Adventures of FS
Who is FS,
you may wonder? That’s me – Fabulous Shirt! You may call me by any other name provided
it is complimentary. I suggest Fantastic, Flamboyant, Floral, Fun, Funny, Funky.
Didn’t the Bard say a rose by any other name would smell as sweet?
If you have read the stories of Alice, Tom Sawyer, Mowgli, Harry Potter, and similar; you might think that only humans experience adventure. No, that’s not factual. Read on and enjoy my adventure – a story with a difference!
All those are very interesting but entirely imaginary stories. In one
story, a rabbit takes out a watch from his waist-coat pocket and worries about
getting late; in another, the train leaves from, hold your breath, Platform
number Nine and Three-quarters- 9-3/4[i];
in the jungle story - Sher Khan, Bagheera, Balloo, and all other animals speak;
and Tom, the boy-hero in the other story is drawn upon three boys making him a
fictitious character[ii].
But my adventure is factual, for we shirts tell our life-story as it is, without embellishment or exaggeration. I promise to tell you the
truth, and nothing but the truth.
Let me begin
at the very beginning. I was conceived at the Mumbai workshop of a reputed textile-design
consultant, where the rookie youngster, fresh from NID, had been tasked by the
Master Designer (MD) to create a deck of contemporary, out-of-the-ordinary
designs; and getting a brief three-minute window with the very-busy boss who
seldom smiled, she opened her Tab and swished through her inspired creations.
MD, far from impressed, asked, ‘Which one is your best?’ and when she put it on
the screen, said, ‘Okay, I’ll run it for a trial bundle. We’ll soon get the
market response,’ and dismissed the creator.
At the Chhindwara
factory, the shop-floor workers were rather amused. An unusual design; funky,
isn’t it, how did MD pass it, they wondered?
When I was wrapped
in a bundle and despatched, I had no idea where I was headed and for what use;
unlike my high-brow, cocky, self-assured fellow-travellers in the truck. The 100
per cent Merino-Wool premium suiting knew it was for Made-to-Measure suits by
bespoke tailors for the rich and powerful; and the 100 percent long-staple,
imported Egyptian cotton in Oxford Blue was, of course, for formal shirts.
These worthies gossiped about me for the greater part of the journey.
What’s that
odd bundle for, whispered Merino-Wool to Oxford Blue?
‘Maybe,
drapery, bed-cover, table-runner, or dining napkins,’ guessed Oxford Blue.
I squirmed
at those snide remarks, and wished to reply, ‘How very condescending and
judgemental! What if a gifted artist framed me to hang on designer walls in majestic
mansions; aren’t even simple coloured yarns bunched and framed for five-star
hotels; didn’t someone duct-tape a real, ripe yellow banana on a wall which
sold for an obscene amount in USD[iii]?’
But still unsure about my end-use, I kept quiet. Neither the creator, nor the
MD had given any clue.
Once I
was fed into the totally automated, computer-guided tailoring unit at Bangalore,
and cut to a shirt length; I was delirious with joy, and wanted to shout, ‘Hey,
you, MW and OB; I’m your equal now; so, eat your racist remarks. I feel sorry
for you, MW, for you’re doomed to hang down there licking the shoes, smelling
the shoe-polish and the toilet floor in busy airports whereas I’d always stay
close to his heart, and savour the expensive, delicate perfume. You, OB, would
be perpetually tense, for Snow White and Pale Cream would offer serious
competition, you know.’
I was happy to be a shirt, not just any shirt, but the fashionable FS. Life looked full of promise. I humbly furnish my brief CV at endnotes[iv].
When I reached
a premium brand shop in Bhopal’s popular mall, was unpacked, and displayed at
the most coveted high-visibility rack; I got an instant high – an adrenalin
rush. This is your moment under the fluorescent lights, not unlike a top seductive
model swaying across the dazzling ramp,
and you would soon be launched into the world of haute couture; I said to
myself. I knew I’d be grabbed in no time.
One look at
the old chap who entered the shop with a little limp, I knew he was not my man.
No iPhone 16, no Rolex, not wearing any perfume, haircut by the neighbourhood
barber who charges a very affordable sixty rupees, non-descript footwear, a
pair of semi-faded cotton trousers (whoever wears loose, baggy style now?), and
a cotton shirt with a collar soon-to-fray. Surely, he came by Ola or Uber!
The seasoned
salesman led him to the economy-to-medium range formal wear segment and picked
up two insipid, dull, and drab shirts that would suit his age and income
category. But when the customer pushed aside the recommended shirts, and
pointed a finger at me, with an unmistakable sparkle in his eyes; I was
stunned, speechless, and had a sinking feeling. Am I under a curse, I wondered?
No less surprised
than me, the salesman quickly regained his composure, and brought me down for
him to see, touch, and feel, which he did with indecent pleasure, I think.
Maybe, he’s buying me as a gift for his son occupying a corner room in the head
office of a global company, owns all those goodies that this old crony doesn’t,
plus an Audi, I thought. But when he took me to the changing room, I knew I was
doomed, my fate sealed, and my dream of rising and shining in life cruelly crushed.
He tried,
looked at himself in the mirror, loved what he saw, changed, stepped out of the
trial room, paid for me, and brought me home.
The lady had
been waiting impatiently to check what item had been bought without her
guidance and prior approval via a WhatsApp video call. No sooner did he reach
home, she snatched the shopping bag, and her worst fears were confirmed. She knew
from long years of experience that it was dangerous to permit him to go solo
shopping for he always bought amazingly stupid stuff.
You can’t
wear this at your age, the Dress-Code Nazi ruled.
Why not? I
tried it, looks rather good on me.
Give it to our
son. It’s a shirt for the young.
But this won’t
fit him, he’s taller, and wears 44’’ size.
Then, you
must return it, and exchange it for a shirt that is fit to wear in civilised
company.
They were
packing for a foreign trip, and neither wished a huge spat to ruin their
pre-departure mood; so, they held their guns, and temporary, though uneasy
truce, prevailed.
He put me
inside the wardrobe with a decisiveness that surprised me and stirred a new
hope in me. Inside the wardrobe, I noticed a synthetic batik print, sad and
forlorn at the bottom of a stack of seldom-worn shirts, and asked, ‘Why are you
so sad?’
‘Long story,
but I’ll keep it short, he said. Bought lovingly at Jakarta years ago, I have
never gone out of this dark dungeon except for once when I went to a coffee
shop. The lady was out of town, and being an honourable man, he redeemed his
ancient pledge to wear me to meet interesting people. I know he’d again take me
out when similar opportunities present themselves in future; that’s why he has
not allowed the lady to give me away to a servant.’
Later in the
evening when the lady stepped out for a stroll, he put me on, clicked a quick selfie,
and posted it in the family WhatsApp group.
‘Hi Guys,
what do you think of my new shirt? Its fate hangs in balance. Current votes –
Aye: 1, No – 1. Quick votes, pls. Within minutes, four heart emojis floated in.
Status - Ayes: 5, No –1.
I heaved a
sigh of relief, having narrowly escaped the ignominy of rejection, return, and
everlasting shame. He may be old, but that was smart strategy and swift action,
I admitted grudgingly.
My debut was
special; not in Bhopal - a small, sleepy, laid-back provincial town ridiculed for its parda (veil), zarda (tobacco), and garda (dust) - but at Baku
Marriott Boulevard, Azerbaijan; and he received so many compliments, mostly
from ladies, that he could not help preening. I concede that he wore me with
elan and even said cheekily, ‘A lovely shirt, sits well on a naturally handsome
person!’
I knew the
compliments were for me, but I let that pass. I only wished to tell Merino-Wool
and Oxford Blue, ‘ Hey guys, were you launched in any exotic destination? Hope,
sometime you may also enjoy a foreign trip!’
They’re my
own kind, so I made no acerbic, hurtful comments.
[i] In the Harry Potter series, the Hogwarts Express
departs from Platform 9 3/4, which is invisible to Muggles. To reach the
platform, you walk through the wall between platforms 9 and 10.
[ii] Mark Twain (Samuel Langhorne Clemens) mentions this
in his Preface to ‘The Adventures of Tom Sawyer’, 1876.
[iii] “This viral banana artwork on sale again — and it
could now be worth $1.5 million.”
Italian artist Maurizio
Cattelan's "Comedian," a conceptual artwork comprising a banana stuck
to a wall with duct tape, had been sold for $120,000 in 2019, and is up for
auction again, reported CNN on Oct 25, 2024.
[iv] Brief CV of Fabulous Shirt (FS)
Style: Jeanswear
Material: Cotton-60%,
Linen-40%
Colour: a little more
robust than Flame of Forest, and a little less loud than screaming vermillion
red
Print Design:
Upon the body
base-colour of flamboyant red was printed, on one side only, an intricate
pattern of tiny tendrils a few of which ended with a little dark green leaf. The rookie designer’s
creative work!
Washing Instruction:
Separate wash; machine cold-wash; gentle detergents; no scrubbing with hard
brush; to dry, hang inside-out in shade.
