An Indian Woman of Colours

“Culture is a matrix of infinite possibilities and choices...from within [which] we can extract arguments and strategies for the degradation or ennoblement of our species, for its enslavement or liberation, for the suppression of its productive potential or its enchantment, for the stagnation of social existence or its renewal.” 
-Wole Soyinka, playwright, novelist, poet and Nobel laureate.

Before one section of the electorate begins claiming that saffron might become the It colour of the decade for Indians, let me put down on record how I, as a fashion-forward Indian woman, select my favourite incumbent hues. Or what, in fact, influences my choice of dress as I flip through the sets and separates in my wardrobe, looking for something to match my mood and the occasion, before I am gone for the day to do my thing. 

Today, a woman’s “thing” is fortunately not frowned upon anymore, though I know that we still try hard not to throw glances at the door that shuts out the home and hearth, even as we rush to reach our clinics, studios, schools, offices, courts, or whatever space fills us with self-worth. My mother’s own self-worth was determined by the hours she spent threading needles and hitting the bullseye every time, all from the living-room couch. Her needle created quilts with immaculate precision, and as each patch got added, a multicoloured tapestry began to meander over the upholstery of the couch, as if it were developing a second skin. 

My mother never knew much about colour trends. For each patch, she went solely with her gut. My gut, on the other hand, must have gotten seriously damaged while I gorged on information about how the international fashion industry dressed. Ironically, I must confess that I don’t sweat too much over making sartorial selections, since 50 per cent of my current wardrobe is black anyway. This was actually an insidious form of erasure. An act undertaken to remain unseen or a necessity to conform to the dark suits of the corporate world for the sake of a career and personal fulfilment.

I also have to admit that I do track the Pantone colour of each year; who doesn’t in a profession that follows runway shows and designer collections obsessively? One that gets bombarded with press releases from brands that dictate what’s in fashion and what’s not. When these global brands began occupying our real estate, did we ever think to ask them, “Do you know what Indian women actually wear?” or “What is the identity of the Indian women you are trying to accessorise and dress?” 

After the campaign for the 2024 Lok Sabha election is over, the fashion police will most likely need to enlighten international luxury brands not to assume that saffron is the trademark colour of Indians, and that it was originally donned by Indian men and women when they chose to renounce the world. Sadhus and saints, pirs (spiritual guide) and pandits donned geru-coloured (red ochre-coloured) robes as a statement that they were taking on the spiritual life in lieu of maya (the illusion that is the material world). Saffron was more symbolic of a lifestyle. Hence the singular adoption of one statement colour such as saffron would certainly have a negative impact on Hermès Birkin and Fendi Baguette sales in India.

So even though Diana Vreeland proclaimed that “pink is the navy blue of India”, we are mostly quite happy to dispel any efforts to impose a dye dictatorship and the monotony of a monotone pick. For the Indian fashion sensibility, so is jamun purple and haldi yellow and tota or parrot green. The palette in our wardrobes is a vibrant kaleidoscope even as the LBD continues to bring the comfort of sameness and predictability to urban and urbane folk. Colour is our secret weapon. More than just the brilliant bridal red or vermillion sindoor that carry with them the stamp of tradition. 

For centuries, Indian women have adopted the use of strong hues as their ultimate power statements. In every corner of the country, we notice a democratic use of colour, an area where prejudices do not muddy the textiles or fabrics of dressing and life.      

From indigo blue to the madder crimson red of Ajrakh prints and the oranges and pinks of bandhnis and leheriyas to the explosion of colours in our weaving and hand-painting traditions, colour has always been important in an Indian woman’s closet. They portray and evoke emotions as we see in the Ragamala paintings of yesteryears. Like the yellow, green or golden saris that symbolise fertility and prosperity and sensuality in Maharashtrian weddings or the white mundus with gold borders worn on Onam, all colours are often representative of promises and occasions.  

However, that is not all. From our weaving to embroidery to natural dyeing and block-printing traditions, colour combinations that put haute couturiers from around the world to shame have been a trademark of our clothes. Neon pinks paired with flaming oranges or reds, greens and yellows mixed together — our bodies become a painter’s palette. And so, the next time I step out in my jamun purple Raw Mango sari married with a tota green blouse, I will own the idea of colourblocking with indigenous pride. I wonder if Daniel Lee, under whom Bottega Veneta introduced the “Bottega green” — one of the most popular colours in 2021 — knew the irony behind calling the shade Parakeet. 

A picture of Adivasi women, who dance on every significant occasion, recently caught my eye for the vibrancy of colours, weaves and prints that were apparent in their clothing. The photograph did not reveal their faces but the combined use of colour in all their saris conveyed more about their solidarity and sense of group power than any spoken words or expressions could have. Most of our handloom craft techniques — be it the hand-painted kalamkari, Bagh block print, patola and ikat weave, dabu and indigo dyeing or embroideries —  visible in our saris and textiles bring out the interplay of colour through threads and natural dyes. An earthy rainbow of colours extracted from flowers, fruits, vegetables and minerals — such as indigo-blue, madder-magenta, turmeric-yellow and pomegranate-red — have become modern-day staples for urban women for whom the connection to Indian roots and heritage has a strong pull. Call it revivalism or coming full circle. Are we getting more comfortable in our own skin? Is this a sign of a renewed sense of desi pride? Being sustainable and eco-friendly were aspects of our regional practices way before the ideas became fashionable. It is well known that clothes — as well as fashion trends — do create a sense of belonging, unity and promote collective identity. 

The normally Gucci- and Sabyasachi-clad Alia Bhatt also appearing on the ’gram in a timeless crimson-and-blue Ajrakh block-print sari with a shoulder-baring blouse is an example of owning who we are — a refined blend of the notions of both East and West. Or rather, of the traditional combined with the contemporary.      

Many Indian actors have given us iconic looks which have defined their individuality. The most obvious is Rekha’s ruthless devotion to the shimmering kanjeevaram sari which catapulted her to the spotlight at the Mumbai Dior show last year, overshadowing fashionistas strutting in expensive and figure-hugging haute couture. The sexy swing of her pallu (the loose end of a sari) as she posed for the paparazzi conveyed a sense of abandon, even if it was a quintessential moment of acting. 

The Indian woman has a range of choices that allows her to play with her identity, we have the freedom in the diversity of our sartorial legacies to introduce that smidgen of “me” that no little black dress will ever provide. Black is not a default colour for us, as for centuries we have chosen to use the power of colour to rise above and beyond the veils of darkness. 

What outsiders sometimes see as loud and tacky have found their homes back in the closets of millions of Indian women because they are more than just colours; they are our history, our traditions and our emotions. Perhaps we Indians do wear our emotions on our sleeves. Saffron or black uniforms, singled out, never belonged in our closets and perhaps the fear of any one colour representing a nation with one of the largest and richest textile histories in the world is a shame.

Is it a blot? We blindly ape the West until the onset of summer, when the smell of ripe mangoes wafts into our memories and reminds us that the green shot with red as seen in the manthulir or tender mango leaf is an awakening of nostalgia of the Indian rasa (flavour), be it represented in the two-toned kanjeevaram sari weave or the dhoop-chhaaon (the arrangement of light and dark shades) fabrics sold by the yard at Mumbai’s Mangaldas market. 

For me this year, when I indulge in my annual closet cleanse, no guesses for which part of my wardrobe will get a makeover. Out with the all-blacks, and since renunciation is still not on the agenda for me, no to head-to-toe saffron hegemony either. In 2024, I need to fearlessly transform myself into a complete 100 per cent Indian woman of many colours. I didn’t realise that a stylistic revamp would help me to forge a stronger sense of identity and serve as such a staunch reminder of my roots. 

So, this year as I stepped into the electoral booth, I pressed the party symbol of my choice with a certain self-awareness and the hope that as an Indian woman, I can take charge of my own destiny, just as I had of my personal renewal.