As I write this, my son is probably getting a toga stitched somewhere on the roadside in Pune, which will be the first non-branded piece of clothing he will ever wear in his lifetime of a score and one years. And it is, even by the lax standards of his generation, an extraordinary piece of garment for a young man to want to wear.
The first inkling I had that my son wanted to dress in drag was when he bleated over the phone asking where he could buy himself a toga. “Perhaps a theatre company,” I suggested unwillingly but helpfully, but when I asked him why he was looking for a grown-up man’s frock, he said he was invited to a party at a pub where the dress code stated: “Toga only!”
“You could wear a kurta,” I counselled, “and tie a sash around the waist.” “Dad,” wailed my son, “I’m supposed to look Roman and imperial, not like a down-at-the-heels farmer.” “It’s alright,” I said, “you can’t take a dress code too seriously. Besides, everyone will probably land up in jeans-and-tees, and you’ll only look silly beside them.” But he insisted that entry was strictly by toga, so like it or not, he’d find a way to wear one since he’d set his heart on attending a party where all the men would be in gowns.
Since he’d nixed the kurta thing, I suggested he might want to style a dressing gown into a lookalike toga, but he said that wasn’t an option since the togas he’d seen in Hollywood versions of Roman goings-on were garments without sleeves. He turned down the offer of investing in the garment women call a caftan — provided he could find such a thing in Pune — on the grounds that it was too feminine. “And a toga is not?” I asked, but we were back to his “dress code or nothing” business, so I abandoned that track. Nor did he take kindly to the thought that if he were to borrow a friend’s skirt, or even a petticoat, and top it off with a t-shirt, he’d pass muster.
Clear in his mind that I wasn’t likely to be helpful, he asked, “This toga thing is just a sheet with holes, right?” “I suppose,” I hesitated, “but I hope you aren’t planning to cut up the bed sheets your mother just got for you.” “Don’t be silly, dad,” he retorted, “I’ll buy some new sheets and make a dress of it.” “I do hope you’re planning on getting it stitched,” I ventured. “What for?” he asked, “I’ll just cut a hole for the head and that’s it.” I made him promise that he’d find a tailor somewhere who’d stitch and hem and style the toga before he set off in it for his party, and he agreed, though reluctantly.
“Make sure the sides are properly tucked in, you don’t want to catch a cold,” I told him. “What are you suggesting” he threw back, “I’ll have my jeans on underneath, and a shirt.” “Son,” I put it to him, “the Romans wore togas because they didn’t have jeans and stuff.” “You mean I shouldn’t wear any trousers below the garment?” he asked. “The last time I looked,” I assured him, “the Romans didn’t either.” “I suppose I won’t then,” he sighed, “though it’ll be hell riding the motorbike in a frock.”
He called back then to say, “I’ll have on my boxers — that’s allowed, right?” “I don’t know anyone who’s done research on Roman undergarments,” I told him, “but the Romans didn’t wear boxers for sure.” Something tells me my son’s not as keen to attend the party anymore — or at least not togged out in a toga.
