KEH DO NA, YOU WILL BUY SONI YAAR
Prasad Bidapa, John Abraham, David Whitbread

To open, AS’s models queued sideways stage centre, heads were heavily bandaged (and some hands and feet), as if fresh from some lobotomy gone wrong. A creepy theatrical device or a riposte to fashion’s perceived brainlesssness? Who are we to say, after all? We can only comment on the clothes. The tops, the pants, the fabric, the surface interest, and the restraint, the restraint: a real palate cleanser.

The closing lineup of pristine white was the strongest, its delicate tone-on-tone embroidery and transparency true crowd-pleasers. Earlier, denim was showcased in a washed softness that lent well to witty off-the-shoulder bustiers, ruched blouses and jeans. The palette was beige, tan and sand in tandem with soft blues and stark whites. The hues of the ombre-dyed denims made them must-haves.

The men’s boxy jackets and wider pants looked a bit dated, but their white cotton boot-cuts were funky. The denim bandhgala was dropdead smart and overall, the Sonis seem totally in sync with the moment. Sample standouts? An asymmetric white cotton shirt on Michelle Innes. Cool also to the extreme were the ultra-lowslung jeans shown by Aussie boy David, with fab abs much in view. But then, for most wearers that’d be the first area to need bandaging from sight.

MANISH ARORA: HIGHLIGHT, LOW LIGHT
Fashion’s erstwhile bad boy sent out a women’s collection in boudoir lighting so low that the audience had to strain hard not to miss a thing. It was set to a soundtrack titillating with snatches of dialogue meant to remind us of recent telephonic druggy doings. While not trying to guess what it was saying, we thought we saw, through the gloom, floral skullcaps and long flowing hair extensions, a Pocahontas dress here, a corset-cum-cummerbund there, tiers of ruching and mirror work reflecting what little light there was.

Lots of girls had rosette badges with numbers on them as if in a contest, some carried magnifying glasses through which they scrutinised the audience. It might have been better if they had turned the magnifying glasses on what they were wearing so we could see too.

Manish likes to create a stir, but apart from a slogan about Jack and Jill having had sex, there was little to raise the plucked eyebrows of the partisan audience. He was marching to a different drummer, offering calf-length skirts that could look a bit dowdy on non-models, in an eclectic assortment of lace, velvet, silk, tulle and day-glo crochet in layers, cut-outs and patchwork. He embellished with huge hearts and floral cut-outs, harlequin patches, crocheted motifs, transfers and graphics. The finale rather sweetly spelt each model’s name in Hinglish on their T-shirts. Manish exults in being the Galliano of Indian fashion, but shock value means little in the harsh new world we live in, and Manish is savvy enough to read the writing on the wall. Assuming he has enough light to see it.

RANNA GILL: NOT RUNNA-THE-MILL
Guess what the backstage buzz was – the models simply loved Ranna’s extremely wearable, sophisticated offerings that used tribal imagery and embellishments for a look that should translate well to the High Street. Her finish was impeccable and her fabrics carefully chosen in an international colour grid. The feel-good factor is evident in that models who wear designer wear are usually a good index to what works. There’s sure to be a Ranna on her collection when it hits the stores.

RINA DHAKA: WHAT’S UP, DHAKA?
What’s interesting is a rite of passage, showing how so many of the Brave New Generation have grown into their craft. There’s still a way to go, but the process will continue. Take Rina Dhaka or her exquisitely-worked blouses in white, tea, dune, unbleached and bone; pleated, tucked, appliquéd, dori-ed, cross-stitched. Shelf appeal with an edge. Her pants on the other hand kept buyers guessing but where were the prizes for the right answer? On details; embroidered leather chaps were good, and how dori became rassi in embellishment deserved huzzahs and she mix-matched all the world’s tribal influences into one great, accurate melting pot. Her ethnics were given a sheer urban tweaking; and so was our curiosity when one girl left and some gent – slightly more mature than the other male models in Fashion Week – plodded on in a long kurta. No one was sure who he was till he came on at the end with the girls. Well, a little mystery is always nice.