My First Customer

Growing up, while other kids were busy battling it out on video games or hoarding limited-edition sticker packs (which, for the record, I never understood), I would sit in my bedroom, obsessing over  fashion magazines that, quite frankly, my allowance couldn’t keep up with. I’d spend most of my time cutting up old magazines and newspapers, creating vision boards of a future I wouldn’t dare share with anyone.

Not everyone knew about my fashion aspirations, but one person did—my younger brother. He was my first listener, the first (and sometimes unwilling) recipient of my passionate monologues. While most people rolled their eyes at my unsolicited opinions as they do for a child with absurd dreams, he—whether out of love or sheer patience—listened. And I mean, really listened.

He was also my first customer. The first person who ever took my fashion advice seriously. Sure, he was seven and had no real say in what he wore, but let’s not split hairs. I’d meticulously style his outfits, ensuring he was the best-dressed kid at school. He trusted my judgment, which, for a kid who thought mismatched socks were a statement, was a huge step forward.

Being Indian meant that fashion wasn’t just about everyday outfits—it was about the grandeur of wedding seasons, the never-ending pujas, and the countless family gatherings where looking presentable wasn’t a choice, it was an expectation. And so, my brother became my personal styling project. I took it upon myself to dress him for every function, carefully picking out the perfect kurta-pajama sets,  making sure his footwear actually matched (because left to his own devices, he would’ve worn sneakers with everything). If he complained, I’d bribe him with the promise of letting him pick the music in the car.

One of my favorite memories was from when our mom used to take us shopping. To keep things interesting, we turned it into a game—he’d pretend to be a high-profile client, and I’d be his personal shopper. I’d confidently walk through the store, pulling out different outfits, explaining why a deep emerald green would make his complexion pop (as if he cared), and dramatically rejecting anything that looked “too basic.” He played along, nodding with an exaggerated air of importance, occasionally throwing in a “Hmm, I’ll think about it” just to mess with me. The salespeople, utterly confused but mildly entertained, indulged our little act, while my mom rolled her eyes and told us to just pick something already. He trusted my judgement, and for a kid who thought Ben 10 T shirts were the greatest invention- it was a huge deal. 

But more than just a supporter, he was also my first critic. The first person who ever challenged me, pushed me to think deeper. He didn’t just accept my opinions at face value; he made me articulate them, justify them, and sometimes, reconsider them.

When I started writing about fashion, he was my editor-in-chief—an unpaid, highly critical one. He’d read my blog posts, laugh at my witticisms, and sometimes, brutally point out when I sounded “too pretentious.” (His words, not mine.) He helped me understand my own thought process, forced me to refine my voice, and in doing so, built my confidence. He contributed greatly to what eventually became my personal style—not just in how I dressed, but in how I wrote, spoke, and carried myself. He reminded me, constantly, that I had something to say and a way to say it. And that belief? It became the foundation of my career.

But here’s the thing—he’s not here anymore. My biggest cheerleader, my first critic, my accidental muse—he’s gone. It’s a loss that still sits heavy, and the one thing I struggle to write about. So I carry him with me in every article I write, and hear his criticism in the back of my head, and laugh, and push.

He believed in me before I ever believed in myself, and for that, I will always love him. And always, always be grateful.