It all boils down to what we put on our backs. I wanted to be a feminist. It wasn’t possible with the kind of clothes I owned. Being a communist was tough too, thanks to the number of clothes I own.
It is not just my hoarding head that has created an avalanche of clothes that attack me en masse, especially when I clean my cupboard. First, I blame my lack of a single station. I had lived at many places with varied geographical conditions, like a port city where cotton clothes were the norm. Then, I shifted to Bangalore, where I spent my best years in beautiful sweaters. Then I came to Bombay, a place where anything you wear gets crumpled in the train.
To make my life easier, I have broadly classified my wardrobe into the following categories:
Too awesome to wear, anywhere
Yes, even with my meager salary I have managed to buy good clothes. Thanks to sales, savings and installment payment options on credit cards. When something is too pretty to wear, it probably is. I try them on at home in front of the mirror. As soon as I think of stepping outside, I see flashes of stomping women in the trains and mud splashing from the all-season potholes. “One day,” I tell myself, “I will own a car.” Alas! It could never happen. There are no 50% discounts or clearance sales on cars in spite of a glimmer of hope from General Motors’ bankruptcy. My savings couldn’t buy a car tire, and my emergencies-only credit card was whisked away (as soon as I started working).
Gifted to eternity
Some people give gifts that last forever. I have been blessed with many such well-wishers who have loaded my wardrobe. They shall last forever, because I will never wear. The colours that love comes in, varies from Rani pink to fluorescent green to various fecal shades. Though I hate the materialistic American tradition of registering for gifts very annoying, I do see a lot of logic. Psst! I was once gifted a hideous dress by a boyfriend. A witty me had convinced him that I should wear it for ‘his eyes only’. Lo behold, the line worked.
Formidable formals
My profession does not obligate me to wear formals. Reporters walk into press conferences in torn jeans, especially the cool ones. A vain antithesis of me had purchased a few hoping to make me look serious and well-read in interviews (both for jobs and reporting purposes). It has not been raining job interview calls. When I go to interview someone, I am too busy with the questionnaire and in a hurry to reach on time, that I never end up pressing my ‘good’ shirts. Many of them await their elusive debut.
In spite of the troubles they cause, I shall never neither give them away, throw them nor use them as mops. In their excesses, they define me—neurotic, indecisive and well-dressed (rare occasions only). Also, I like living in close quarters to all my troubles.
