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ESSAY
Protocol Breeches
Jawaharlal
Nehru imposed his own style as the national dress. Society didn't accept
it. Should we abandon this elusive search for uniformity?
By
Swapan Dasgupta
 As
ceremonial occasions go, there is a certain sanctity attached to the President
of India's "at home" on August 15. It's the time when the entire
Indian establishment and the diplomatic corps gather to observe yet another
national day. There may be little of the pomp and the agreeable weather
associated with Republic Day (January 26) but Independence Day is a state
occasion. And a very formal occasion. The President's gilt-edged invitation
card states the ground rules quite explicitly: national dress or lounge
suit. For the armed forces, it's full ceremonial dress (minus the sword).
The dress code (for gentlemen) is about as non-negotiable as the mandatory
top hat and morning coat for the Queen's tea party on the lawns of Buckingham
Palace. The extreme humidity of an August afternoon in the Mughal Gardens
of Rashtrapati Bhavan doesn't make this a comfortable proposition but
formality and comfort have never been co-terminus. Not on occasions of
state.
So it was
last Tuesday when gentlemen in suits and officers in uniform perspired
profusely and the talk inevitably centred on the weather. But not everyone
played by the rules. Cabinet Secretary Prabhat Kumar-the nominal head
of the civil services-defied convention and invited both envious and disapproving
stares by turning up in a white shirt and trousers. The ambassador of
the most important country in the world cocked a snook at the host, sported
a white bush shirt and chinos and stood apart from other passengers of
CD numbered limos. Madan Lal Khurana wore a white safari suit, V.P. Singh
his trademark flappy pyjamas and L.K. Advani his purposeful dhoti. Quite
a sartorial mix that threw a big question mark over the term: National
Dress.
So, is there
such a thing as the national dress in India? Or, has democracy, pluralism
and plain permissiveness infected this institution as well? Instead of
one national dress, should India be talking of "national dresses"
that accommodate the cabinet secretary, the former prime minister and
the home minister? Should India be setting its own standards of ceremonial,
formal and smart casual? Perhaps it would be instructive to look at other
civilian institutions that insist on a dress code. Being the international
hallmark of formality and sobriety, the lounge suit has come to be regarded
as non-contentious even if the black dinner jacket (or white tuxedo) remain
in the realms of relative unfamiliarity in India. But what is the acceptable
Indian national dress?
The
lack of convergence is apparent. Last week, at the Delhi Gymkhana Club,
a senior south Indian bureaucrat was turned away from the dining room
for arriving in spotless white veshti and mundu. Just like what P. Chidambaram
wears on political occasions. At the same time, another Delhi socialite
wearing a Fab India kurta and white aligarhis-not dissimilar to what Rajiv
Gandhi made his Congress uniform-was allowed unhindered access. Cut to
the Calcutta Club, an institution that still counts as a Bengali bhadralok
bastion in that city. Neither Jyoti Basu with his impeccably creased dhoti-punjabi
nor Ananda Bazar Patrika's anglophile editor Aveek Sarkar with his trailing
dhoti would have encountered problems entering the dining room. Nor for
that matter would Chidambaram. But both V.P. Singh and Vice-President
Krishan Kant-he too prefers pyjamas of the same generosity-would almost
definitely risk creating an incident. For the unreconciled east, pyjamas
are something worn between the bedroom and bathroom.
So, is there
an Indian national dress that passes muster on formal occasions in both
Thiruvananthapuram and Jodhpur? Judging by instructions of the Home Ministry,
there is. When Indian ambassadors present their credentials to foreign
heads of state they are obliged to put on a black achkan and white churidar.
The Indian achkan is marginally different from Pakistan's sherwani but
for reasons now inexplicable the official nomenclature remains sherwani.
When the President of India takes oath, he dresses accordingly. Strictly
speaking, that's what comprises Indian national dress on ceremonial occasions.
On formal occasions, however, the bundgala suit-cream in summer and a
darker shade at other times-is deemed sufficient and an acceptable alternative
to both a lounge suit and black tie. There is no third national dress.
Judging
by the divergent standards set by the Delhi Gymkhana and the Calcutta
Club, these definitions of the national dress are yet to find universal
acceptance in India. That's not surprising. The achkan-churidar combination-that
many regard as aesthetically inappropriate for the pot-belly and spindly
legs of the average Indian male-has its roots in a flight of Nehruvian
whimsy. Having discarded the boater and the harlequin jacket of a youth
well spent in England, Jawaharlal Nehru took to the swadeshi uniform of
the Congress with all the passion of a new convert. From 1921 to 1947,
it was the khadi dhoti-kurta that made him indistinguishable from the
rest of the pack. Yet, after August 15, 1947, the dhoti never re-entered
his wardrobe. It was replaced by the long achkan and the tight churidar.
That became Nehru's style. He, in turn, peremptorily instructed it become
the national style, the national dress.
more...As
Long as Its Decent, Clean and in Good Taste
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