Couture shows are like magic shows. They cast a spell on you.
Couture shows are like moving art exhibits. They move you and make you want to touch it.
Couture shows are like love. They make hearts stop or race (whatever love does to you.)
Couture shows are like lust. They make you fantasise.
Sabyasachi’s Ferozabad was all that and more.
Set in a yesteryear’s luxury sleeper train
With real passengers and exquisite paraphernalia
A guy in a plaid lungi, fanning himself with a newspaper
A burkha-clad woman reading a hardbound book
A young couple casting flirty glances at each other
The smoke from the train, wafting into an old-world bar, with impeccably lined goblets, seated on painstakingly pleated table linen, adjacent to an enviable stack of trunks, with an empty vintage birdcage on top, against a rich background tapestry, dressed with wall art in gilded frames.
Adding to the sensory overload, there came a train of fine-looking emancipated women and real men with beards, dressed in an unimaginable canvas of tulle, pashmina, khadi, organza, chiffon, velvet, benarasi, crepe and poplin; embellished with brocade, applique, zardozi, parsi borders, block prints, hand cut bugle beads, patchwork and 18-carat gold buttons; in vintage silhouttes like mythical sarees, gabardine bandhgalas, flapper dresses with churidars, peplum jackets with angrakhas and crop trousers, banarasi shirts with bijoux gilet and scarf.
*Gasp* God is in the details.