My favourite tabloid pictures are of fashionable celebrities and their equally chichi kids. Think of Katie Holmes and Suri Cruise,the impossibly good-looking mum-girl duo who can launch a thousand fashion blogs. Or lately Victoria Beckham and her youngest cutie,Harper Seven. A recent picture showed Harper on dad David Beckhams lap,with Anna Icy Wintour cooing at her helplessly. Angelina Jolie and her team are photographed in every developing nation. While Jennifer Garner looks far more modish with her kids than she does with Ben Batman Affleck. Mothers and daughters are actually the relationships that are made in heaven. Our mums are our first fashion icons. We dress to look like them. We slip into their stilettos as little girls,swipe their lipsticks when no ones looking,covet their Chorosch saris,Elizabeth Arden perfumes and bejewelled minaudieres as soon as we are in our teens. Almost every fashion designer will tell you his interest in dressing up women came from watching his mother at her dressing table. To stretch from Dr Freud,our fashion choices are often shaped by our mums. Sometimes,they are shaped because of them. Sometimes,we veer in entirely opposite directions. In many cases,mothers are daughters are relationships made in hell. Such is the case with my mother and me. Of course,I love my mother and promise to be as dutiful as is possible. But she is singularly my least favourite dresser. She adores colour; the brighter the more joyous. I protested her loud tastes by filling my wardrobe with blacks and whites for most of my teenage years. I even wore a matte grey lehenga for a family wedding once,thanks to a nod from my ever-spoiling grandmum. My mother cant have enough shimmer in her clothes. I prefer subtler embroideries,or more western and stylised cuts. You dont know whats in fashion, she still reprimands me,despite my decade-and-a-half in the business. While I refuse to wear what everyone is wearing. We even look unrelated. Shes fair and green-eyed,and short and pudgy. Im tall,gangly and as brown as the sun can make me. Being a Gujarati,she has a natural propensity for local embroideries and patterns. As much as I appreciate the hours and days that go into making a Patan Patola,I just find it too busy for my liking. My investment pieces are vintage buys from France or fatto a mano leathers from Italy. She doesnt particularly care for fashion designers,except Pallavi Jaikishen (a fellow Gujarati). She finds them all too expensive even though Mrs Jaikishens gorgeous embroideries cost just the same. Our fash clash is at its peak these days as we are shopping for my brothers upcoming nuptials. We cant agree to agree on anything. Its only when I see her and my new sister-in-law talk fabric and local retailers,I am filled with pangs of jealousy. My mum pulls out her favourite old saris,some of which are close to tattering,and lovingly restores them into trendy kurtas for my new sister. She takes her to her favourite haunts in Bhuleshwar and Matunga to buy borders and doodads. Suddenly,Im reminded of how she would perfectly pleat my saris and had taught me the same. Or her bits of ridiculous fashion advice,like this gem: If you want to be taken seriously,wear lipstick. Im beginning to appreciate how close her ear is to the ground where street style is concerned. Im beginning to understand DIY fashion. Im willing to browse the bazaars. Until she pulls out a pink-gold anarkali she wants to wear for one of the ceremonies. The outdated,overdone tribute to Mughal fashion that only Sonam Kapoor or Deepika Padukone should be allowed to wear. This is where I draw the line. namratanow@gmail.com
