My sartorial legacy: Traditions passed down through clothing

I hate a cold shower. It’s like being pelted by a hailstorm. Every drop will prick your body and soul like a sharp dart disentombed from nature’s deep-frozen quivers. In contrast, a warm bath is so comforting, like a much-longed-for bear hug. You can indulge in the outpour of manna for hours, penning a poem in your heart, humming a ballad or dreaming up a day of solitude.

The word ‘cold’ is anyway synonymous with all that’s negative. Like a cold murder, the cold shoulder, a cold response, the cold-hearted etc. Grammarians say, “Cold and negative are semantically related”, and cold can be used in place of the adjective negative, whereas the word ‘warm’ reflects a positive outlook, as in a warm smile, a warm welcome, a warm ambience, a warm embrace, etc.

One such recent hot water shower massaged my cognitive cells into thinking what legacy yours truly would leave behind for his people. Certainly not money. Property? No way. Bonds and shares? No chance. Ever since friend Pappan tossed the question, the topic has been haunting me. My dad gave me whatever language skills I have; mum gave me the hunger to read. And, of course, her white single-ply dhotis sundried in the brightener Tenopal, which became my trademark attire of the salad days.

I started to wear them even while she was alive. I wore them proudly to the college while others strutted about in bell-bottoms and double-ply men’s dhotis with silver or golden zari on the border. Even after I said goodbye to the dhoti culture, I still wore them during my holidays as a white tribute to my mother. The treasured legacy shielded the life she gave birth to until the family gave away the clothes to the poor after her demise.

As soon I came out of the shower, wiping the memories dry, my desperate search for a pair of Bermuda and tee drew a blank.

“Anybody listening? Where have all my shorts and tees disappeared?” I was losing my patience.

“You need more than a quick look-see in a wardrobe cluttered with two people’s clothes.” A cold reply rolled off the kitchen.

I rummaged through every drawer and shelf in the wardrobe and through an Alps of laundry on the ironing board and a Kilimanjaro on the recliner. The search saga reminded me of what teacher Sathyabama taught us in eighth-grade language class, but the needle I was looking for in a haystack was elusive.

“I ain’t looking for the old ones with a rip in the back and elsewhere. Where’re the new ones I picked up from Express Avenue in Chennai?” Not just one; four of them. They were the dernier cri in shorts, and I paid an arm and a leg for them. I wasn’t ready to give up.

“What the hell, guys? What’s this laundry doing on my recliner?”

“They are awaiting two human hands to sort out, mister. Why don’t you lend some help?”

“Hello, I need to rush my column.”

“For heaven’s sake, stop threatening me with your column. LLT’s just a weekly affair, whereas laundry is a daily business. How do you think you get your socks paired up?”

“Don’t stuff the laundry into my conscience. I won't shut up. Show me my Bermudas.”

“If they are not there, look nowhere else; ask your daughter.”

“Hello ma’am, may I know your whereabouts?” I left a message for Vava as my calls went unanswered and I waited for her to return home. In the meantime, I attended two Zoom meetings decently packaged in a branded boxer.

I have no words to describe the comfort that the Bermuda offers. I even wore it to the workplace until the office dress code stripped the shorts of its official status recently. I didn’t give a damn about anybody as I wore it to the back of the Pentagon to pay my tribute at the 9/11 Memorial where a 5am blizzard chilled me to the bone. I indulged in the coziness of the outfit in abandon despite the roaming moral police back home.

“What’s the issue, dad?” Vava fired her first salvo as soon as I opened the door for her.

• Lifestyle