In The Green Room, Wendell Rodricks is like a kindly uncle, the one around whom children gather after a home-cooked meal to listen to stories about the good ol’ days.

The room without a view

In The Green Room, Wendell Rodricks is like a kindly uncle, the one around whom children gather after a home-cooked meal to listen to stories about the good ol’ days. His stories trace his childhood in a cramped tenement in Bombay, his journey to the Gulf, finding love in Paris and working hard to take Goa to the world. Of course, even if you have not grown up in Goa, you know that Wendell Rodricks is not an average man (or uncle, for that matter). Most Goans may not understand his minimalist fashion style, but they will not hesitate to show their “connections” with the man. So, staying true to my Goan roots, I feel the need to establish that I too have connections that make Wendell’s memoir, The Green Room, very familiar. Wendell’s mother’s village, Camurlim, is my ancestral village (their house is, quite literally, down the road). My grandparents knew his grandparents. His cousin Crystal, mentioned in the book as one of his staunchest supporters, is good friends with my mother. Franco, who created the coconut shell jewellery for Wendell’s first Goan collection, is a family friend. I could go on, but I won’t. Born in 1960 and brought up in Bombay, Wendell’s first brush with fashion came from dissecting his aunts’ wedding gowns as a child, and then later adding buffet frills and skirting to tables as a young graduate during a summer training at Mumbai’s Taj Mahal Hotel. A stint in Oman in his early twenties changed his life — a chance encounter with one Suzie Stapleton, an American lady who later turned out to be a spy, put him on the path towards fashion. The other person he met in Oman was his life partner and the man with whom he would sign a civil union, Jerome Marrell. It was with his third collection in 1990 that Wendell’s signature style emerged — minimalist, natural fabrics, linear geometric cuts, sheer drapes and fluidity, and a near-obsession with white. The rest, as the cliché goes, is history. Over the years, Wendell’s unusual designs have included eco-friendly dyes, incorporating Braille on fabric and reviving the art of kunbi weaving in the state through the Goan kunbi sari. The Green Room is part memoir and part travelogue. You learn minute details of the meals eaten and trips taken around the world with Jerome, some of which are worth reading. Those with a love for fashion will enjoy learning how Wendell works. From the famous celebrities he encounters to the intricate details behind the creation of an outfit and unexpected inspirations from Tibetan monks, Wendell reveals much of what goes into being a designer. There is no denying Wendell’s life is interesting. His is a rags-to-riches story that offers a look at the fashion and film industries, Goa’s high society and political circles. Yet, The Green Room falls short because the writing doesn’t do justice to Wendell’s experiences. Looking at the world through Wendell’s eyes gets a bit boring because of how careful he is to steer clear of controversy. The Mumbai-Delhi Fashion Week meltdown is mostly discussed in terms of how the bifurcation affected him professionally. Even when Wendell gossips, he’s coy. You learn about a certain jeweller who conducts fashion shows and gets a high from gifting fake jewellery to Bollywood stars and cricketers, but aren’t told his name. Despite his obvious love for Goa, Wendell hasn’t dwelt too much on issues like foreigners taking over land and mining scams. This narrow focus upon personal experiences doesn’t make for particularly exciting reading. A memoir, particularly one set in the world of celebrities and fashion, with no scandals is like a Harry Potter book without the magic. But, if you can imagine Wendell as that kindly uncle, you’ll find that his rags-to-riches story has its moments.