The Sound of Muses

Talking of embroidery, Ritu Kumar would love the viper in my garden. She is a majestic specimen with fabulous skin patterns of yellow, green, brown and gold. I rarely see her, but the cats often play ‘catch’ with her. I know her gender because one day the seamstresses knocked me over running out after discovering three baby vipers in the studio.

Their skins had none of their mother’s brilliance. The beautiful scales, which would serve as excellent inspiration for Ritu’s next splendid creation, were not yet formed. I called my faithful Vinayak and we let the babies loose in the neighbour’s plot. This neighbour, who stole the plot of land in front of my house from the government and built an ugly wall around it, has little idea about the three Ritu Kumar inspirations lurking among his coconut trees.

I christened the viper Ruffles. She became a fuchsia pink organza flower on Walusha D’Souza at my next show. Likewise, the elegantly slim green snake which wraps itself around the branches of the Alphonso mango was so fascinating that I created a crystal collar for Bipasha Basu for a Lakme ad at the time. If Bips knew of the inspiration, she would’ve let out a full volume Bengali shriek.

I belted out a Goan howl when Napoleon chewed up a rich Turkish kilim carpet (a la Abu-Sandeep’s kilim collection of yore) in the salon. Mario and Habiba Miranda gifted me this boxer pup that conquered my heart immediately. To borrow a description from Madhu Sapre about Milind Soman’s eyes, Napoleon has the sweetest monkey eyes (and Milind’s physique to match). We now call him Nap (my French partner Jerome feels insulted that I could name a dog after such an illustrious Frenchman). Nap chewed up a fringed crystal bag inspired by the sequinned string of raindrops falling from coconut leaves. Then he got to the tailors’ fish curry lunch. The resulting image created ripped net trousers a month later.

I’ve restrained myself from a flurry of dots on my creations as yet. Coco and Whoopie, Dalmations from the same litter as Remo’s Domino, have been in residence at Casa Dona Maria for a while now. Sometimes, they break out into a model’s fight—they go nail and fang at each other’s throats. After their energy is spent, they falsely kiss and make up. Deep in their Dalmatian hearts they are very jealous of Garbo, my mother’s pet Daschund who holidays with us while my mother is on holiday (roughly eight months a year).

Garbo has eyes that would give Aishwarya a complex—pools of limpid beauty that win everyone over. Garbo’s friends, because of her height, are the five cats that prowl around the house—Simba, Sher Khan, Socks, Cleo and Catherine. I interact with them like I do with other designers—rarely.

Simba is more of a dog than a cat. When he isn’t chasing squirrels, birds and rats among the guava trees, he is an affection hog. Everyone in the studio is obliged to pet and pamper him. Like a well-connected fashion choreographer, he demands respect.

Like early morning clouds that kiss the earth during my 6 am jog, inspiration and designs begin to swirl in my head only during the wee hours of dawn. Then I can see the last fireflies flutter away, the wild peacocks that startle me and the lines of quail families who lead Nap on a wild quail chase. Without them knowing it, they all become garments.

When I am through with my yoga, I admire the 20-odd varieties of feathered friends who visit my garden every morning. Their plumage and graceful aerodynamics inspire a world of seams and silhouettes.

When the day’s work is done, Vasanti comes to clean the studio. As she swirls her mop around the sewing machine, she dishes out the dirt on the village of Colvale. I learn through this evening gazette, who’s having an affair and the price of mackerels at the riverside bazaar. As she talks, I decide between a long sleeve or short, if we should begin an affair with print and whether we should include jersey in the new Oceania collection for my India Fashion Week 2005 show.

When I’ve finally cleared my desk for the day, I sip champagne in the bougainvillaea-covered patio and have a meal of creamy cauliflower soup and crumb-fried aubergine slices, followed by a sliver of layered Bibinca cake. In my mind’s eye, I do a champagne sparkling bubble stole, creamy crepe tunic, textured palazzos and layers of chiffon and denim that Deepika Padukone will wear at the IFW.

Who says I am not living on fashion’s fast lane?