Now here’s a nice point to ponder, worthy of Mulla Nasruddin’s wit. Last Saturday, the hon’ble prime minister of India invited the Capital’s women journalists to tea at 7, Race Course Road, on the occasion of International Women’s Day. I knew I had to forego the treat, since the day’s deadlines had me by the heel. So I dressed for the trenches in casual western clothes. But it was fun to hear the reactions. “Are you going like that?” said a shocked senior, herself impeccably turned out in a sari. A foreign correspondent disclosed that she and her colleagues were having their hair and nails done. Meanwhile in bureaus across town, seniors scolded juniors for dressing casually. Some of the younger ones revealed that there had been arguments at home with Mum about what to wear to meet the PM. More information trickled in from other journals on who was wearing what. Debates raged between sari factions and salwar-kameez factions. Everyone agreed that not only was it important to do our respective publications proud but that, irrespective of one’s feelings about the present government, it was the office of the PM that one honoured by dressing “properly”. Finally, a chronically grumpy male colleague snorted, “Aisa lag raha hai ki sab ladka dekhne jaa rahen hain”. (It seems everyone’s going to “see” a boy), which raised a good-natured laugh. The argument swung back and forth between generations, clinched by the valid point that dressing right honoured both the host and guest and oiled the wheels of civilisation. What do our deities think, in case the matter teases you? We don’t have any literary memoirs to go by on their sartorial preferences but, boy, do we like dressing them up, even if it’s really camp stuff like tiger skins, skull malas and body ash. Endless stutis to various deities sometimes read like wardrobe and vanity case inventories. My absolute favourite is Adi Shankara’s description of Ardhanishwar: Champeya gauraartha sharira kaya/ Karpoora gauraartha sharira kaya/ Damilla kayecha jatadharayecha/ Namas Shivaayai cha Namas Shivaya. Loosely translated as “Whose womanly side smells of champaka/Whose manly side wafts camphor/Whose beautiful body is crowned with a matted knot/ To Shivaai-Shiva I bow. Or else, take Part One of that national favourite: Yakundendu tushara hara dhavala ya shubra vastra vruta/Ya veena varadanda manditakara ya shweta padmasana. Who is garlanded by water spray white as the moon and kunda blossoms and covered in white garments/Whose jewelled hands hold a lute, who is seated on a white lotus. Saraswati Ma obviously likes it, since Indians are listed in the world’s five smartest tribes by Joel Kotkin. But meanwhile, on behalf of those who skipped the PM’s party: they’re very, very sari.
