Madras Check: Great leveller from Matunga to Manhattan

There's apparently nothing in common between Ramasubbu and Brooks Brothers. The former is a street vendor in Matunga Market, Mumbai. The latter, an upmarket men's clothing brand – the oldest in the US – headquartered in Manhattan. But dig deeper, and you'll find that they're inextricably linked by a design so much a part of Indian society that we seldom think twice about it.

It's the Madras check, also known as Madras fabric, Madras plaid, or simply, 'Madras'. Dharavi resident Ramasubbu sells printed Madras T-shirts and thorthus (thin white cotton towels from Kerala) and swears by Madras fabric. "The shirts aren't handwoven anymore, but people still buy them. They're affordable, good for summer and never out of style," he beams.

Brooks Brothers was the first to introduce Madras to Americans (1902) and position it as preppy attire. But back in India, it is the weave of the masses – so much so that it was the pick for RK Laxman's iconic Common Man, who teamed a Madras jacket with a veshti as he observed the goings-on around him.

"Great value wasn't proscribed to Madras checks, because they were such a part and parcel of life in the south," says designer Prasad Ramamurthy, who retails traditional weave-inspired menswear under his Tät label. But their adaptability to myriad silhouettes makes them timeless despite being taken for granted. "Whether it's a shirt, dress or shoe, Madras is universal compared to motifs with more Eastern sensibilities. That's why it's so popular," he adds.

Interestingly, the traditional pattern, found on the largely blue and white lungis, wasn't worn by upper caste Indians. Lungis were not only associated with communities such as Mappilas (Malayali Muslims), but also the working classes. "Mostly labourers, toddy tappers and farmers," observes Jaya Jaitly, founder-president of Dastkari Haat Samiti. "The upper classes preferred white veshtis with a gold or other colour border."

But the runway knows no lower caste-this and upper caste-that. In 2013, designer Aneeth Arora showcased lungi-inspired palazzo pants for her Péro spring-summer collection… a long way from the pattern's humble beginnings as a kerchief.

Roots
The real Madras handkerchief (RMH) started life as a mark of colonisation. After anchoring itself in then-Madraspatnam, the East India Company instated Scottish regiment 78th Highlanders as a 'peacekeeping force'. The Scottish Tartan, then, may have influenced the Madras check.

Madras' growth as a cotton hub created the RMH, used as a headwrap by those enslaved in as far as the Caribbean. "Madras checks came from the RMH, which was shipped to African countries and the Middle East as a chief trade item," says Rta Kapur Chishti, designer and author of Saris of India: Tradition & Beyond. So central was its role in colonies, wrote Steeve Buckridge in The Language of Dress: Resistance and Accommodation in Jamaica, 1750-1890, that the Kalabari people of Nigeria called it 'Injiri', meaning 'Real India'.

The weave found its way into lungis and, adds Rta, the cotton-and-silk Korainadu sari – a cheaper version of the all-silk sari – mostly worn by the wives of milk vendors.

How the Madras check went from being synonymous with slavery and blue collar workers to an upper crust symbol is a story for posterity.

When Madras bled
Before he founded Leela Group of Hotels, Captain Chittarath Poovakkatt Krishnan Nair was a garment exporter and founder of Leela Lace Holdings Pvt. Ltd. The story goes that sometime in 1958, one of his buyers, William Jacobson, was taken in by a subtly-fragrant cotton fabric, handwoven with vegetable dye. The vibrant, earthy hues – indigos, ochres, beet reds, emerald greens – screamed 'Indian summer' and were favourites with young brides in West Africa, Gold Coast and Ghana who'd have their wedding gowns tailored with the fabric. The cloth came with one rider: it had to be washed separately in cold water since the vegetable dyes 'bled'.

Madras fabric, sold to the likes of Brooks Brothers and made into fancy jackets, bowties and trousers, was initially criticised by American customers because its colour ran. Facing an imminent lawsuit, Captain Nair went into damage control mode, using the situation to his advantage. But 'Madras' was guaranteed to bleed, he said. In an interview to Seventeen, he narrated the story of this unique fabric – how it was handwoven, vegetable-dyed and handwashed along the banks of a river before being taken back to an idyllic village for folding.

From then on, 'bleeding Madras' became a force to reckon with. And after Capt. Nair received orders from Ralph Lauren, Liz Claiborne, Tommy Hilfiger, JC Penny and The Gap, India reignited its love for the humble Madras checks.

This underlines the collective Indian fascination for 'white acceptance', says Wadala resident Rama Rajagopalakrishna. "Bleeding Madras caught on after it became a rage in the West. Before that, no one here gave it second thought," she laughs. But bleeding Madras had many takers not just for its chameleon-like ability to change colour with each wash, but also for its durability. "It would break my heart to throw them away even after six-seven years use of use," says Rama's husband C.R. Gopalakrishna. "Now everyone looks down on running colours since machine-washing is the norm."

End of an era
Changing trends, colour-fast technology (in which dyes don't run) and the switch from handlooms to power looms, especially in the mid-'80s, led to bleeding Madras' downfall. And once mass production was possible, it didn't matter where Madras checks were produced. "Since longer yarn and bulk buying is required for the power loom, colour variations also decreased," says Jaitley. "But in certain Tamil-dominated areas in Sri Lanka, such as Jaffna, people still make lungis the old way."

It's not just traditional handloom units that succumbed to obscurity. VB Rajasekaran Balan, CEO of Chennai-based Saradha Textiles, paints a grim picture. "We use the power loom, and yet, we manufacture less than 2,000 pieces a month. No orders are coming in, so employees have switched to making other fabrics." Indians typically wear the same garment for two-three days, he says, which is why mill-produced Madras shirts outdid their handwoven counterparts.

Balan is, however, hopeful that what goes out of 'fashion' always makes a comeback. "Demands are fluid. I'm confident that traditional Madras checks, just like seersucker and chambray fabrics, will return," he concludes.

The Madras check is a great leveller that clothed everyone from the colonisers to the colonised, and the affluent to the masses. Its weave may no longer be handwoven, but it still lives on. Look around, and chances are that every second or third kerchief, shirt, dress, trouser, bag or even a table mat will have the characteristic print on it.

In some way or other, we're all checking in.