<p class="bodytext">As the mother of a teenager, I can attest that choosing the right attire is a daunting task—one that can spark more arguments than a debate on the meaning of life. I’m not talking about everyday school wear; most PU colleges, thankfully, have that sorted for us: full-sleeved <span class="italic">kurtas, salwars</span> with <span class="italic">dupattas</span>. It’s the other occasions --special and mundane--that turn our home into a battleground. From casual strolls in the park to fancy soirées, dress codes are the ultimate wedge that drives us to the brink of sanity.</p>.Size? Virtually no bar.<p class="bodytext">I recall countless times we’ve stepped out of the house with faces taut, eyes avoiding contact, and car doors slammed shut—all because of a disagreement over what to wear or an utterly ‘inadequate’ wardrobe. It is as if the fate of the world depends on the perfect outfit, which is, of course, never available on the day we need it. But once we are in the car and the music starts playing, the tension slowly dissipates. The playlist debate is always a contentious one, but at least it is a welcome distraction from the fashion fray.</p>.<p class="bodytext">The morning of April 16 was no<br />different. My daughter was getting ready to write her KCET, and I was in for a surprise.</p>.<p class="bodytext">The dress code was a minefield—no sleeveless, no full sleeves, nothing too loose, nothing too tight. The T-shirt and jeans combo was out, and don’t even get me started on the pocket situation. <span class="italic">Salwar</span> with <span class="italic">dupatta</span>? Sari? Shorts? No, no, and no. Track pants and half-sleeved <span class="italic">kurtis</span>? Allowed, but an emphatic no! “I wouldn’t be caught dead in them!” she declared. I was stumped.</p>.<p class="bodytext">After 18 years of being a mother to a girl, you would think I’d be better equipped. Trust me, I am used to shopping for every occasion—family weddings, neighbourhood weddings, birthdays of friends and family, dinners with friends, vacations, <span class="italic">dadi</span> house festivals, <span class="italic">ajji</span> house festivals, ethnic day, graduation day—you name it, and I’m usually ready. I thought I had cracked the wardrobe code and was prepared for anything. But this? This was uncharted territory. I thought I’d learned to plan ahead, keep reserves, and expect the unexpected. Clearly not. This dress code seemed designed to confound me. I was caught off guard.</p>.<p class="bodytext">A black track pant with a black T-shirt is what finally got the nod. It was <br />apt, too—for we were very much in protest mode.</p>.<p class="bodytext">I promised myself I will be better prepared for the next one. We have many more letters of the alphabet to cover. Armed now with a keen understanding of KCET’s fashion sensibilities, I’m out shopping for NEET, IAT, and COMEDK. Any letters missed? That’s ok, as long as the attire is right.</p>
<p class="bodytext">As the mother of a teenager, I can attest that choosing the right attire is a daunting task—one that can spark more arguments than a debate on the meaning of life. I’m not talking about everyday school wear; most PU colleges, thankfully, have that sorted for us: full-sleeved <span class="italic">kurtas, salwars</span> with <span class="italic">dupattas</span>. It’s the other occasions --special and mundane--that turn our home into a battleground. From casual strolls in the park to fancy soirées, dress codes are the ultimate wedge that drives us to the brink of sanity.</p>.Size? Virtually no bar.<p class="bodytext">I recall countless times we’ve stepped out of the house with faces taut, eyes avoiding contact, and car doors slammed shut—all because of a disagreement over what to wear or an utterly ‘inadequate’ wardrobe. It is as if the fate of the world depends on the perfect outfit, which is, of course, never available on the day we need it. But once we are in the car and the music starts playing, the tension slowly dissipates. The playlist debate is always a contentious one, but at least it is a welcome distraction from the fashion fray.</p>.<p class="bodytext">The morning of April 16 was no<br />different. My daughter was getting ready to write her KCET, and I was in for a surprise.</p>.<p class="bodytext">The dress code was a minefield—no sleeveless, no full sleeves, nothing too loose, nothing too tight. The T-shirt and jeans combo was out, and don’t even get me started on the pocket situation. <span class="italic">Salwar</span> with <span class="italic">dupatta</span>? Sari? Shorts? No, no, and no. Track pants and half-sleeved <span class="italic">kurtis</span>? Allowed, but an emphatic no! “I wouldn’t be caught dead in them!” she declared. I was stumped.</p>.<p class="bodytext">After 18 years of being a mother to a girl, you would think I’d be better equipped. Trust me, I am used to shopping for every occasion—family weddings, neighbourhood weddings, birthdays of friends and family, dinners with friends, vacations, <span class="italic">dadi</span> house festivals, <span class="italic">ajji</span> house festivals, ethnic day, graduation day—you name it, and I’m usually ready. I thought I had cracked the wardrobe code and was prepared for anything. But this? This was uncharted territory. I thought I’d learned to plan ahead, keep reserves, and expect the unexpected. Clearly not. This dress code seemed designed to confound me. I was caught off guard.</p>.<p class="bodytext">A black track pant with a black T-shirt is what finally got the nod. It was <br />apt, too—for we were very much in protest mode.</p>.<p class="bodytext">I promised myself I will be better prepared for the next one. We have many more letters of the alphabet to cover. Armed now with a keen understanding of KCET’s fashion sensibilities, I’m out shopping for NEET, IAT, and COMEDK. Any letters missed? That’s ok, as long as the attire is right.</p>
