A poem for Neel Ranaut, a fashion influencer from a village in Tripura, popular for his high-fashion looks using scrap and natural materials:
Far away in a distant hamlet,
of the north-eastern province of Tripura,
fate plays truant to most.
Tucked among the hills
and lush green spaces,
life is neglected and washed
away by nature’s forces.
Yet, this young man in his
flowery, green hamlet,
creates designer wear,
haute couture…
from all that one would
not care for.
Bitten by financial inadequacy,
gifted by nature’s bounty,
a young man with
a mind of his own.
Cycles around near
and far from home,
all through his village, he roams.
His queer fashion complements
his passion.
His family too is generous,
and embraces out-of-the-box
ideas for every reason.
His screen name he says is
Neel Ranaut,
and explains without
an iota of doubt,
the reason why.
Blue, blue, your heart is true,
so blue (Neel) he chooses,
fresh as dew.
Ranaut he adds on as
an ardent fan he stands
not out…
To the actress
Kangana Ranaut,
so, Neel Ranaut.
Neel has a competent team
of young boys, middle aged women folk,
and an old granny.
People of the soil, if I may say so,
they put together the treats.
Flowing gowns, hemmed and stitched to precision.
Tucked corsets of tiny wild blooms.
Brittle and spikey skirts,
mini as sea shells, micro as
a water hyacinth.
Bulbs from river growths, grass
swaying around as water floats.
Berries, blossoms, blooms
for crop tops,
Skippity shoes make him hop.
He uses his well-designed butt,
with a professional strut,
when fine, fishing nets
leave his flowing trail,
the audience’s jaw dropped, regaled.
Neel buys nothing, he wastes none.
His shopping spree, fresh as green pea,
is strewn around his neighbourhood.
Shashwat, sustainable life style,
renewable, melting, short lived,
living the moment in benign.
Humbled to bloom,
shall wilt away soon.
Thus, the fashion so fleeting.
Neel says his style is empowering, educative and entertaining.
I say it is entrepreneurial as well!
He includes in his wardrobe, nature’s bounty
with no count.
He needs no label line,
no hangers, no shine.
His disposition is that of a simpleton most of the times,
but when in character,
when he dresses to kill,
Neel is a diva for who thunderous applause fills.
Yet, not a high-handed model.
with cat’s whiskers,
or the airs of a tigress.
He emerges out of the meandering paths of the the farm,
from his pompous, earthy surroundings,
his herby, flowery, berry pharmacy.
With a grooving grameen granny,
who has a neem branch for a tooth brush
in hand.
Followed by his entourage of aunts, cousins,
and rural neighbours,
who roll their sleeves up
to put together,
an outfit for Shakespeare’s pixie.
Absolutely stunning, amazing grace,
his gait, his strut, his walk,
no more a playful village boy.
His farm lands, the railway track,
the river bed,
his ramp is anywhere and
everywhere.
He takes off with the zephyr
kissing his locks,
the open rice fields
and the birds to talk to,
The brook adds to the music,
and there you watch:
‘There goes my only temptation…’
Granny dear leaves no room to cheer,
the sheep and lamb
skip around.
The wind blows,
time slows…
Neel opens his pout to blow his disobedient lock of hair.
Neel is an advocate by profession,
he got rid of his judgmental job,
to embrace his passion,
to be in his skin with his
kith and kin.
His creative bent of mind,
has already grabbed the media’s attention,
This young lad with no fad yet,
has miles to go,
but not without grandma,
who is his trophy and arm candy!