The sartorial leanings of a descendant of Madras hardly reflects current fashion trends. It rather draws heavily from his religious, political or cinematic preferences.
Take black, the much maligned color, if at all it can be called a color. Hear black and images of blackmail, blacklist, black market and black outs drift across. Who will wear black? One in mourning? Or one on a religious vow? In Tamil Nadu, it can even be one who from the bastion of pagutharivu, who can, without a modicum of conscience, straddle the twin worlds of religion as well as convenience with alarming ease. If anyone cared to leaf through the history of Tamil Nadu for the last fifty years, he would notice that all that has managed to hold center stage here is politics, religion or cinema. A Tamilian breathes, lives and dies for the sake of either cinema, or religion or for that damnedest of things, the last refuge of the scoundrels, politics. One can't be too sure which is the worst of the three. One would be inclined to bestow that dubious honour to cinema, the favourite whipping boy of the intelligentsia but even cinema can be sure of facing stiffer, more vulgar competition from politics and religion.
Of course, black is the hue of staunch religion. Black connotes renunciation. It connotes giving away. It connotes detachment and is a color of violent disregard. The black-wearer challenges the world, he cares two hoots for the ordinary mortals. His is a tone of defiance, of discontent and disdain. His world is out of bounds for ordinary men and his is a pursuit of penance. He discards the mundane ways of the world and he sets his sights on something superlative. He looks to places like Sabarimala for deliverance. He is beyond you and me, he seeks his salvation in black.
And then comes the cinema maniac. He wears what his hero does, even if it is black. He seeks an escape from his ineptitude in the celluloid heroics of his hero and he wears what his hero wears. If the hero wears black in two reels, the maniacal worshipper follows suit for two years, wearing nothing but black. The hero flicks a fag up high in the air, whips out a revolver from his hip, aims at at the butt (of the cigarette that is), lights it and in its descent, catches it betwixt his lips (sure, the lighted end jutting out). The fan goes delirious, and tries perfecting the act for the rest of his life. The hero mouths some punch dialogue, something deeply profound like "if I score one run, it equals a hundred runs". Our maniacal worshipper sees himself in the hero and mentally relives every moment in his dreams. Dreams about what could have been.... The hero cozies up to a buxom lady which the fan always wanted to. The hero plays god and the fan is convinced he is indeed, God. As with religion, worshipping a God is best done sporting black, so black be it in his clothes. Black magic is cast by the hero and the fan falls prey.
And then the last refuge we were talking about earlier. Of the scoundrel. Of the political kind. Occasionally getting tired of the jasmine veshtis and Gandhi topis, one day, suddenly, it dawns on him that black is the hue of protest. Of again defiance. Of the relevance he has long lost and trying desperately to reclaim. And so, one fine day, casting aside his robes of whites and yellows( and conveniently his rationalist ideas too), he clings to black as a last ditch effort to stay afloat. And to save face and present a passable explanation, pretends as if he has been wearing the black cloak of defiance ever since his avatar on his planet to save it from ruin! He sees the need to shout atop the roof, to be heard, to stay in limelight and to protest.To do anything as long as he is heard and seen, even if it is by his own coterie. He crows that the aura of black fits him to the tee. And like the bird itself, prides in being seen clad in black.
The religious black, one can understand. His belief demands it. The celluloid black one can condone. His fantasy world allows it. But the political black? It revolts one's senses. It reaffirms one's conviction that it is futile to dream of a reformed system. For once the political black seems to clearly reflect what is inside the wearer. The same black. Blackness of thought, blackness of vision and and a blackness of everything. Why the same color of nothingness occupies fifty percent of their flags too, how can the flag be different from the party?
The white robed politician may or may not be a saint inside. But be wary of the more dangerous specimen, the black attired pretender. He can change colors faster than a chameleon. His tongue is multi-forked, his eyes are blinkered and he says evil is everywhere. The world ought to know that nothing is more evil than the black bedecked neta himself.
