A Set Mundu. A small chandanakuri.
To some, they signal tradition. To others, they become carefully curated artefacts—extracted from lived histories and repackaged to circulate smoothly within the neoliberal marketplace of culture.
To me, they were simply comfort, continuity, and choice.
This is a quiet reflection on how we read bodies through fabric—and what it means to reclaim the right to be oneself without explanation.
How often have you judged someone merely by their appearance?
Despite the old wisdom — “Never judge a book by its cover” — we continue to do exactly that. We label, we assume, we build entire stories around what people wear. And yes, I’ve been part of those stories too — sometimes as the storyteller, sometimes as the subject.
For many of us in Kerala, the Set Mundu is not just a garment; it’s a symbol. It carries the colour of Onam, the memory of Kerala Piravi, and the grace we associate with tradition. But what happens when someone chooses to wear the Set Mundu not just on special occasions, but as part of her everyday life — complete with a small chandanakuri on her forehead?
That someone was me.
The Saree and I
I have loved sarees and the Set Mundu for as long as I can remember. Growing up, even a touch of lipstick or eyeliner needed parental permission, and, likewise, I was allowed to wear a saree only after my post-graduation. Then came the whirlwind years — research, work, marriage, children — and somewhere in between, clothing became both habit and expression.
When I began teaching, I wanted to feel confident, professional, and fully myself. My father often said that sarees suited me, and those words stayed with me. So, the saree became my second skin — graceful, strong, endlessly adaptable.
Later, when colleagues remarked that the Set Mundu suited me even better, I decided to wear it more often. My mother-in-law added to my wardrobe with exquisite pieces of set mundu, bought by her as well as gifted to her by others. Slowly, my collection became an archive of affection, memory stitched into cotton and kasavu.
As for the chandanakuri — that came naturally. It had always been a quiet part of my morning routine, a gesture that connected me to a sense of calm and continuity. To me, it wasn’t about ritual or statement, but a kind of gentle grounding — a reminder of balance in the rush of everyday life.
When Dress Becomes Identity
By the time I joined the University in 2017, the Set Mundu and the chandanakuri had quietly become part of who I was. I didn’t think of it as remarkable — until I noticed that it made me stand out. Few others wore it regularly, and soon, the outfit began to speak louder than I did.
It’s strange how easily we turn clothing into identity. The same fabric that once symbolized celebration or heritage began to invite curiosity, assumptions, even quiet conclusions about my personality. Some found it elegant; others found it “traditional.” Yet another group with vested interests graciously interpreted my attire as a political identity, thoughtfully laying thorns and stones along my way—so that every step I took as the Director of the Centre for Women’s Studies became, quite unintentionally, a test of resilience! But to me, it was simply me — comfortable, confident, and unpretentious.
Beyond Appearances
I come from a home where my father raised his daughters to think for themselves — to be strong, curious, and self-reliant. So independence was never a borrowed idea; it was a way of growing up. Questioning, exploring, and thinking beyond what was expected came naturally.
That’s why I never saw the Set Mundu or the chandanakuri as symbols that confined me. If anything, they became ways of redefining what strength could look like 'for me' — quiet, graceful, unafraid to be different.
For me, feminism has never been about rejecting what is seen as “feminine.” It’s about reclaiming choice — about wearing what one feels to be aesthetic, doing what feels meaningful, and living in ways that honour one’s own rhythm.
The Meaning of Continuity
These days, I don’t wear the Set Mundu as often. Life has changed — the long working hours, the unpredictable weather, the convenience of something lighter and quicker to drape. Yet, that doesn’t mean I’ve shed what it once symbolized.
The chandanakuri still remains — small, simple, and serene. To me, it’s a quiet reminder that meaning doesn’t always reside in grand gestures. Sometimes, it lingers in gestures of quiet continuity, in the small rituals that hold our days together.
You can be deeply religious and genuinely secular at once — when faith doesn’t divide, and reason doesn’t dismiss. The two are not opposites but parallel paths that meet in integrity. Faith, at its best, is not blind obedience but the art of belonging — to something larger, more luminous than the self. Secularism, at its heart, is not the absence of belief but the presence of respect — the space where every faith, or the lack of it, can breathe without fear. The true tension of our times is not between religion and secularism, but between arrogance and understanding. To be both devout and open-minded is not contradiction — it is grace.
Ultimately, how we dress need not be an act of conformity or defiance, but of comfort, creativity, and quiet confidence. Clothing, after all, is not just fabric — it is a conversation between the self and the world. And the most powerful act of rebellion is not in what you wear, but in how unafraid you are to be yourself while wearing it.
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