I Suck At Fashion.

And for the longest time,
I didn’t even know it.

Because I suffer from middlity, that crazy middle class disease where looking good is suspicious, dressing well is theatrical, and asking for attention is almost immoral.

Fashion, in our homes, was not style but survival.
We didn’t dress to express but to proceed.
To go to school. To attend tuition. To sit for the entrance exam.

Our clothes had one job - cover the body and last three academic years.

As kids, we wore uniforms five days a week, white on Saturdays, and the good shirt on birthdays.
We called it the “good shirt” but it was often just less faded than the rest.
And shoes? Shoes were not fashion. They were Bata.
Polished every Monday. Torn by October. Glued with Fevikwik. Reused by the younger sibling.

We weren’t taught to look good. We were taught not to look bad enough to attract concern.
Fashion was not a language. It was a luxury.
Our parents came from a generation that had seen ration queues and floodwater.
Their logic was simple - if it fits, it’s fine.

“Kya farak padta hai?” was a worldview.

And so I grew up thinking self-expression was for the privileged.
That people who dressed well had either too much money or too much time.
That colours were dangerous.
That looking in the mirror too long was vanity.

I walked into adulthood wearing clothes that didn’t talk back.
Jeans that could survive a landslide. Shirts that said nothing.
I didn’t dress like a person. I dressed like a placeholder.

And then, somewhere along the way, I started to notice.
How some people walked into a room and owned it.
How the right pair of shoes could shift energy.
How fabric could whisper confidence.
How fashion wasn’t loudness. It was quiet power.

I started realising that even history dressed with intention.
The freedom fighters wore khadi - not because it was cheap, but because it meant resistance.
The maharajas layered their power in textiles - silk, gold, hand-embroidered arrogance.
Every culture that wanted to be remembered carved itself in cloth - from Benarasi to Bandhgala.
What we wear is not trivial. It’s memory. It’s metaphor.

Fashion is not the opposite of substance but a substance worn on skin.

Now, I’m trying. Slowly. Unlearning.
Trying shirts that fit not just my shoulders but my mood.
Trying colours I once mocked.
Trying to look like someone who knows who he is.

I still mess it up.
Still wear wrong sneakers with outfit.
Still avoid slim fits because khaana khana hai bhai.
Still call my friends before dates and ask, “Yeh thoda zyada toh nahi lag raha?”

But at least now I ask. At least now I care.
Because kya farak padta hai?
Turns out a lot.

How you dress can shift how you feel.
And how you feel changes how you move through the world.

I suck at fashion.
But I no longer suck at trying.

And if there’s someone out there who can help a recovering “kya-farak-padta-hai” kid make peace with linen pants and personal style -

my DM is open.