“All women become like their mothers,” said Oscar Wilde. “That is their tragedy.” In my twenties, I believed that would be my biggest problem. That I had, as a part of my inheritance, the same traits of my mother that she herself found undesirable. In my thirties, I don’t consider it a tragedy anymore. What Oscar Wilde didn’t know is that women may never want to become their mothers, but in most cases, there is also no one else they admire more.
My mother has been my biggest critic and my loudest supporter. She can bring me down in mere seconds, but there’s also no one else who would praise me to the world as she would. I have inherited her compassion and her quiet strength, but also her overthinking and her half-empty glass mentality. I, sadly didn’t win the genetic lottery of Mallu hair and gorgeous eyes but her inherent sense of style has conditioned and honed my fashion aesthetic, and for that I am forever grateful.
My first sartorial memory of myself is a photo of my mom and me in colour-coordinated purple and yellow outfits (It was the ‘90s. Please leave the judgement aside).
I realize today that my love for balance in outfits comes from my mother’s habit of dressing me up in head-to-toe colour-coordinated ensembles. My love for the colour black is all my own but my habit of imbuing my all-black clothes with just a hint of colour comes from mom’s accessorizing super skills. Often, I have picked up outfits from our mutually-loved stores only to come home and discover that the Mater has picked up the same kurta.
I have these memories from childhood with my mom dressing up to go out, in gorgeous sarees with jaw-droppingly beautiful detail-oriented blouses. I still remember my mom’s blouse tailor in Kochi; the only guy she would trust with her blouse stitching even if it meant waiting a whole year to get all the blouses stitched. She knew what she wanted, sartorially, and she went after it with everything she had. That’s something I have inherited. My friend will attest to the fact that once I have made up my mind about what to wear, nothing will steer me away from the path.
It’s not that we have always agreed with each other. She hates what she calls my ‘jhola’ avatar, loose clothes with very little structure. She’s not too fond of my all-black avatar as well.
I, on the other hand, think she needs to experiment more. Yes, our fashion paths have diverged but they have also come together again. Today, we swap clothes. I often wear her new ensembles before she’s had a chance to remember that she’s got new clothes in her wardrobe. She asks for my opinion, which is something that I am not used to.
I am aware that I got extremely lucky. I inherited my mother’s fashion traits, like a lot of her other good qualities, and then I adapted them to make my own style. Every now and then, when I am least expecting it, I catch a glimpse of her in the mirror, only to realize I am looking at myself. I fail to recognize her because never in a million years would have I ever thought that the confident, mostly well-turned out person staring back at me was, well me.
So, thank you mom! For teaching me about beautiful clothes, telling me when I look like an absolute ragamuffin, encouraging me to dress up to the tee for that date you know I am excited about, and helping me add colour to my wardrobe; thank you for being you because I couldn’t have had it better.
P.S. I love your sense of style but please stop eyeing my ripped denims with disdain. They aren’t going anywhere. Happy Mother’s Day!
- Shirt Skirt Dress - September 1, 2017
- Dangling Dungarees - August 31, 2017
- Suited Pastel-y - August 30, 2017
