Showing posts from March, 2009

Fashion in New India

Fashion, as we know it today, had its origins in the French empire of Louis XIV. In Paris of the seventeenth century, the ladies of Versailles outdid one another in creating and being seen in extraordinary and exclusive clothes and ‘La Mode’ and ‘Couture’ were born. To many it seems frivolous in a developing country, but fashion gives a unique peek into the social trends and the follies or the tastes of the rich.
The Indian fashion scene has changed dramatically. The fashion shows give a good glimpse into what the business is going through and what the trends are. I went to the Delhi fashion week recently and found very interesting contrasts with the fashion events five to ten years back.
The big change is that fashion is more accessible. Earlier, the shows were populated by a westernized audience in their twenties or thirties. Today, the shows attract all age groups reflecting the romance of fashion even with mature age groups.
The second change is in the models. The models earlier wer…

Rian, A Song for My Son

I was so elated when my son was born and this is what I wrote when he was nine months old. What is interesting is that , I still feel the same after so many years.


Into the flickering lamp of my existence,
You glided in gently,
You created a wavering in the fabric of light and darkness,
And everything changed.

In your unquenchable thirst for life,
You seem like the energy of the Brahmaputra flowing into the sea,
You are my explosive desire to embrace the sky of hope.

And you pluck my hair like it is a bunch of flowers from divinity,
When you touch my face with your tiny, innocent fingers;
You bring the rivulets of pure water,
Of immortality and sunshine, into my life;
Nothing remains the same anymore.

And I want to fight for clean water and fresh air,
I want to jump at joy.

Who said, you are an infant, weak and dependent;
Who said, you will grow up and be like a star in the firmament of life;
To me, you already are the lone star: Rian, my son.

A Poem Dug Out

A diary is an interesting tool to rediscover your past. If you are lucky, you might even understand it a little better. Rummaging through my old diary, I came upon this poem I had written eight years back.

Holy and Grey Ganga

On the road, virgins and the rest look alike,
Sometimes the virgins weep and the others are smiling.
Sometimes the others clutch at their sad and used breasts,
And the virgins dream of riding galloping horses.
It is the strangeness of a magenta and black.

The orange of the horizon is the blood of the Aztecs,
The spires of the Kandariya Mahadev echo the cries of a tortured artisan,
And the inseparable story of joy and tragedy continues.

And in the frontier of light and darkness,
Where Gods and demons dance and caress each other,
Where the wrath of a Rama and the fury of a Ravana,
Coalesce into a tragic stab on my heart,
I look for the purple prose of your blood.

And in the forest of emotions of the earth,
In the holy and grey Ganga,
I look for my dream amid the corpses. (10th July…