Fashion Fiasco

This year, Kashi Yatra, was supposed to be one with extra flavour. It was to witness the grandeour of MIRAGE. Or instead, I was to witness it. I always considered a fashion show as a divine, magnum opus affair. I had heard of it, read about it, even gossiped about it, but never seen it. Infact, I didn’t even know what it was. I mean, in a dog-show, dogs walk the stage. Fighter planes soar up at the air show. But, what blessed the fashion show?

‘Models’ is what they told. I believed them to be the likes of Kangana Ranaut and Priyanka Chopra, walking in a way that could give you a serious hip dislocation. ‘No, it’s actually catwalk’. Again some more knowledge poured in from someone. Has catwalk put you in thoughts? Don’t worry, it’s just a misnomer. I got wondering too. Thank GOD!

But then, what the hell was this ‘fashion’. I always believed that it was something to do with wearing clothes. No, not those patched half pants and grimy T-shirts that you and I wear in the hostel. And definitely not those ‘baniyans’ in which some of you walk in the hostel, with a generous display of your well-toned n-pack body. These baniyans actually fail to qualify as clothes after incessant week long usage. Fashion is what models wear or rather whatever they wear.

Off we were to the location where we were greeted by a tumultuous crowd. Those who had solved this fashion dilemma were busy explaining to others. ‘I figured her, the model’, I shouted seeing a pretty lady wearing a skirt that even gave the foggy winter night a chill. “No, she isn’t. They will come at the ramp, there”. A new terminology again! I knew what ‘vamp’ was (well, I sometimes caught those saas-bahu serials mom watches). A long narrow stage glimmering in red-blue-green lights is the ramp, the point of convergence of all eyes.

Oh, it wasn’t the point of convergence of the eyes. It was the point of convergence of all the high spirited( literally) boys out there. Everyone rushed forward for that ‘extra better’ glimpse of god-knows-what. Result, the very next moment we were actually squatting down a la Swades style, a posture which I take every morning to attend nature’s call. This was supposed to be the call of natural beauty.

Then the spotlights came on and lit up the long narrow stage. Down which came a procession of the most emaciated creatures i've ever seen, enveloped in five inch deep make-up. I wondered from where the organisers had got those obvious victims of starvation. No, not those UNICEF ad type victims * ( * Thanks Chetan Bhagat for these lines. Don’t worry, I will write a credit note. I am not Hirani or Vidhu Chopra).

Models? Not famine victims? Weren't they paid enough to eat with? But apparently fashion models are paid - and paid well - not to eat. It's called being Size Zero. I never knew this was fashion. My sense of fashion is wearing anything with those 3 stripes Adidas or Reebok. Whatever the design or quality, the price will bring you admiration and the respect of being well dressed. No, not Nike or Puma, they are still out of my fashion list for they are a bit too expensive. But someday, maybe.

NOTE: The idea for this article has been inspired ( a better word for ‘plagiarised’ :D ) from a source. I also credit Chetan Bhagat for his fantastic novel ‘ 5 Point Someone’ that changed the reading habit of this country. See Chetan, my credit fonts are bigger than Hirani’s.