Notes on Materiality, Ritual, and Grief
My parents at their wedding in Koonammavu, Kerala, India in May, 1980.
My dad died ten days ago. It was sudden and it was unexpected.
Saying “it was sudden and unexpected,” seems to be the best way to preemptively stop people from asking follow-up questions. The last few days have simultaneously been the quickest and slowest of my entire life. The duties of hosting grieving family members, along with the chaos of planning a wake, a funeral, and making burial arrangements – all of which is happening at what I hope is the tail-end of a global pandemic – means that an entire week flew past in the blink of an eye. But then suddenly time comes to an absolute standstill whenever his final moments replay in my mind continually throughout the day, as they have every single day: rushing downstairs, holding my father as he took his final breaths, and trying in vain to keep him with us until the paramedics arrived.
I was pushed headfirst into grief, and planning his services meant I was constantly reminded of loss even when I didn’t want to be. Meetings with the funeral director, selecting hymns for the cantor, and flipping through both physical and digital photo albums to look for photographs for the slideshow – I’ve been in a bubble of sorrow, made all the more painful when I think of things I’d like to share with him, only to realize I can’t speak to him anymore. Throughout this surreal process, I’ve learned a lot about myself. That goes without saying. But I’ve been struck in particular by the role of clothing in the last few days.
“The aesthetics of death were a constant presence in the days following my father’s passing.”
Together with my father, mother, and sister when I received my Master’s degree from Parsons.
The aesthetics of death were a constant presence in the days following my father’s passing. As we discussed arrangements for the viewing, I asked my mom whether my dad had a suit that fit well. Due to complications of Parkinson’s Disease, my father had lost quite a bit of weight in recent years, and a lot of his existing wardrobe would have been comically oversized on his tiny frame. My mother reassured me that she had a well-fitting suit but insisted that the shirt be new and unworn, in line with South Indian funereal tradition. An uncle asked if we had a tie for him to wear, and I quickly interjected, “No tie. We can’t put a tie on him, he doesn’t like to wear ties—”
I felt the lump in my throat grow large as the tears began welling into my eyes faster than I could will them back down. Discussing the garments that would adorn my beloved father’s body as he was lowered into the earth wasn’t something I was prepared for. Thinking of clothing felt like the wrong thing to do. To care about fashion, textiles, brands – what did it matter? But it did matter. Perhaps more so than any other clothing-related decision I’ve ever made in my life. It was my first real breakdown after his death. My relationship with clothing, deepened by my work in fashion studies, seemed more salient than ever. It became critically important to me that I make the right decisions at that moment. I insisted that we find the designer socks I’d bought my father on a trip to London two years ago. He hadn’t worn them even once, but it brought me peace knowing that something I’d given to him as a gift would be with his physical being forever.
Over the last ten days, I’ve been searching for ways to connect with my father in a tangible way. I thought of what I’d observed since first returning to stay with my parents in Maryland last March at the start of the pandemic. I saw the way he lived his life – and the challenges of living in a world that isn’t designed for disabled bodies. Now, even the mere thought of how his body would seemingly dance and sway because of his illness makes my heart ache.
“On the day of his viewing, I stepped into my parents’ room and retrieved the emerald-hued bottle of Brut, and with tears in my eyes, sprayed it directly onto my body. This is the closest I had felt to him since he’d left. ”
Despite the physical pain and limitations of his body, my dad was incredibly independent and disciplined whenever he could be. Each evening, he had a routine of cleaning the home workshop where he spent most of his days, and then he would take a shower. His regimen was complete only when he’d put on two sprays of cologne. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t leaving the house, and that he only saw me, my mother, and occasionally my sister who lives a state away. The scent of his fragrance was a sort of Pavlovian signal to me that he was getting ready for bed and that perhaps I should, too. My friends often poke fun at the fact that I continued to purchase and wear perfume throughout the pandemic even when I was sitting alone working at my desk. Now I know where I get it from.
On the day of his viewing, I stepped into my parents’ room and retrieved the emerald-hued bottle of Brut, and with tears in my eyes, sprayed it directly onto my body. This is the closest I had felt to him since he’d left. As that familiar scent of sandalwood, vetiver, and jasmine filled my nose, it was as though he was standing by my side – hugging me, even. Another spritz or two were directed toward my suit. I perhaps put on a bit too much, but it was what I needed. Later that day, as I entered the funeral home and saw him lying there – a body finally at rest after years of constant painful motion – I pulled out his cologne and sprayed it on to him. I’d never once noticed or acknowledged how the rituals of grooming were important to him, just as they are to me. It seemed so natural that I never questioned it. And it was unspeakably meaningful for me to complete the ritual for him one final time.
Now, in the new normal that makes up our lives, my mother, sister, and I make daily two-hour round trips to the cemetery to visit my father. I wear his gold watch every day so I can feel him on my wrist, but now I have a new sort of emerging fashion anxiety that I wasn’t anticipating. Is it okay to wear color to the cemetery? Is it improper to wear the new Simpsons t-shirt I purchased two days before he passed? Just how am I supposed to dress now? Is it disrespectful to care about what I’m wearing when I visit my father’s grave, and how can I respect his memory with my dress practice? When is it okay to start caring about my own appearance again?
My father and me, in the early 1990s.
I didn’t know my father as a particularly fashion-minded person, but I like to think that he enjoyed seeing me explore fashion in my own way. Getting an upvote from him meant more to me than anyone else, because if he noticed, it meant that whatever I was wearing must have been very special indeed. Fashion has the distinct ability to not only affirm life, but also to celebrate it, and one day, to punctuate it. Its presence in these last few essential days has allowed me to begin the long and arduous ordeal of processing this loss and moving forward as he would have wanted. I’m still struck by moments of darkness: seeing my mother trying to navigate life as a widow, watching my sister (the responsible one) piecing our lives back together, and noticing his empty chair in the kitchen. But I’m also awed by moments of light – of our family and friends coming together, not only to mourn his loss but more importantly to honor his memory; not only to support us in our grief, but to look to us to inform their own.
For now, I begin this next chapter by letting you know that once, there was a man named Antony Palliparambil. He wore white bell bottoms to his wedding. He sported more styles of beards and mustaches than any one person ever should. He loved the color yellow, and looked radiant when he wore it. He lived a beautiful life. And I wear his name proudly as my own.
