Fashion vs Fahrenheit: Neanderthals matched dress to weather, we don’t

The weather is a handy icebreaker. We say ‘too hot’ and ‘such a cold winter’ to fill awkward pauses. Harmless, obvious statements like these further the cause of human interaction, and let us all occupy the planet in consensual boredom. In fact, entire marriages have gotten by on weather reports – ‘I love you’ replaced by ‘looks like rain’. Novelists go on and on about the snowclad and the sun-dappled… But all ye who take its name in vain, beware! Weather wreaks revenge by being utterly unpredictable. It blows hot and cold.

However humid it may be, no human being is willing to sacrifice sartorial levels for comfort. At the ministerial swearing-in ceremony in Delhi recently, conducted in the open air, everyone came in bandhgalas and Banarasis. Brocade was the dress code. This despite the fact that due to an insufferable summer the city is stewing in its own juices. Deep underneath such finery, where the innermost fabric scratches skin, is where global warming gets personal. We are all about style statements. In strappy white linen when it’s freezing and quilted jackets when sunny, pants cut at the ankle as if expecting floods, hair left loose in gyms. Spanx under skinny jeans two sizes small even if vital organs asphyxiate.

There was a time when cavemen ripped off the fur of the first bear they met to keep warm. In summers Neanderthals turned up naked for business meetings. Wardrobes used to be straightforward, attuned to climate conditions. But in the era of selfies, being photo-ready trumps discomfort. A grand occasion, like say a wedding or funeral, cannot succumb to whimsical temperatures. The kanjeevarams and Nehru jackets must be unpacked, drycleaned and donned on D-day, just like the white chikankari kurtas must be teamed with mournful cream or beige dupattas. Brides and bridegrooms gently steam on stage in all their dolled-up finery. A corpse seldom minds the thinness of cotton sheets inside icy morgues.

Vanity at some point meets ACs and central heating, when entering a door means frostbitten Narnia or the fires of hell. In a magical reversal of Celsius, you are now boiling or shivering. Suddenly covered in goosebumps, rubbing your arms, shifting closer to people for warmth, like the Little Match Girl lighting her last matchstick. Or beaded with perspiration and expected to remove your sweater, your sole outerwear. That’s when you insist it’s actually cold and borrow someone’s shawl.

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