing that I stand out wearing a sari at any party. I am sure people will excuse my narcissism.

My infatuation with saris led my mother to part with her own wedding sari - a patola with brilliant hues and an opulent design. I received it long before I was married, but conditionally: I could wear it only after I was married. The Gujarati patolas have elaborate and intricate designs in fiery colours, resist-dyed into warp and weft threads prior to weaving. I can't say her patola had any part to play with my marriage plans, but I have certainly enjoyed wearing that sari on very special occasions.

Although some sari materials, and the way they are draped have been in and out of fashion a few times, the classic materials and the classic method still enjoy popularity. The Gujarati and Parsi style of draping the pallu, palava or anchala - the end-piece -- in the front is followed by some young women, but the Parsi saris with their distinctive borders and Chinese embroidery have rarely been adopted by others. The ikat saris, which also take their inspiration from the Gujarati patola, have always been popular, and so have the Benaras silk and the tanchoi brocade saris. The large number of looms and businesses set up by the Benaras weavers in Orangi, Karachi, bear testimony to this. Transparent chiffon saris and embroidered saris have also remained in fashion for many years now. The titillating designs and colours of the chundri or bandhani (tie and dye) saris that were worn by women of all religions and castes, mainly in Sindh and Punjab in Pakistan, and in Rajasthan and Gujarat in India, still steal the show, sending many a male heart fluttering.

Even the patterns and motifs, ranging from flowers to geometric designs to animal images have a distinct flavour as each motif, each colour signifies the region from where that sari has originated. For example, the peacock motif is taken from Moghul miniatures, the paisley from Kashmir, the narrow stripes or bands of a chundri sari from Jaipur. Inspiration is also derived from jewellery, like in the jhaalar design, or from flora, like the vine or bel designs. Some tiny motifs are inspired by the moong or lentil, and the zeera or cumin. There are also checks, squares and plain-coloured saris that could have elaborate pallus with embellishments in a contrasting colour, design or embroidery.

Right up to the late 1970s, saris were a rage in Pakistan. Not only did the migrant communities wear this unique, unsewn piece of cloth as daily wear as well as party wear, 'daughters of the soil' also wore it happily and gracefully. The daughter of that full-blooded Pathan - Field Marshall General Mohammad Ayub Khan -, who was always by her father's side for all official functions, usually wore silk saris. These were probably acquired from the east wing of the country, from Dhaka or Rajshahi, which have always been famous for them. Dhaka has also been famous for its muslin and jamdani saris. Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto's wife Nusrat was seldom seen in any other dress but a sari.

Unfortunately, during the last two decades, which included the military rule of Zia-ul-Haq, many things related to beauty, culture and freedom took a nose dive. The 'democratic' set-ups of Benazir Bhutto and Nawaz Sharif did not help matters. The sensuous lengths of the sari were lost in political turmoil and double-standards.

Although the origins of the sari are obscure, it is said that it has been worn in South Asia for the last five thousand years! Four to eight metres of unsewn cloth wrapped around the body was the 'proper thing' to do, as cloth cut and pierced by needles was considered impure. The sari is very much part of our heritage and lifestyle.

The younger generation seems to be waking up to the legend of the sari. On several occasions now, I find a few 'new entrants' in the sari-fashion arena. Sometimes it is obvious that the sari is being worn to show off a heavily embroidered designer blouse or a mini-blouse which clearly says, 'now you see it, now you don't.' Nevertheless, the return of the sari is being noticed. Be it the opulent designer sari or the poor woman's cotton sari - this is one dress which may have to be pleated and tamed, but which continues to make waves!