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Shorter Route to India: Barcelona Fashion Week - Sunny Singh Sunny Singh was born in Varanasi. She received her education in various parts of India and the world. She has worked as a journalist, teacher, and as a management executive for multinationals in Mexico, Chile and South Africa. For the last four years, she has been writing full-time. She is also a playwright. Her first play, Birthing Athena, focussed on evolving relationships and the price of ambition in post-liberalisation India. The Times of India described the play as "an intensely cathartic experience." Her first novel, Nani's Book of Suicides, had been published by Harper Collins Publishers India. Described by the Hindustan Times as a "first novel of rare scope and power," the novel explores the cultural identity of an Indian woman through a fund of myths, family lore and contemporary reality. Her second book, Single in the City: The independent woman's handbook was released on Dec 22, 2000 by Penguin India. Visit Sunny Singh's website at: http://www.sunnysinghwrites.com/

The first part of February saw the kick off of the official Barcelona Fashion Week, with leading designers organising showings of their latest collections. And while I am not a major follower of fashion trends, I was intrigued particularly by the publicity for one particular collection. A collection titled Bollywood Dreams, whose promotional material featured a dark haired woman in a purple diaphanous outfit (that even Urmila Matondkar would not wear) with heavy gold jewellery.

Upon a little asking about I discovered that the collection’s designer, Ricardo Ramos, was originally from Columbia, and had chosen to live in Barcelona. Our first meeting threw up some interesting revelations. It turned out that we had friends in common, particularly Maria Clara Betancur, the daughter of the former president of his country, and until recently, the super-efficient, charming ambassador of Columbia in New Delhi. As things go, finding such common links is always fortuitous. In this case, it got me a VIP invitation for the show.

For his part, Ricardo had one special request. He wanted me to wear a sari to the event. In all honesty, since I would be one of his many guests, it hardly mattered what I wore. On the other hand, I have long realised the value of a well-draped sari when competing with hyper-expensive western clothing. A beautifully woven tanchoi draped well can knock the haute-est of haute couture from Paris or Milan for a six. Of course, sadly enough, the western eye can’t see past the basics when it comes to the sari.. So a Paithani is pretty wasted at such events.

Now, the interesting part of wearing a sari in a city like Barcelona is noting the reactions one evokes from the natives. The general reaction at the cocktails preceding the fashion show was of acute curiosity. I found myself being stared at, regardless of the gender, age or sexual orientation of the person. And being singled out for attention.

On the road, trying to find a cab to reach the show, the reactions were even more extreme. One poor man seemed to screech to a halt to stare. During the course of the evening, I realised that I was being singled out for an inordinate amount of male attention. Since I have no misconceptions about my looks, I became increasingly bemused. Until I realised that the attention was not for me (I even checked a mirror in case I had suddenly turned into Sushmita Sen and hadn’t noticed). It was the sari that was the centre of attention.

The sari apparently feeds in strongly into some sort of Orientalist fantasy. And for the western male, there appears to be no stronger lure than that of nine yards of silk draped around a female form. I have tried to analyze this. And the only explanation I find is linked to scarcity. Since Indian women are perceived by the average European male as somehow "unattainable" and "beyond reach" due to social, cultural and historical reasons, the idea of an sari-clad Indian woman is an irresistible attraction.. And, in any case, there is at least some truth in such a perception, since Indian society is still, for most part, closed to the foreigner.

During my childhood in Varanasi, I don’t remember speaking to any foreign traveller to India. Some American exchange students and a French teacher at the Banaras Hindu University were the only representatives of the non-Indian world that we interacted with. Visiting scientists or musicians were the other kind. And these interactions were limited to formal dinners or lunches, where we were told to be polite. And our guests were at pains to fit in with the Banarasi traditions of hospitality.

We never spoke to the thousands of foreign travellers that flocked to the city each year. If a particularly large group of the backpacking hippie types showed up at the temple next door, we were firmly called into the house by the elders. "Pagal firangi" was the term that was generally applied, and held disdain, contempt, distaste and fear in equal measures.

The term was based partly in the historical memory of colonization. But also partly in the patently disrespectful behaviour that many of the tourists exhibited (and still do). They seemed to want to be a National Geographic photographer, and treated Indians in a dehumanised, subjectivised form. They would perch all over the temples to photograph family rituals. At my brother’s mundaan ceremony, my uncle had to firmly request a group of Germans to refrain from photographing what was essentially a private, family ritual.

On another memorable occasion, one grieving family who had driven to Banaras to cremate their loved one at the Marnakarnika ghat nearly shot one rather persistant tourist from France. Only the quick thinking of a nearby priest managed to defuse the situation.

As a result of such childhood memories, I have to constantly explain to people I meet in the West that I would most probably not speak to them in India. And mind you, not for any reason of snobbery or even tradition. In the politest terms, I try to explain that most foreign backpackers are seen, even today, as curious creatures almost from another planet by a large number of Indians.

I remember growing up in Varanasi when it was still infested with hippies, predominantly from Europe. They seemed to be perpetually unbathed, smelly, clad in the most ragged of clothes, and often drugged. They would gather on the ghats, before an enormous mural of Nataraj at sun-down to drop "acid" and "find nirvana." They stayed in the most rundown filthy hovels that were supposed to be the "trendiest" spots on the international backpacking circuits. And they went into temples to take pictures of mundane yet sacred activities, to the ghats to watch the ritual ablutions, and worst of all, photograph the cremation ceremonies.

Three decades later, things haven’t changed much. Tourists still prefer to see the "authentic" India, which mostly requires travelling through the well-beaten tourist route through Rajasthan, Varanasi, Khajuraho, and ending up in Goa. Even those who wander off this route prefer to travel through "the real India" in the back of beyond in Tamil Nadu and Andhra Pradesh, instead of taking in the growing urban wonders of Bangalore, Pune or Nariman Point. These parts of India with their trendy bars, fashionably clad young people, and most importantly, increasing economic prosperity are apparently "not Indian enough."

Not surprisingly, paths of such travellers almost never cross with any middle-class Indian. They prefer to search for the "authentic" India, which as we all know, is a euphemism for the dirtiest, most miserable, poverty stricken aspect of the land. Even the musical "goshthees" of Benaras, or the night long classical concerts that form the basis of that city’s ancient cultural heritage aren’t considered "authentic" enough by this brand of traveller.

At one of these, I remember having George Harrison being pointed out at one night-long concert nearly two decades ago. He sat quietly on the floor, with the rest of the audience, leaning against the white masnads, clad in a simple kurta-pajama. At the time, the name had meant very little to me. But I have always cherished that memory of my first encounter with a "non-pagal firangi."

And now, once again, when I am faced with them in their own land, I am intrigued, bemused, often frustrated, not by what the Europeans don’t know, but what they don’t want to know about India. And over and over again, I am forced to ask myself, if like Columbus who never arrived in India, the European – after so many centuries of contact - will also never find his way to India.

Till we connect again...

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