Fashionista fantasy

At 13 and 14, we only had to mention the names of a few ladies and everyone in Colombo’s small society in the 1950s knew whom we meant.

“Wasn’t Shakuntala lovely in the papers today?” we sighed to each other.

“Anney, Sundari’s sari is what I want to wear one day,” said Mo.

Cheri was the sports fan: “You should have seen Ena’s outfit at the Police-Army rugger match. It beat the other two, no?”

These three ladies were the fashionistas of 70 years ago… and they were our icons.

“Do you think we’ll ever look like this?” we would ask our mothers longingly, studying the latest pictures in the fashion pages of the daily newspapers.

Mothers would look at the beautiful ladies dressed in silk saris, hair upswept, standing regally erect and looking perfectly groomed. They would then switch their gazes to our tousled manes, crushed dresses and dusty shoes.

We were schoolgirls after all, and it took a great deal of imagination to see us as even reasonably presentable adults. Parents tried not to shudder at the thought that very soon, we would be demanding saris (and cholis) and probably high heels.

They were right. It came sooner than expected. That first sari was chosen, colour decided upon, blouse tailored by dear Mr. Chandiram’s establishment – the mecca for all mothers with teenage daughters. Options weren’t ours. ‘But Mother, I don’t like yellow!” I’d wail. “Yellow is your colour,” Mr. C. would decree. He was right, of course. But who wanted to look girlish?

Mr. C was busy chatting to the tailor about the sari blouse.

“Now take the measurement from shoulder to waist.”

“But I want a little midriff showing – please, Mr. C?”

Mr. Chandiram looked appalled.

“At your age? What ideas you are having, child!”

My friends and I were all in the same sorry state. In light pastel colours, we resembled a muted rainbow. Our parents were mightily pleased.

“So sweet, no?” they told each other at whatever function all of us happened to be together. Sari blouses were cut to meet the waistline. Fathers looked at us happily. We bided our time.

It so happened that after my first term in university, I had the latest blouse style made up for me in Bombay (now Mumbai).

Saris were cheap in India; so trusting me to shop carefully, I was allowed to buy three cottons on my own. The cholis were supposed to be the usual modest effort. But I had other ideas. The styles at the time were high necks in front and plunging cholis at the back (tied with two narrow strings).

My first holiday home came a year later. As I got off the little Air Ceylon plane looking suitably mature and terribly modest in that highnecked choli, my father was happy. He turned to my mother and said approvingly: “I knew university would be good for her.” This was as I approached him.

Seeing me walk away from him caused my father to come as near to a stroke as he ever did. He gasped and choked, and had to be supported to the car. Fortunately he could not drive and my mother did the chauffeuring.

I sat demurely in the backseat waiting for the tirade to begin.

“What on earth are you up to?”

“Why, Daddy?”

He choked again.

“I did not send you to college to learn all this nonsense!”

“What nonsense, Daddy?”

“Tell her,” he told my mother – who had shown no particular surprise or approval at my unexpected fashion statement until then.

‘Well, dear,” she said to my spluttering sire: “She is nearly 18 you know and can make her own decisions about clothes.”

“Gee thanks, Mother!” I hadn’t quite expected this support.

“Just one thing, dear,” continued Mother: “Wear whatever you like while in college but that choli goes into storage while you are in Colombo.”

My dream icon Shakuntala remained a dream.