Ranveer in skirts, Deepika with no make-up: Bajirao Mastani makes some bold fashion statements

by Mitali Parekh Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s movies are an act of nationalism. They spark a renewed interest in everyday regional wear and make glamorous the ordinary clothes and jewellery worn by our mothers and aunts. For at least three years after Devdas, Bengali-themes and puffed-sleeves blouses were adopted by Maharashtrians for thread ceremonies, by Gujaratis for cocktail parties and Sindhis and Punjabis for Mata Ki Chowki. Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam displaced lehengas with everyday vegetable-dyed cotton bandhini ghagra-cholis worn with net dupattas and contrasting blouses. Bajirao Mastani is set to do the same with Maharashtrian chic, a region that is not on the radar for fashion cues. Anju Modi, who also did the costumes for Ram-Leela, is an able hand in research and reproduction, yet there are some stumbles. [caption id=“attachment_2545858” align=“alignleft” width=“380”]  Stills from Bajirao Mastani.[/caption] Bhansali favours the red and white contrast and injures the film in its pursuit. Priyanka Chopra (as Kashibai) wears too much white. As a ‘savashin’ (married woman), it is a colour she would completely avoid. She might wear ‘motiya’ (a pearlescent hue); or a light beige (‘biscuitee’ if you speak Marathi), but even that is reserved for mature women over 40 or 50. This clashes loudly with the visual establishment of Kashibai as a ‘gruhini’ or ‘gruhlakshmi’ — a dutiful, conservative woman bedecked by marital totems. Even Bajirao’s widowed mother, Radhabai (Tanvi Azmi) is seen wearing only white. White is not a colour of mourning in that state (the protocol is to wear ‘malkat’ which literally means dirty or faded colours such as browns, beige and greys) and widows of that era were more likely to wear maroon or a dull brown. The traditional colours of a nauvari (nine-yard sari) are conspicuous by their absence — deep purple or jambhali (from the jamun fruit), morpishi (peacock feather blue), haldi peulla (turmeric yellow) and chutney green. There is an ample rainfall of pearl-based jewellery typical to the Kokan (coastal region from where the Chitapavan Konkanastha Brahmins originate) such as the tanmani, kaan-chain, dandatle (armbands), kudya (seven point flower ear buttons made of diamonds, pearls or gold beads worn by mature women); variation in naths, dozens of green bangles, traditional necklaces such as the kolhapuri saaz, ambe haar, goonf, thushi and on point representation of the nuanced jewellery pieces such as the lagnamani (a single gold bead given during the wedding rites, later worn on a string of black beads a long as the groom). In this detailed landscape, the absence of patlya (flat, broad bangles) and thin bangles is even more marked. Instead, Kashibai wears banal todas or kangans. This visual establishment of Kashibai wearing a shela (brocade shawl) and all the marriage totems is a very important and strong contrast against how Mastani (Deepika Padukone) and Bajirao (Ranveer Singh) are presented. Through most of the movie, but more impactful in her introduction, Mastani wears no make-up and very less jewellery. Not even the line of kajal customary to all Indian women. In doing so, Anju Modi juxtaposes the hindu-brahmin Kashibai (with her chandra-kor or crescent bindi) and the culturally muslim Mastani (with no sindoor or bindi); the socially accepted wife and the outsider; the worldly and homely woman, and the ethereal ideal. Kashibai is entangled by the duties of her social position and her jewellery; Mastani is set free by the lack of it. The effect is compounded by the ivory, dull gold and creams of Mastani’s layered diaphanous clothes, flat-cut diamond and pearl jewellery. This purity, innocence and unawareness of social protocol is something she shares with Bajirao, who is also introduced to us a young Bhatt boy devoid of facial hair, wearing only white. Ranveer’s acting talent may have secured him the role, but he delivers success with his talent for clothes. Among his peers, Ranveer stands out for fearless sartorial experiments. In these times, the peshwa costumes could seem feminine with the bigbaali (large ruby and pearl ring worn at the helix) and panelled angrakhas, but it’s to Ranveer wears them with ease and a masculine brutality. Modi misses a chance is to weave the affluence that Mastani brought to the peshwa court, though it’s mentioned in the dialogue (when Bajirao accuses his brother, Chimnaji Appa, of enjoying the spoils of Bundlekhand). Mastani’s dowry included some mines of Panna which yielded diamonds and emeralds. A progression of jadau jewellery on Kashibai or Chimnaji’s person and then, finally spilling diamonds or emeralds instead of pearls when he yanks at Chimnaji’s ornament would have been an accurate double-punch. This lack of detail is vivid because of the astute care taken in other areas such as Kashibai’s hair. Instead of a sleek bun, her hair is first curled and then coiffed to get the curly texture of Maharashtrian hair; disappointingly Mastani’s hair falls without a wave and is un-oiled, ignoring another prominent beauty ritual. These misses aside, Bajirao Mastani will hopefully have the lasting effecting of other Bhansali movies — it will grant a place of honour to pearl jewellery and catalyse a revival of Banarasi nauvaris, especially in that burgundy hue.