What Ugly Clothes We Wear
This Gossip is: Collapse of Rana Plaza & the saree Alia Bhatt wore twice
Prologue:
In the heart of Dhaka's bustling streets, a significant class struggle unfolds—an issue that the Indian elite has chosen to distance itself from. This distancing occurs even as a multitude of 'race to the bottom' brands inundate our city malls. Big Five names like H&M, Nike, Adidas, Zara, and Uniqlo have long provided the Indian youth with a seemingly telescopic view of affordable luxury.
Within this poem, Nupur Azadi brings attention to the growing chasm between us and the harsh reality of fast fashion production. While we often view a cheap dress as a bargain, a 'find,' the stark truth remains—someone pays the price. Yet, we choose not to ask who that someone is, driven by an apparent reluctance to confront the origin of our clothes and the conditions under which they are made.
The title of the poem draws influence from a venerated piece by Hollie McNish.
What Ugly Clothes We Wear by Nupur Azadi Every time you exclaim this, Miss Five dollars! Can you believe it! The doors beep, the inks leak, You are on the loose, You must believe it, Miss. What ugly dress you wear. It drips blood, it reeks sweat. Yet you do not know whose, Miss. Who made your clothes? What lit them? Who permit them? You said it – it is a steal, Miss. Weeks turn into seasons. Silk into plastic, wool into plastic, Cotton now per cents plastic. 15 days to the shelf, 5 wears to the pile. Whose time have you stolen, Miss? Who spun the wheels of supply, Whose demand has you spur Newness for newness’ sake? What calendar runs this show? There aren’t 52 miro-seasons, There are 52 weeks, Miss. There are 52 weeks of school missed, Miss. Do you say 72 dollars a month for 46 cents an hour sounds like change jingling in Brown bellies, Miss. Is it not hard to look? Uninsured hands hooked your hook. Uncompensated mouths plucked away Little strand of thread that no machine could. Unknown to you, it made sound, Miss. Is it not easy to see? Your organza lies in the ocean. Your polyester pants are popular in Rana Plaza, Miss. Your Gatsby flappers are Daisy flung into landfills. Your zombie bridal gown will see 1000 more Halloweens but not you, Miss. Can you say your dress is pretty, When you never wear it again, Miss?
Epilogue:
Ten years ago Rana Plaza collapsed under the weight of growing consumer appetite that didn’t care where their clothes came from as long as they came every week, all year long. One thousand one hundred and thirty-four people died. The shame of it is that we still haven’t been able to conclusively compensate the living. The court trial to point the blame for it conclusively continues to this day.
But we know the truth, don’t we? We killed one thousand one hundred and thirty-four people.
Ten years later, Statista made an attempt at identifying what the re-wear reality looks like. And from where I am sitting, it feels like they died for nothing.
It becomes imperative now more than ever to wear, re-wear, wear, re-wear. Not as a gratuitous ode to a fashion statement (quite similar to the one that recently made headlines for the awe it inspired in Shah Rukh Khan’s daughter. Read here.) But as a conscious fashion dialogue.
She further emphasised, "And if Alia Bhatt can re-wear her wedding saree then we can also repeat an outfit for a party."
Readings & watchings:
The impact of Bangladesh’s garment workers strike | Explained
How has the month-long strike by the ready-made garment sector workers affected the Sheikh Hasina government? What are the workers’ demands and how has the government responded? How much greenhouse gas does the fashion industry emit, and what are the decarbonisation measures being attempted?
Fashion Transparency Index 2023 by Fashion Revolution
An abysmal 1% of major fashion brands tell us the number of workers in their supply chains being paid a living wage.
This finding underlines the urgent need for living wage legislation, which we are actively campaigning for through Good Clothes, Fair Pay.
That’s the tea for today! Stay sipping, stay woke (yes, I am one of the last remaining anachronists who still believes in wokeness, but more on that next time!).