I’ve been reading William Dalrymple’s The Golden Road lately, and one idea from the book has stayed with me.
He argues that India’s contributions to mathematics, science, philosophy, art entire systems of knowledge were gradually edited out of global history. Not erased overnight. Just… omitted often enough that the world forgot where things began.
Working in fashion, I keep thinking: the same thing happened to fabric.
Because if we are honest, the world has always worn India.
Long before Chanel jackets or Hermès scarves became shorthand for luxury, India was exporting textiles across continents. Muslin so fine it was described as woven air. Indigo that coloured global trade routes. Bandhani perfected over generations in Gujarat. Kolhapuri chappals handcrafted to outlast trends that now change every six weeks.
Indian craft didn’t arrive late to fashion. It built the foundation.
Which is why recent moments in luxury feel strangely familiar.
Earlier this year, Ralph Lauren released a cotton wrap skirt described as being inspired by “traditional tie-dye techniques.” The technique was Bandhani a centuries-old Indian craft. The product page didn’t mention India. Around the same time, models walked a Paris runway wearing unmistakable jhumkas, introduced simply as “vintage earrings.”
Then came Prada’s Spring–Summer 2026 menswear show. The sandals were immediately recognised across India as Kolhapuri chappals a craft with Geographical Indication status protecting its regional origin. Initially, they were presented as anonymous leather flats. Only after public backlash did acknowledgement follow, along with conversations about collaboration.
I’m glad those conversations are happening.
But it is telling that recognition often arrives after outrage.
Fashion has always borrowed. Exchange is part of creativity. The issue isn’t inspiration — it’s attribution. Somewhere between the artisan and the runway, the origin story disappears.
Dupattas become Scandinavian scarves.
Block prints become boho.
Mirror work becomes festival dressing.
The vocabulary changes. The source stays the same.
Watching Recognition Happen in Real Time
Recently, I was in New York presenting Mṛjā Collective at a buyer event. At one point, a woman walked in wearing a beautifully styled denim jacket layered with mirror work, Indian jewellery, and craft references anyone from South Asia would instantly recognise.
None of the brands she was wearing were Indian.
And honestly? She looked incredible.
That’s the thing about Indian craft it works everywhere. The aesthetic translates effortlessly. The problem has never been appreciation. The problem is invisibility.
We were in New York to test something simple: would global buyers see Indian craft as luxury if presented without ‘ethnic’ or ‘exotic’ framing?
The answer came quickly.
Buyers didn’t ask cultural questions first. They touched the garments.
Someone ran her hand across an Eri silk piece and said, almost instinctively, “She feels expensive.”
Another put on a jacket and immediately recognised that rare sensation you get in fashion when you know a piece isn’t mass-produced, when you can feel time inside the garment.
They didn’t need convincing. They recognised value instantly. And the biggest validation wasn’t praise, they bought.
That moment confirmed what many of us already knew: the gap was never quality. The gap was translation.
Indian Craft Has Always Been Luxury
Luxury, at its core, is simple. It is time, skill, scarcity, and story.
By that definition, Indian craft has always been luxury.
What has been missing is infrastructure people and platforms capable of moving between worlds. Between an artisan cluster in Assam and a boutique buyer in SoHo. Between heritage and market language.
I spent years working in luxury marketing in Monaco and London, in industries where provenance is everything. A yacht sells because of its builder. A watch sells because of its lineage. Story creates value.
In Indian fashion, extraordinary stories existed but were rarely positioned within global luxury systems.
So Indian craft became admired but underpriced. Referenced but not centred.
What We’re Building at Mṛjā
Mṛjā Collective exists to close that gap.
We work with independent Indian brands already redefining fashion: Ura Maku, working with Eri silk and natural indigo from Assam; Capisvirleo, producing small-batch silk garments through women’s collectives and natural dye practices; and HUEMN, whose sharp, contemporary collections challenge what modern Indian identity looks like.
These brands do not need to be softened or translated aesthetically. They are already global.
What they need is commercial translation curation, trust, and distribution that allows international buyers to engage with confidence.
We are not selling nostalgia. We are not packaging craft as heritage tourism.
We are positioning Indian fashion exactly where it belongs: inside the global luxury conversation.
The Narrative Is Changing
Something is shifting right now.
South Asian creators are styling craft on their own terms (cue all the Coachella content we’ve been consuming). Consumers are asking harder questions about origin and authorship. And when brands overlook attribution, the internet responds faster than fashion’s traditional silence ever allowed.
The industry is beginning to realise what should have been obvious all along: Indian craft isn’t emerging. It has been here shaping global fashion quietly for centuries.
The real work now is ensuring recognition translates into opportunity, credit, and economic participation for the people who sustain these traditions.
The world has always worn India.
Fashion is finally learning to say so out loud.
