All right, all right, I admit to speakers of Spanish that I have taken a small liberty with the use of the word ‘paliacate’, but it is a perfectly legitimate switch that should be brought into general use once again. Once again? Yes, once again. Read on.

The title of this article is much closer to the truth than the saying in current use in Spanish-speaking North, Central and South America: el mundo es un panuelo, or ‘the world is a handkerchief.’ But not any old handkerchief. A panuelo is the Spanish word for a bandana, but it is called by some, even today, a paliacate. There is, however, a difference between a panuelo and a paliacate: while a panuelo is generally worn on the head, a paliacate is tied around the throat. A paliacate is a large, brightly-coloured scarf, usually square and used around the neck. If you are thinking that this word has a connection with our charming little Pulicat a few kilometres north of Madras, you are on the right track. It originated there. The world is a handkerchief; that is to say, it’s a small world.

In July 1993, Madras Musings published an article I wrote on Pulicat. No doubt you will find it in the archives. At that time I was looking for vestiges of the much-publicised Dutch presence – and found none beyond the graves in the New Cemetery, the one that everyone sees on arrival in the village. No fort, no buildings, no Dutch words in Tamil – nothing tangible. In December last year, I went back to Pulicat, this time looking for the lungis and other clothes that were famous throughout the world – and introduced to not only Europe but also to the far-flung Indonesian islands, Japan and China by the extensive inter-ocean trade of the Portuguese based in Pulicat with its superb lagoon – about 100 years before the Dutch had heard of the place. Incidentally, as in all Portuguese trading posts, the vast majority of the Portuguese population consisted of ‘Eurindians’, a term I have used for over 30 years instead of the ridiculously narrow term ‘Anglo’-Indian.

But back to the panuelo. Several, if not most, of the words that the English language has for the various kinds of cloth that were exported from India, Japan and China are English approximations of the Portuguese pronunciation of these words, e.g. pintado, meaning painted. In the late 15th Century and early 16th Century, fashions were rather different from what they are today. Head scarves and ‘neckerchiefs’ (how many of you have heard that word?) were much in demand, so as to keep the head or throat warm, or to add colour to drab European clothes that were made from flax or wool, or simply to cut a dashing figure. Flax is off-white, and sheep don’t come in fancy colours. European dyers generally did not have the spectacular success that their Indian counterparts had with fixing colour, thanks to the vivid colours found in Indian plants, like madder, and the use of special mordants, chemical agents that ‘fix’ dye. To llustrate my point, it is best to quote from a publication of the Powerhouse Museum in Sydney:

“Between 1600 and 1800 India dominated the world market as an exporter of textiles. Indian mordant-dyed, hand-painted, cotton fabrics known as chintz were admired for their brilliant colours. Unlike contemporary European and English fabrics, which were handpainted and block printed, Indian textiles used dyes that were not fugitive.”

Tecidos pintados (te-SEE-doosh pin-THA-dhoosh, Port.), or hand-painted cotton textiles, were soon the rage from Japan to England, although it was not until the mid-1600s that a direct trade between India and England developed. Until the early 1600s, most imports were controlled by the Portuguese, until the Dutch, English, and French joined the competition.

In vain did I search in Pulicat for paliacate lungis during my recent visit. Long before my arrival in Pulicat, I had written to my friend, the parish priest of the Catholic church of Our Lady of Glory, asking him to locate shops where these famous lungis could be bought. “No luck,” he said. “I have asked around, but production of these lungis was stopped some years ago.” I was sorely disappointed as I have deep admiration and love for traditional Indian textiles. Some of the examples I have seen in major museums of the world are so exquisite as to defy description. All hand-spun, hand-woven and hand-painted, with the highest degree of artistry, their colours still impressive after 200 years.

So no paliacate lungis in Paliacate, but in far-off Mexico you can go to a textile shop and ask for a paliacate and not be thought mad. It is made entirely by machines, however, and probably in China.

Ask any Mexican about José Maria Morelos e Pavon and the answer you get will always include a reference to his paliacate; he was never portrayed without it. Morelos (1765-1815) was a Mexican Roman Catholic priest who one day informed his superiors that they should find a replacement for him since he was joining the Revolution. He led the Mexican War of Independence against Spain and was such a brilliant strategist and commander that Napolean said of him, “With two men like Morelos, I could conquer the world.” Morelos was of mixed racial heritage – African, native Mexican, and Spanish – and it was cool, brilliant, fearless men like him that imperial powers feared: in his first nine months in the Revolution, he achieved 22 victories, annihilating the armies of three Spanish royalist leaders. No doubt, he wore his paliacate into all battles.

So a square piece of cloth from sleepy Pulicat went round the world and became a national emblem in Mexico. It is also immortased, along with other fabulous fabrics, in a classic French novel, Paul et Virginie, by Jaques-Henri Bernardin de Saint-Pierre, published in 1788. The story is set in Mauritius, then under French control and called the Ile de France. Saint-Pierre’s story attacked the deeply-divided social classes of France only a year before the French Revolution. I have reproduced the original words because Saint-Pierre’s tremendous powers of description are best relished in his native French. For those who do not read French, I provide a translation:

“Cependent le bruit s’etant repandu dans I’ile que la fortune avait visite ces rochers, on y vit grimper des marchands de toute espece. Ils deployerent, au milieu de ces pauvres cabanes, les plus riches etoffes de l’Inde: de superbes basins de Goudelour, des mouchoirs de Paliacateet de Mazulipatan, des mousselines de Daca, unies, rayees, brodees, transparentes comme le jour, des baftas de Surate d’un si beau blanc, des chittes de toutes couleurs et des plus rares, a fond sable et a rameaux verts. Ils deroulerent de magnifiques etoffes de soie de la Chine, des lampas decoupes a jour, des damas d’un blanc satine, d’autres d’un vert de prairie, d’aures d’un rouge a eblouir; des taffetas roses, des satins a pleine main, des pekinsmoellexcomme le drap, des nankinsblancs et jaunes, et jusqu a des pagnes de Madagascar.”

“While the news that good fortune had come to these shores spread across the island, merchants of all kinds were seen clambering over the rocks. Among their simple huts they spread the richest fabrics of India: superb basins of Cuddalore, kerchiefs of Paliacate and Masulipatam, muslins from Dacca, plain, striped, embroidered, as transparent as day, exquisite white baftas from Surat, the rarest of chintzes in all colours, with green branches on a buff-coloured background. They unfurled the magnificent silk fabrics of China, lampas cut from daylight, white satin damask, others green as a meadow, or a glowing red; pink tafettas, handfuls of satins, pekins as soft as wool, nankins white and yellow, and even pagnes from Madagascar.* A pagne is a short, knee-length wrap, rather like a mid-length lungi, worn by men in Madagascar.

Basins, paliacates, muslins, baftas, chintzes, lampas, damask, tafettas, satins, pekins and nankins: what a bewildering array! Saint-Pierre has the ability to produce a picture bursting with colour and vitality, but it is the sheer range of fabrics, so many from the Coromandel Coast, that impresses.

A square of gaily printed cloth from sleepy Pulicat went round the world and entered the lexicon of at least four international languages, Portuguese, Spanish, English and French, in that order – but is forgotten in its birthplace. It is time to re-introduce it as a fashion item in India – but please let the weavers and dyers use their skills once again.

I can think of no better way to end this article than to quote a post that I found on a blog:

“Look: El mundo es un panuelo = it’s a small world; El mundo es panuelo! Paseando por un callejonde Madras me tropece conel doctor que me opero hace dos meses. (It’s a small world! Strolling along an alleyway in Madras, I bumped into the doctor who had operated on me two months earlier.”)

The Argentinian writer was answering a question from the USA. The world really is a paliacate.