The Bespoke Dresses that Spoke Love
Ammi with her treasures on earth, my brother and I. Ammi and I in bespoke sarees at my cousin's wedding in Colombo, Sri Lanka
Ammi, as I call my mother, had been stitching clothes for me since before I was born. Each time her fingers pierced the fabric with the needle, she infused it with her longing for a daughter: a daughter who was independent, worked diligently, and was able to do everything. By everything she meant intellectual pursuits, care and concern for others, as well as creative work. She constantly reminded me that the femininity I was bestowed with meant the opportunity to excel in all these areas and she led by example. Clothes were an expression of her love for me, and a channel through which she taught me to be creative and to value myself no matter my season of life or what hardships she was going through herself.
One afternoon in my teenage years, Ammi drove me to an atelier called “Petals” situated inside the compound of Bernard Botejue garment factories in Dehiwala, just outside of Colombo, Sri Lanka. This trip and countless others like it widened the aperture of my understanding of creativity and individuality. When I walked into the atelier that day with Ammi, I already had a lifetime of experiences and memories of many such visits, not all of which were positive.
My earliest memories of bespoke clothes are of special occasion dresses ironed and hung in my room. She took me for measurements and for trial fittings but I was mostly a silent observer. After wearing a dress and feeling uncomfortable, I rebelled when it was time to wear it again. I remembered the feeling of itchy threads around my arms and of sweat gluing the fabric to my back in the punishing heat of Sri Lanka. My cries escalated to tantrums as they were the only weapons available to my five-year-old self but they failed to accomplish their purpose. Instead, Ammi stood stolidly and enforced her authority. What she had decided and thought was appropriate, I had to wear. When she would enforce her choice of dress on me, she also gave me a lesson on social norms governing Colombo society in the 1990s.
This day was different—it marked an epochal shift because Ammi had given me complete freedom, from choosing the fabric to the style of the dress. A new era had begun. This was the start of mending and darning holes in my relationship with Ammi, holes left by her authoritative nature when I was younger. As I got to choose fabrics and styles that I found friendly to my personal tastes, Ammi began becoming a friend to me. A friend who understood and validated my attempts at designing and wearing something original by investing her money, time, and effort in them.
“This was a victorious moment for me; a hard-earned trophy after years of submitting to the decisions of my mother and dress designers. ”
Ammi in a bespoke saree and I in a bespoke dress, a dress in the colors of the sunset that I wanted and a neck piece that was hand sewn by Ammi and I. 2010. Colombo Sri Lanka
I was a teenager, with just another party to go to, and Ammi was a wizard of operations running a business, managing an extraordinary household that regularly fed more than 20 people at some meals. But our time with the dressmakers was important—no, essential—work to her. During the car ride to the atelier to see the first dress that I had designed and chosen fabric for myself, I visualized how my hand-sketched design would have sprung to life since I left it with the seamstress. My mother said she hoped that it didn’t need many adjustments and that the fabric was cut neatly and accurately. “The problem with them,” she added thoughtfully, “is that they tend to be so hit or miss, at times they surpass our expectations, and at others the results are underwhelming.”
I wasn’t willing to entertain the possibility of failure. This was a victorious moment for me; a hard-earned trophy after years of submitting to the decisions of my mother and dress designers. I savored the new freedom that this dress represented; the freedom to choose the type of fabric, cut, and color myself. To me, the most exciting part about this dress was the cutaway sleeves. They were more than just a design element. It marked a clean break from the puffed sleeves that had “girl child” written all over them. I also felt grown-up because my lexicon had expanded to include some of the vocabulary of tailoring. I had the liberty to pick styles that flattered my teenage silhouette. A-line and princess line cuts were my favorites.
As I tried on the dress, Ammi excitedly burst in to look, but her face fell at the sight of the dress. She instantly recognized that it was not how I wanted it to be. I was dumbfounded wondering if the design I drew wasn’t good enough or if my words had failed to communicate what I had in mind. As I stood there trying to put a finger on where I’d gone wrong, Ammi wasted no time taking the dress from me and marching out of the fitting room. She was impatient to set things right and confronted the manager and the seamstress who were waiting outside. My preferences, regardless of how she felt about them, were now her own. Her voice, an explosion of passion and authority, drowned out the humming of sewing machines. I was astounded when I heard her saying, “unfortunately, this is not what she had in mind. I will bring in fabric, and I would like you to please stitch a brand new dress. This time, I want the dress to be identical to the design she has given.”
I was in disbelief that Ammi, who wasted nothing, had not only embraced my design but had become a champion to such an extent that she was willing to discard a dress that had already been made. Bespoke dresses were not very expensive in Sri Lanka — in fact they were comparable to ready-made clothes. So the decision to get a bespoke dress made was based on attitude, values, effort, and time. She took on this project intentionally and with passion because to her, I was unique, and an off-the-rack dress, one of many, was simply not good enough. She respected my preferences and creative mind; if my idiosyncrasies and peculiarities were colossal, her love for me dwarfed them. I remember one particular occasion in my twenties, for which I had an unconventional idea: I wanted to create the appearance of a necklace as a part of my dress. Ammi supported my idea although it seemed a tad impractical and a challenging piece to execute. She helped me stitch each bead when my fingers grew weary. Although the design I had in my mind was whimsical, never once did she question my desire to imagine or create, not even when her own fingers hurt.
“If not for her, I might have been confined to the scholarly box that the school drew around me, and might never have recognized the value, relevance, and beauty of art in everyday life. ”
In the trade of seeing, I was an apprentice under my mother. If not for her, I might have been confined to the scholarly box that the school drew around me, and might never have recognized the value, relevance, and beauty of art in everyday life. By observing her I learned how to “see” form, texture, structure, and details around me. I remember how she would find inspiration for her wardrobe in random places like a flower in a centrepiece at a restaurant, a painting in a magazine, a vase in a store, or even a tablecloth at a friend’s house and sketch it on any scrap piece of paper she could lay her hands on for a future outfit. In the pre-phone-camera era, she would then follow her memory, along with her sketch, trying to match fabric, sequins, threads, and beads to give life to the design. The gift of seeing is a gift that keeps on giving in my life. I see her investment in my vision when I notice the veins of leaves, the azure skies that turn to ombre sunsets, hand-embroidered flowers on a stranger’s blouse, an ill-fitting dress that begs for a dart, or the chicken leg I serve my kids that pleads to be a pterodactyl.
But getting dresses custom-made was messy and risky business. It sometimes resulted in epic failures where the design didn’t materialize the way I imagined despite the seamstress executing my sketches perfectly. I was stuck with my own designs and had to wear them, because Ammi didn’t discard every dress that didn’t turn out well. Even when my energy and excitement floundered, Ammi’s never wavered. She kept taking me back to draw from the well of creativity and to strengthen my muscles of perseverance and originality.
The magic of touching various textures and imagining dress designs found in the thick McCall and Butterick pattern books or paper cuttings from magazines my mother had saved are still vivid in my mind. A frequent visitor to the fabric shops, the store staff knew her by name and hovered around her like moths by a flame. Every time I spotted a fabric I liked, she would ask them to drape it around my shoulders so I could imagine myself wearing a dress made of that fabric. With the dawn of the internet, she and I spent time admiring the work of global heavyweights discussing the mechanics of the dresses and finding inspiration for our own. I remember being mesmerized by the collections of John Galliano for Dior on the catwalk and marveling at the intricate embroidery and embellishments on pieces by Elie Saab. These experiences offered an oasis in my everyday life to dwell on beautiful possibilities, thanks to Ammi who exposed me to the grammar of fashion.
Ammi in a bespoke saree flanked by models wearing her creations at a fashion show showcasing her creations and my friends and mine. 2009, Colombo, Sri Lanka
Through shopping with Ammi in Colombo, New Delhi, Bangalore, and various cities in the U.S. where I pursued my higher education, I learned about how to effectively communicate with strangers, even those who didn’t speak our language or know our culture. She was charming and knew how to communicate with shop floor assistants of varied cultures and walks of life. She had a razor-sharp focus and a disarming smile that would galvanize even the most obstinate troops for her cause. Even when I felt guilty that I hadn’t found anything I liked and would tell her that we should give up, she never once did. She would speak so endearingly and explain euphemistically how my tastes were “selective,” motivating them to pull out fabric after fabric, adding, “because you have to give the best for my daughter,” somehow without trying their patience. She would know exactly what I wanted although sometimes I had trouble describing and explaining myself to the sellers. She would make friends with the staff, asking them for recommendations for whatever she needed, and before long she had a notebook with a list of stores, people, and their contact information, with hand-drawn maps added in for good measure. Once we ran out of fabric she was able to source extra of the exact same shade and material from Thailand days after we had returned to Sri Lanka, thanks to these meticulous notes.
When, in my twenties, I found myself living in America and encountered the gigantic modern malls with endless rows of ready-made clothes, I found shopping to be a drab and dull experience. Although some were impeccably stitched and elegant in design, the thought that there were rows of the same thing and that I wouldn’t be involved in the creation made it less desirable. Shopping for ready-made clothes was like giving a completed puzzle to a crossword aficionada.
“When I couldn’t care less about what I wore, or couldn’t be bothered to go shopping, Ammi would pull fabrics from her stash at home and stitch tops from scratch in the afternoon in time for my evening dates with my boyfriend.”
When my aspirations and assignments in my young adult years weighed me down, bespoke dresses felt like vestiges of a frivolous childhood with Ammi. But when I was home, I would drag myself to look at fabrics and get clothes made. I kept going, partly to satisfy Ammi, and partly out of habit. During my short vacations home when I had so little time, she would persuade me by saying that she just wanted me to see the fabrics she had selected and placed on hold at the fabric shops. I would get in the car with my laptop and type feverishly while she drove. When I couldn’t care less about what I wore, or couldn’t be bothered to go shopping, Ammi would pull fabrics from her stash at home and stitch tops from scratch in the afternoon in time for my evening dates with my boyfriend. Excited that I had fallen in love, it was her way of channelling her energy and expressing her excitement about my blossoming romance.
My world beyond Ammi wasn’t always kind or fair. But whatever the circumstances I faced, my ship had a safe, constant, and secure harbour in Ammi. She looked ahead into my social calendar, shopped for fabrics in her free time, pored over magazines, and was prepared even at short notice to eagerly take me shopping to craft unique and one-of-a-kind outfits to suit my every whim and fancy, all because I was precious to her. We shopped together countless times and our shopping trips were never short — not because I had trouble limiting my purchases, but because I was notoriously picky. She always said, “Baba, you have to like what you wear, I am not the one wearing it, so you have to be happy!” But she often laughingly said “I am going shopping with Anushka, so, I will most likely come back empty-handed,” and after a pause, she’d screw her nose and say “you know how she is.” Even as recently as the year before I became pregnant with my now-toddler, I would WhatsApp designs of clothes to Ammi and she would source fabrics and have them stitched in preparation of my arrival in Sri Lanka for the holidays. She would dress up in the clothes she got stitched for me (we were both a similar size) and send me pictures or show me during a video call and comment on how neatly (or not) it was stitched, and which parts she thought needed to be adjusted. When I arrived home, she would do the alterations on her machine or take the clothes to the tailor with pins in them, marking the adjustments she thought necessary. Whatever the circumstances in my life or hers, my needs, my wardrobe included, were her priority. The secure and predictable base she gave me to stand on made me fearless in the face of life’s many storms, especially those that questioned my value and worth.
Ammi with my oldest, Gian at her last Christmas Mass. 2018. Colombo,Sri Lanka
As a mother myself, I want to sparkle some of Ammi’s fairy dust on my children by honoring and respecting their choices and tastes for clothes. There have been times we’ve vetoed my son’s choices, but for the most part, we recognize that he is an individual with preferences and that clothes are an expression of oneself. From his toddler years, my son loved to dress up. I used to joke that if he had his way, he’d wear a full suit with a bowtie to the park! The year before Ammi went to heaven, while she had my son Gian in her care, she sent me a photo of my then-four-year-old in a button-down shirt at the park playing football (one of the many outfits she had let him pick on a shopping trip shortly before). This poignant but painful memory of how Ammi indulged Gian even though his choice was slightly whimsical has a special place in my bank of memories.
When Ammi lay unconscious in a hospital bed and the doctor described her chances of survival as “astronomically low,” one of the most painful thoughts that ran through my head was that my daughter Amarya wouldn’t be spoiled by Ammi, not just with material things but with love, affection, and respect for who she is. It feels unfair because I know no one who loves so lavishly as she did. With gratitude, I hold on to the memory of Ammi sending me pictures of clothes she had purchased for Amarya to ask if I approved of them. Amarya was an infant who was not yet six months, but because I was the mother, Ammi wanted me to choose what I liked for my baby. That memory teaches me that loving a person is not to stifle and compel the other to submit to our choices but to give space for them to discover and carve their own identity.
“As a mother myself, I want to sparkle some of Ammi’s fairy dust on my children by honoring and respecting their choices and tastes for clothes.”
Ammi with my daughter, Amarya at Easter in 2019 in the United Kingdom
Memories with Ammi are inextricably tied to clothes. We had so many conversations about clothes, from the latest trends, to what she had seen in shop windows, to clothes she had admired on people at the frequent and large social events that are a part of everyday life in Colombo. As I sorrowfully look back at the last activity I did with her hours before she collapsed, I can’t help feeling grateful that she and I sat side by side late into the night going over online fashion to pick pieces for her winter wardrobe. She was eagerly looking forward to spending more time with her grandchildren in the US and the UK with climates vastly different to sunny Sri Lanka. Alas, that was not meant to be.
Ammi’s love was a bottomless pit from which I felt comfortable and confident drawing. I went to Ammi to get lost in a fantasy world of color and texture, to be honest and open even if it was about a specific desire, like a dress in the colors of the sunset with a jewelled neckline. I went to Ammi because she would stand by me even as I defied norms and stereotypes with my peculiar designs and interests. I went to Ammi during passing storms and trials because I knew with certainty that her loyalty was permanent and would give me refuge. I went to Ammi because my ideas were worth her effort, time, and money and she etched her love for me into my being like the DNA she passed onto me. I went to Ammi to be a child even when I had children of my own because I was always hers, first. I cannot go to Ammi now, but I realize that by all those times I did she filled me to excess. And it is my turn now to pour and to fill.
