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Vaihayasi P Daniel
Fashion shows are as much a part of this city's dull, daily routine as is the traffic that snarls its arteries during rush hour. And, unlike the rest of the normal, sane world, fashion shows in Bombay are organised by just about anybody.

Boutiques are organising them. Airlines organise them. Even tractor companies are interested. Some day, you might even hear that the numero uno politicos of Bombay, the Thackerays, are organising a special saffron do.

Some of these "extravaganzas", as they are now dubbed, are interesting.

Mostly, though, they are not so interesting.

But when we heard that a famous, but fashion-show-weary, columnist had cancelled a previous engagement to attend the upcoming Lakme-Hero Honda show (sponsored jointly by a lipstick and a motorcycle company; strange marriage, that) which would have real, live French models and clothes from the houses of YSL, Nina Ricci, Ted Lapidus, Jean Louis Scherrer and Paco Rabanne, we were a wee bit curious. Especially since it is rather difficult to get the required sponsorship for such shows. In fact, it took show organiser Sheena Singh almost three years before she could give Bombay a glimpse of asli international fashion.

Sheena Singh

Organised at the Mahalaxmi race course, the Lakme-Hero Honda Haute Couture Collection, Spring 1997 (as it was officially called) began rather late. No one knew why. Nor were we enlightened. Probably it was because most of the seats were still vacant at 8.00 pm and none of the fashionably late, mobile-equipped who's who had arrived.

Suddenly there was burst of deafening crackle on the mike and a radiant Singh clad in a slinky grey silk sari, trimmed with gorgeous zari, appeared from the wings. The former model from the house of Yves St Laurent in Paris invited the show sponsors - who, for some reason, included painter M F Husain - on stage. And the show began.

A very fit, but slightly anorexic, dancer, trained by the Martha Graham School of Dance did a whirling, extremely arty, number. In accompaniment to dramatic, haunting, hair-curling music -- the kind one might hear during the most crucial moment in a film -- she pirouetted through the air and did athletic manoeuvers that left her sweating and the audience breathless. Her most classic sequence, though, was to wriggle herself into a very long, billowing silk kaftan-type garment before spinning herself around until the kaftan transformed into a sari. She exited with a namaste.

And the couture began to flow. Eleven models, including the sleek Sheetal Malhar, strutted their stuff. The entire show -- clothes, models, choreographer, music, chef de cabin and even the hairdresser -- had been imported from France or, rather, Paris.

The first line of clothing came from Paco Rabanne… and they were not really the kind of garments that could withstand the steamy heat of a Bombay cocktail party. Most of it resembled haute couture rain gear. Varieties of what appeared to be PVC had been fashioned into minis, bicycle shorts, nighties. The colours were vibrant enough to sear the eyeballs. And the material was rather shiny. It could be handy in the Indian context because there would be no problem with those awful yellow and red curry stains that one collects at an Indian party; the stain would wipe off as easy as a Mothercare plastic bib.

But no, Paco Rabanne's stuff, despite the built-in advantages, was a bit hard to take... It was the kind of outrageous stuff one only sees in a fashion show. Singh pointedly informed the audience that each garment was worth a minimum of $ 20,000 and some 200-odd man hours had gone into producing them. Except that one couldn't see even an Ivana Trump or a Liz Hurley shelling out that kind of moolah for this kind of stuff.

The work of Jean Louis Scherrer was another matter altogether. Slick suits, interesting cuts, neat, clean lines. Something that the likes of businesswomen Tanya Godrej or Pooja Ebrahim nee Bedi could quite easily don for a business appointment in our very own Brihanmumbai.

The Ted Lapidus collection deserved a prize for one dress in particular - a frothy, sea-green, romantic number crafted from rustling, billowing taffeta. The Lapidus line of clothing appeared very Indian. The heavy embroidered choli-lookalike tops were teamed with full silk skirts uncannily like ghagras. Wonder where Tedsaab's been lately?

Nina Ricci, and the show was definitely warming up. The music had now broken into song. Beautiful opera arias floated in the air (incidentally, the choice of music was great). And the models were rosy-cheeked from the exertion of floating up and down a stage bathed in tropical temperatures.

Ricci's dresses were a dream. Timeless black numbers embellished with gold or silver zari and lace. Feminine-feminine clothes that made the models bloom and look quite Victorian. Perky silk 'n' feather tu-tus. A cool, platinum blonde swept the stage in a stiff, scarlet red, silk outfit. All the clothes were deeply womanly, frothing with lace, embroidery and frills.

The legendary house of Yves St Laurent was evidently meant to be the high point. Unfortunately, Nina Ricci had already captured that slot. Minutes before. Nevertheless, the YSL guys displayedsome fine creations. The colour combinations were quite stunning. I mean who would imagine that fresh lime greens, sparkling yellows and royal blues could match with a gaudy gold cummerbund? The stark black sequined outfit spelled class. And the bright white lacy wedding dress, matched with a rich, black felt hat and a white veil. Mmm, nice…!

And then, the stage went dark. The dancer returned for a quick adieu. While the who's who headed either for the buffet dinner - "Only for those with the blue invitation cards, please" - or back to their deshi manufactured Opel Astras, Fords, Mercs and mobile phones.

Photographs: Jewella C Miranda