Category: Fashion

Black Swan + Black Shirts

Context. 

So I want to be a minimalist and I don’t want to own a lot of things. I mean all I own is a TV, a writing table, a bookshelf, 300 or so books, two luggage bags, a guitar, a uke, 10 odd shirts (most of them black or blue), 1 pair of denims, too many undergarments, 2-3 pair of shoes, some paintings (art), a lot of paper and one small box of trinkets that have an emotional value. I also have some pass-me-downs from my sis that she left behind when she moved away from Mumbai (kitchen utensils etc). Wow, this is a lot! Need to reduce. 
Apart from this reluctance to own things, I don’t want to do any chores either. This means that I outsource everything. Including grocery, cooking, cleaning, ironing, follow-ups and all that. And I’ve tried to automate most things. My food comes by itself. My house gets cleaned every day at 5 PM. I drop my clothes at a security guard and they come back ironed. So on and so forth. 
Why would I do this? I want to minimize decisions and make life simple.
Now, coming to the story. 
So, a few days before Diwali, I followed my routine and left a bunch of clothes to be ironed at the regular place, with the regular security guard, with the regular instructions to hand over these to the regular ironing guy. 
When the clothes did not come back for a few days, I chased the regular ironing guy and he said he never took them! 
I then I spoke to the regular security guard and he said he’s not aware which ironing guy took my clothes as he was away (on a break or something) when the ironing guy took those clothes away. 
I thought about it for a bit, was worried for a bit but then got busy with impending travel to Delhi. And thus forgot about it. Actually, I did not forget. I just conveniently ignored it. 
Once I came back from Delhi, after about 7 days, I realized that the clothes were still not back. And that bunch of clothes that I gave for ironing had ALL the shirts that I own! Not that I own a lot of shirts – I think about 8 or 9. 
But the point is, they were all the shirts I own. Including the ones, I wear in the office, on events, on dates, at functions, on important meetings, etc, etc. 
And all of them were now missing.
Suddenly, I was shirtless! You know, not a shirt on my back. 
I tried to investigate and spoke to multiple security guards and multiple ironing men. But no one seemed to have any answers. The shirts had just disappeared. Out of trace. Without any clue. Something like that had never happened to me. You know, I am generally careful and don’t lose things. That’s a different matter that on this trip to Delhi, I lost my travel-pillow. 
I was perplexed and I did not what to do. 
Till I saw this message from VG, who lives in the same apartment complex. 
So there! 
Phew! Loss. Closure. 
You know, to this to happen, how many coincidences had to happen at the same time? I had to give all my shirts (which is not the case most times) for ironing. It had to be the wrong guard on duty (because the regular guard would know my regular ironing person). It had to be the wrong ironing guy that picked my clothes. The ironing guy had to forget a bunch of clothes at the wrong place for someone else to pick them up. My clothes had to be in that bunch of 20 flats. Then, someone else had to pick up old clothes at the exact same time! Black Swan? 
And the worst part? I would’ve never found what happened to my clothes, if not for VG and his super-connectedness. I would’ve always wondered about the mystery of the lost clothes! Now that I know, I am at peace. Closure is good! 
So what does this mean?
Three things. 
1. My shirts are being used by someone who needs them more than I do. So, yay to that! 
2. I will have to buy new shirts. Which is a good thing again. Because I can buy just three and try to live my life in those three. Could be tough but let’s try! 
3. I realized that I am not emotionally attached to my clothes. I did not feel even a tinge of sadness. Though, I am bugged at the thought of spending time shopping for shirts. I am bugged at the idea of spending money. But that’s it. I am not bugged about losing my favorite shirt that makes me look thinner. I am not sorry about losing the shirt that a friend gifted. Heck, I don’t even remember the designs or patterns that I owned! I am not bugged that this minimalism and automation has cost me a wardrobe – you can never control Black Swan events. 
So yeah, that’s it! How is your November going?
PS: Anyone wants to gift me any shirts? 

A lesson in fashion and dressing up!

If you’ve seen me, you know that my fashion sense sucks. So much that you may not even want to let me stand next to you.

Repeated, desperate attempts by #sgMS, family, friends and others have gone in vain as I refuse to wear anything that is not comfortable. As a result, I am often the worst dressed in the room. I have this special superpower. I can walk into any store and pick the worst thing that they’ve ever sold. No wonder my wardrobe looks like a dump yard that has been neglected by the city and the people alike.

Plus I can’t think if I am wearing shoes. Serious. It seems as if someone has put a claw on my thinking. May be my brain is in my toes? Quite likely, going by the way things are going for me professionally and personally.

So, there are times when in a gathering of 1000 people, all dressed in their wedding suits and sunday bests, I am the lone nut who’s dressed in shorts, chappals (aka flip flops) and a loose comfortable teeshirt. Of course I stand out like a cockroach on a wedding cake (as Bukowski would say). As a result, I am singled out and I often get into trouble. So much so that I have stopped going to public gatherings. And, no, unlike what I’ve been blamed of, I don’t crave for attention. I just need to be comfortable.

India is such a hot and humid place. Why would I want to cover my entire body with thick layers of cloth and sweat and make everyone uncomfortable around me? I’d rather air the body parts and keep it open. After all, my work must speak louder than how I dress. No?

Turns out, I was wrong. I am wrong. Whatever is the right usage of grammar.

How I dress is more important than how I work. I realized this yesterday when I had a meeting where I was pitching my services. My services. MY. SERVICES. As Saurabh Garg. For the first time in a long long time. As myself. Not as an employee of some other company. Nor as a representative of someone else.

Side note: All meetings prior to this, I have been part of a large contingent, headed by one of my bosses and more often than not we had worked with the client earlier. The clients thus knew of my capability the capability of the team that I represented. Life was easy and I could do what I wanted to.


Plus most of my work has been in advertising, events and travel. These businesses are considered “creative” and it is assumed that the practitioners of these disciplines don’t dress up well. I mean think of all the advertising kinds that you know of. What do they dress up in? What do they wear? How often do you think they conform to what the world dresses up like? 


Plus what I do is nothing special or different. It’s very similar to what a million others do. I am no one special. I thus must not expect any special privileges. Of course if I were an artist, I could have decided on what to wear and who to meet and all that. 


Plus other times when I have applied for a job, they have been in related industries and similar profiles. Plus they were looking at my experience and my CV. Here, the CV was me. Walking and talking. Live.  


Coming back. This was THE first time where I was unproven and the guy on the other side did not know of my reputation, the work I had done and so on and so forth. I thought I was going to get judged on the basis of what I present and how I present. I thought I had great ideas that were workable, cost effective and pretty cool. I mean if someone pitched those ideas to me, I would’ve been happy.

But, but, what I did not know is that how I looked like and what I looked like also mattered.

So even before the meeting started, the person who got me that meeting told me that I looked like shit and he would cancel the meeting if he could, because I look like shit. Set the tone for the meeting. All the pep-talk that I had given myself, all the self-talk that I subjected myself to, all the motivation, all the confidence I had, it just went down the drain. I could literally see it flowing it over my baggy jeans, leather “formal” chappals, unkept feet, to the drain.

Can’t blame him. By introducing me, he was putting his reputation on the stake and the way I was dressed did not do justice to his introduction. The “client” was supposed to trust me with business and the way I looked apparently spoke about the trust.

I felt sorry for him. To have stuck his foot out and introduce me.
And for myself. To have broken his faith in sticking his foot out for me.

Learnt a lesson. Felt stupid about being so stubborn all my life. I thought I have identified a way of life that works for me and the world at large could either live with it. Or take a hike. The world just asked me to take a hike!

As I write. think about the incident, about 12 hours later, I feel defiant. How can I change who I am, just to earn a few rupees? I have enough and more in the bank. I define enough as enough to pay the bills for 18 months.

Wait. No! I don’t have that kind of cash. I just have enough to last me till end of THIS month. Damn it! I AM poor and I need every penny that I can get. From anyone and for anything. And I am willing to sell my soul for it. A friend told me yesterday, there’s nothing called selling half a soul. So there are no half measures. Either I sell out. Or I don’t. I need to decide and choose.

The decision was pretty easy. At least it looked easy yesterday. Today, I am not so sure.

But, here is the change I am willing to make. An experiment that I am willing to do.

For when I have to meet people for work, I will dress up in something that is acceptable to the world and to me. I thought hard about it. The bare minimum the world expects is a clean pair of denims, a full-sleeves shirt (that I would roll up) and a pair of shoes. Since I am lazy and I don’t understand fashion, I will dress up in predictable black shirts. Along with denims and loafers (the closet thing that can be called a shoe and yet offer the freedom to my feet).

Every time I have a meeting, I will wear those. I have to make a living and if it requires me to mould the way I am, I will. If the world can’t accept black shirts and denims as formals, too bad. I will go back to a safe haven of a job and try and create something that makes people come to (rather than the other way around).

And when people come to me, I don’t think it matters what I wear and how I wear. Does it? Ask Steve!

Oh, here’s a caveat.

I’d do this for a few meetings. If they work out fine, I would better my wardrobe. But if those meetings don’t convert into business, I will revet to my old style. Of course the meetings could go good or bad depending on multiple factors but I will assume that they went bad because I was uncomfortable (because I was dressed up and was wearing shoes).

Let’s see how things go. Bring it on world!

P.S.: Want to know how meeting went? Ask me nicely and I may tell you.

Size Does Matter

The entire city of Delhi is on sale. And I wait for this time for long months. So that I may actually go and shop. So last week, lured by the crazy discounts, I made my way to the shopping malls. I was hoping to buy brands that I could have never bought on a non-sale day. The first store I stepped into, I realized that I was at the wrong place.

I have the most weird size that a man could have. I am not young, not old. I am not thin and I am not fit. I am not L and I am not XL. As a result, most things that I buy are either too tight or too lose. No wonder people look down at me, even when I am dressed in my best. In fact there have been times when I have been denied entry to places (clubs, restaurants etc), not because I could not spend money that these guys would have charged, but because I look scary.

All this while, while I was growing up, things dint matter at all. But now, when I am old (and alone), these things do. Time to take charge and get into some size. Any size.

The Pink Shirt

All my life, ever since I can remember, I have hated the color pink. Especially when someone wears it. It could be pants, socks, hats, teeshirts, shirts, gloves, undies, anything, the colour pink sucks. It’s the most inhuman color to have happened to us humans. My hatred for the colour pink is well documented. I have gone on record and have even publicly humiliated friends and strangers who have dared to wear pink in front of me. 

 Well, who would have known that someday I would end up buying a pink shirt. I was window shopping with a couple of friends today evening when we casually walked into a Fabindia store. For some reason they dint have anything in my size, except a pink shirt. Since both my friends were trying stuff, I was bored and went ahead and put on the pink shirt.
And rest, as they say is history.

When I tried it, I felt as if it has been crafted specially for me. I fit so well into it. I have the weirdest structure that the humankind has ever seen and yet the pink shirt fit like an old glove. It was so comfortable that I could have died in it. It felt like second skin.

I was skeptical about it but then I thought what the heck and I just bought it. And since I haven’t worn it with friends as yet, the jury is still out, but yes, I am a proud owner of a pink shirt.

That flunky in white shirt

Before I get into more details, lets get a few things straight.

  1. I love wearing white shirts. Especially if they are made of linen. And if they are from Cotton World Corp. Or UCB. So much so that I wear them that often that if I was famous, it could have been my trademark. Much like Steve’s black turtlenecks and Jeff’s pale blue shirts. 
  2. Of course when you live in Delhi and you work requires you to be inches away from dust and grime and other things, these white shirts would get dirty. And crumpled. And after a while, despite how well you wash them, they would look pale and old. Even if they are new. Even CWC and UCB shirts look old after you have worn them three or four times. 
  3. The way I dress is none of anybody’s concern. I like the way I dress and I want to be comfortable. If given a choice between dressing up for a party in a three piece suit where I may get an opportunity to meet a really hot woman vs dressing up in a white shirt and shorts (or a faded jeans hanging low), despite it being unacceptable in any respectable event, I would chose the later. I like being comfortable with my clothes and I dont give two hoots about what others think of it. Well I did change a lot, thanks a lot to constant feedback from sgMS, Rr and Neo’s wife. I was like a 100 times worse than what I am right now.
  4. I love my beard. I know it looks bad and is scrawny at best. But I love it. Probably more for the convenience of not shaving every day. I love it so much that I dont mind keeping one.
Now that we have established a few ground rules, let me come to the reason why I was prompted to write this post. No wait, not prompted, but FORCED to write this. I mean no one held my hands and made me type this thing up but I was so furious that I had to write this. 
Today at work, why have I been talking about work lately on this blog? I have never been the kinds to actually talk about work! Anyways debate for a different day. So today, at work, I was standing with my boss and there were some 100 more men behind me in a huge hall working on something. The client, who I may add, is probably half my age and yet probably one-tenth senile than I am, ambles across the hall, points a finger at me and tells my boss, how can that flunky in white shirt dress up like that and come to work. 
The flunky in question here is, me! The white shirt in question is what Rr bought for me. Her fashion sense, IMHO, is better than anyone I have met (including sgMS). Dress up like that means a white shirt, a blue jeans and a pair of white shoes. Work means construction of a huge hall where we had some 100 other men who are lot less fortunate than I and have very limited means to spend on their clothing. If someone asked me, I would have said that I was looking great in what I was wearing. Ofcourse the belt and the socks did not match but thats ok. I am not really fashion conscious and like I said in point 4 above, I dont give too hoots!
It dint piss me off that he commented on the way I dress. I have more enemies that Obama, Osama, Anna Hazare combined for the way I dress. What fucked my head was the reference to me as “that flunky in white shirt”. What the fuck! A flunky! I mean I know that I am a nobody and tomorrow if I was to disappear from mother Earth, no one would miss me but I hated being called a flunky. Google defines flunky as

A person who performs relatively menial tasks for someone else, esp. obsequiously.

Am I a flunky to my boss? May be. Did I like being called a flunky? Hell no. Will I do something about it? Ofcourse Yes!!

And thats about it. Really.

P.S.: Fiction! No, really. I mean it. I cooked this up because I dint have no shit to work on today.