Unstitched, embroidered and embellished kallis make their way to the white floor, covered with gaddi, the masnat, in crisp cotton. Majestic paisleys in badlas, flowers in zardoz, kilim-like motifs in gentle aari and the all-new inclusions of rhinestones and pearls that are changing the embroidery palette make way to our section. Tradition abounds and it is all a heritage sacrosanct zone. I like a motif in one khakha, the embroidery of another, the textile of one silk and another’s colour… and presto! There emerges a masterji who sketches the cut, selects the motif, gets the shade approved and notes it all down in a farman-like paper! Rates are haggled over a few chaat papdi platters served on plates made out of leaves, and half an hour later, the ladies leave for their homes, in time to catch a customary cuppa tea with the hubby at six, sharp!

Simpler times they were. Plagiarism was a word no one knew. In fact, no one even deciphered who a couturier was, or what the hell he does!

Cut to 2016. My daughter gets set to marry. I insist that Chandni Chowk it must be. I am told of two shops. No, I won’t name them but everyone knows. The first shop has a legacy. It still has the masterji, the gaddas and the chaat — and the unstitched kallis! But when the lehengas emerge, you know the unspoken word. Here comes a Sabya, then a Tarun and then a Bal in velvet! No, the man is elegant enough not to mention names but he keeps saying in Punjabi, “Who will know the difference?” I would…clearly! I can feel the pucker in the hem, sense the thread in tasteless colour added unnecessarily to the embroidery. And the crystal overdose! In my mind, I can recall many weddings where the girl wore a Sabya. And now I know where it came from.

Shop number two is a jerk to the senses. It has garish glass and a forced ramp in wood flanked with lotus-cut jaalis. Total OTT. Rows of men are standing on stools, live mannequins all wearing lehengas (stools ensure height). I am greeted by a young lad who asks, “Want to see a Rohit Bal?” And, by the way, Rohit’s latest finale is playing on the screen. The room is full of brides: all clad in designer rip-offs: an Anita Dongre here, a Sabya there, a Tarun, a Rohit, a ShantanuNikhil. I insist on seeing an original and am stumped at the sheer simplicity of a gota patti lehenga in Benarasi that is shown to me. Badly stitched but innovatively embroidered. I love the carrot pink shade too. A bit dhoopchaoon. “You are the only one to have liked it. Or even asked for an original,” I am told.

 And this is the root cause of rampant copies today: the obsession with brands — a need to wear only a branded lehenga at your wedding, even if it is a copy. After all, who will find out, between a million flash bulbs, rows of imitation kundans and layers of very bright make-up? After every part of the girl’s head, face, neck and hands is bejewelled.

Subtle graces, the art of understatement, the urge to be an individual and not a sheep in a herd — these are now seeming dreams. Karigars are at the root of this menace. I still recall sitting with a designer friend, who was viewing the works of an embroiderer, in the 1990s. In those days, designers would outsource work. He had blatantly told her: an original khakha will be for Rs 8,000 and a copy would cost Rs 2,000. Even today, it is this kind that takes the backdoor route to smuggle out a design, sometimes even before it hits the runway.

A plagiarist is no different from a weak student with a sharp survival instinct copying a bright neighbour’s paper in the examination hall. The sad part is that the same weak student, who in this case is the karigar, has crafted the original too. He is a master and, if nurtured by ‘Copycat’ Chowk’s landlords, can create a robust, midsegment market of design that can give the couturiers a legal, logical run for their money and creativity.

But before that, will the copycat aunty wear a nonbranded, but spectacular, original piece?