By Promod Puri
Why do the holiest among us—pundits, priests, monks and mullahs don attire that seems to come straight out of a mythological TV drama?
What’s the deal with these flowing robes, saffron shawls, pristine whites, or ceremonial blues? Can’t they just throw on a shirt and pants, or maybe a kurta-pyjama like us mere mortals? It’s as if their closets have a strict “divine couture only” policy.
We recognize the professional need for uniforms—plumbers, painters, physicians, nurses and even chefs in their different and explicit apparel. Soldiers, policemen and firefighters show themselves in their defensive outfits.
What professional hazard are these spiritual folks avoiding? Does holiness leak without a robe? Does a sermon hit differently if delivered in a turtleneck?
We know holy men’s and women’s outfits aren’t just about fashion. A monk in maroon robes or a priest with one-piece, shoulder-to-toe outfits isn’t making a style statement; they’re marking their turf. It’s like saying, “I belong to the saffron squad” or “My holiness is certified in white linen.”
It’s the spiritual equivalent of wearing team jerseys. But does this sacred costume drama really elevate their divine status? Or is it just religious cosplay?
Then there’s the facial hair. Ever notice how many gurus have flowing beards and unkempt manes? It’s like they got so close to nirvana that they forgot where their razor is—or the wisdom is hidden in the whiskers. If that’s the case, even Santa Claus should have a shot at spiritual leadership.
Meanwhile, India has seen a mammoth surge in fake gurus and fraudulent swamis in recent years. Wrapping themselves in saffron robes and all the paraphernalia with diamonds and jewelry, they get their phony certification that is crafted solely to deceive, cheat, and exploit gullible masses.
MY MEETING WITH SWAMI IN COAT AND TIE
Years ago, I encountered an unexpected twist in this holy fashion saga. One day, a gentleman in his late 50s came into our newspaper, TheLink, office, introducing himself as “Swami Something-or-other.”
Here’s the kicker: this “Swami” was clean-shaven, suited up, and even sporting a tie! He looked more like a banker attending a conference than a spiritual leader.
It turns out he was a disciple of the famous (or infamous) Rajneesh, a.k.a. Osho, who held an important post at the cult’s headquarters in Poona. When I couldn’t resist pointing out that he looked nothing like a Swami, he simply smiled and said, “The title is from my guru, but the clothes are my choice. I prefer to be comfortable.”
That meeting was an eye-opener. Here was a man who didn’t need a robe to project his spirituality. He’d broken free from the dress code without losing the designation.
And isn’t that refreshing? After all, enlightenment doesn’t come from what you wear but from what you know.
So, maybe it’s time for the rest of the gurus, priests, and monks to rethink their wardrobes. Why stick to ancient dress codes when wisdom doesn’t come with a fabric tag?
A holy person’s real “uniform” should be the clarity of their thoughts, not the cut of their clothes. Whether it’s a robe or a pair of chinos, a path to enlightenment shouldn’t need a wardrobe of the mythological era.
Promod Puri.com 