I left those shorts behind in the USA. What were the chances of me wearing them in Chennai, where swimming pools are not conveniently nearby?

Over the years, my brother-in-law—my sister’s husband (in Tamil, we have distinct names for brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, nephews, and nieces based on how they are related)—had made several trips to Singapore. So, naturally, you’d expect him to wear half-pants, right? Otherwise, it would seem like he’s from another planet! I saw a photograph of him wearing them and kept staring. How does this much-loathed piece of clothing suit him so well? A tinge of envy swept over me. Perhaps he’s more handsome, better built, or just fitter. Whatever the reason, I wasn’t in competition. But before I keep my appointment with my maker, I hope that, at least once, I might look good in them.

Now, let’s talk about the full version of these dreaded, half-cooked shorts. I did mention in Shopping Hopping how clumsily I used to tuck in my shirts. Once I started working, I abandoned tucking in altogether. It was always full pants and half-sleeved shirts—a look that I maintained for nearly three decades, regardless of my various promotions. Growing up in Delhi, where the severe winters demanded warm clothing, even the street vendors would be seen wearing suits to cope with the cold. Tucking in shirts was common during my school days and a necessity under sweaters and coats.

After giving up the tucking-in habit, I was transferred to Bombay. The people of Bombay are a sight to behold in their style and dress. Despite a climate similar to Chennai—hot, humid, and lacking a real winter—Bombayites dressed impeccably, regardless of their position or post. Most men wore full shirts, neatly tucked in, with shining shoes and a briefcase in hand. Women, too, dressed fashionably. One advantage of Bombay was that clothes were available to suit any budget, thick or thin. It’s my observation that Bombayites frequently bought clothes, always appearing to be wearing something new. They are an enterprising and active lot. With the daily grind of long walks, overcrowded trains, climbing endless stairs at stations and workplaces, and returning home, laziness has no room to creep in.

Amidst these stylish men and women, I remained the odd one out—same full pants, half-sleeved shirts, a shoulder bag, and the unavoidable umbrella poking out. No shoes, just my comfortable Chennai chappals. Yet, somehow, I got along well with my sartorially superior colleagues.

Towards the end of my career, when I was about to take over an important post, my friends offered me well-meaning advice: “Please, at least from now on, wear full pants with a tucked-in shirt and proper shoes.” Reluctantly, and against my traditions and comfort levels, I made the change to maintain the institution’s respectability. The odd feeling that something was wrong with my appearance, that I looked out of place, always lingered. Over time, I grew half-accustomed to it.

Continued in 95. Sartorial Suffocations - Part 4