Ode on the Lungi - by Kaiser Haq
Grandpa Walt, allow me to share my thoughts with you,
if only because every time I read “Passage to India”
and come across the phrase “passage to more than India”,
I fancy, anachronistically,
that you wanted to overshoot the target by a shadow line
and land in Bangladesh.
Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about sartorial equality—
how far we are from this democratic ideal!
And how hypocritical!
“All clothes have equal rights”—this nobody will deny,
and yet some obviously are more equal than others.
No, I’m not complaining about the jacket and tie
required in certain places—that, like fancy dress parties,
is in the spirit of a game.
I’m talking of something more fundamental.
Hundreds of millions from East Africa to Indonesia
wear the lungi, also known variously as
the sarong, munda, htamain, saaram, ma’awais, kitenge, kanga, kaiki.
They wear it day in, day out, indoors and out.
Just think—at any one moment
there are more people in lungis than the population of the USA.
Now try wearing one to a White House appointment—not even you,
Grandpa Walt, laureate of democracy, will make it in.
You would if you affected a kilt—but a lungi? No way.
But why?—this is the question I ask all to ponder.
Is it a clash of civilizations?
The sheer illogicality of it—the kilt is with “us”
but the lungi is with “them”!
Think too of neo-imperialism and sartorial hegemony,
how brown and yellow sahibs in natty suits
crinkle their noses at compatriots (even relations)
in modest lungis.
Exceptions only prove the rule:
Sri Lanka, where designer lungis are party wear,
or Myanmar, where political honchos queue up in lungis
to receive visiting dignitaries.
But then, Myanmar dozes behind a cane curtain,
a half-pariah among nations.
Wait till it’s globalized:
Savile Row will acquire a fresh crop of patrons.
Hegemony invades private space as well:
my cousin in America would get home from work
and lounge in a lungi—till his son grew ashamed of dad
and started hiding the “ridiculous ethnic attire.”
It’s all too depressing.
But I won’t leave it at that.
The situation is desperate; something needs to be done.
I’ve decided not to take it lying down.
The next time someone insinuates that I live in an Ivory Tower,
I’ll proudly proclaim: I AM A LUNGI ACTIVIST!
Friends and fellow lungi lovers,
let us organize lungi parties and lungi parades,
let us lobby Hallmark and Archies to introduce an international Lungi Day,
when the UN Chief will wear a lungi and address the world.
Grandpa Walt, I celebrate my lungi and sing my lungi,
and what I wear you shall wear.
It’s time you finally made your passage to more than India—
to Bangladesh—and lounged in a lungi
in a cottage on Cox’s Bazar beach,
watching 28 young men in lungis bathing in the sea.
But what is this thing—my learned friends, I’m alluding to Beau Brummell—
I repeat, what is this thing I’m going on about?
A rectangular cloth, white, colored, check, or plaid,
roughly 45×80 inches, halved lengthwise and stitched
to make a tube you can get into
and fasten in a slipknot around the waist.
One size fits all, and should you pick up dirt,
say on your seat, you can simply turn it inside out.
When you are out of it, the lungi can be folded up like a scarf.
Worn out it has uses—as dish rag or floor wipe,
or material for a kantha quilt.
Or you can let your imagination play with the textile tube
to illustrate the superstrings of the Theory of Everything.
Coming back to basics, the lungi is an elaborate fig-leaf,
the foundation of propriety in ordinary mortals.
Most of the year, when barebody is cool,
you can lead a decent life with only a couple of lungis,
dipping in pond or river,
or swimming in a lungi abbreviated into a G-string,
then changing into the other one.
Under the hot sun a lungi can become Arab-style headgear or Sikh-style turban.
Come chilly weather, the spare lungi can be an improvised poncho.
The lungi as G-string can be worn to wrestle or play kabaddi,
but on football or cricket field, or wading through the monsoon,
it’s folded vertically and kilted at the knee.
In short, the lungi is a complete wardrobe for anyone interested:
an emblem of egalitarianism, symbol of global left-outs,
raised and flapped amidst laughter.
It’s the subaltern speaking.
And more: when romance strikes, the lungi is a sleeping bag for two:
a book of poems, a bottle of hooch, and your beloved inside your lungi—there’s paradise for you.
If your luck runs out and the monsoon turns into a biblical deluge,
just get in the water and hand-pump air to balloon up your lungi—now your humble ark.
When you find shelter on a treetop, take it off, rinse it, hold it aloft—
flag of your indisposition—and wave it at the useless stars.
Simplification of the Poem:
Kaiser Haq’s Ode on the Lungi is a humorous yet serious celebration of the lungi, a common garment worn across South and Southeast Asia. The poet imagines conversations with Walt Whitman and emphasizes how the lungi represents equality, simplicity, and cultural pride. Through vivid images, he explains the lungi’s everyday uses—from clothing, turban, headgear, quilt, and even life-saving equipment—to its role as a symbol of democracy and resistance against cultural hegemony.
Summary of the Poem:
The poem explores the lungi as more than just clothing—it is a cultural emblem and a symbol of egalitarianism. Kaiser Haq humorously contrasts the global acceptance of garments like kilts with the neglect of the lungi. He criticizes colonial attitudes and modern elitism that dismiss this attire as “backward.” Yet, the poet glorifies its versatility, showing how it fits all occasions—daily wear, festivals, intimacy, sports, survival, and protest. Ultimately, the poem asserts that the lungi embodies the voice of the subaltern and deserves international recognition.
Themes:
1. Cultural Identity and Pride – The lungi represents Bangladeshi and regional identity.
2. Egalitarianism and Democracy – A universal dress that fits all, symbolizing equality.
– Critique of colonial and neo-imperial attitudes towards clothing.
4. Versatility of Tradition – The lungi as everyday attire, survival gear, and even a romantic symbol.
5. Humor and Satire – The poem blends wit with serious reflections on culture and globalization.
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