If only teachers got to wear uniforms. . .

You know we’re scraping the bottom of the blog barrel when I resort to writing about fashion. But we’ve had enough questions that I decided it was time to offer a primer on Indian clothing.

The first thing you must know about Indian clothing is that the colors and patterns are as diverse as the place itself. And understatement isn’t really a feature of the clothing. The brighter the better, the more ornate the more lovely. I’ve not yet braved a sari or a bindi, but we’ll be attending several weddings this month and will try my luck wearing those soon.

I am a convert to the Punjabi suit. I’ve got two now, having twice braved the harrowing shopping experience. Its not exactly fun to have half a dozen people trying to get me to buy one thing, and I find that the clothes I liked at home—ones my sisters and girlfriends often described a boring, sloppy, or (gasp) frumpy--don’t really exist here. In order to make the experience as painless as possible, I tend to gravitate toward the ready-made shops where complete outfits are already assembled, and waiting to be altered by the resident tailor. In a parody of that scene from Pretty Woman where Julia Roberts goes into the boutique and all the ladies start trotting out fancy outfits, here a bunch of desperate looking guys pull getups form the racks and lay them out for my inspection. Some are nice. Some are god-awful. Some have beading. Some have sleeves. But they all have three things in common—the salwar, the kurta, and the dupatta.


The salwar is a giant, one-size-fits-all pair of drawsting pants in a light, airy fabric. They are the best article of clothing ever. Breezy in the Indian heat, cotton—sort of like wearing your favorite pear of worn out pajama pants all day under a dress. That dress is called a kurta and it’s usually a pullover number. The length can vary, but they come down at least as far as mid-thigh. And they’re loose as well—no need to suck your stomach in. The look is completed by the dupatta, a long scarf in silk, cotton, or some other flowing fabric, worn across the neck and chest. Originally this was meant for modesty, but now its merely a really cool accessory. Some of my colleagues at work pin the dupatta in place, but I haven’t thought this far ahead in my early morning dash to get ready and catch my ride. Consequently, the dupatta and I enjoy a contentious relationship wherein it slips around my shoulders, ends up completely imbalanced and generally inspires me to view it as a wild animal rather than a fashion accessory. At least it looks cool. And flipping your dupatta back is something akin to flipping your hair—mysterious, feminine, but annoying after a very short while.

As much as I’m enjoying my tentative forays into Indian dress, my coworkers and students are enjoying it more. Today was the first day I wore the new outfit in the picture. At first I actually enjoyed all their nice compliments—some even suggesting that my love for Punjabi food (more on that later) and now the clothing might make the immigration folks doubt my citizenship by the time this adventure is all over. But when probably the 200th person complimented me on my get up, (without even trying to hide their surprise at the fact that I picked it out myself), I began to realize that maybe they weren’t so keen on the new clothes as they were simply happy that I wasn’t wearing the same pair of pants I’d been wearing three or four times a week for the last six weeks. I can’t blame them.