At the recent Met Gala, it felt like half of India showed up dressed for a couture edition of The Hunger Games, in a good way. Shah Rukh Khan led the charge, Diljit Dosanjh charmed in his usual way, and Kiara Advani turned heads. But amid the spectacle and sequins, another conversation resurfaced: how did the cummerbund, a piece rooted in Indian formalwear, become a “Western classic”? 
 

Long before boho-chic was a Pinterest aesthetic and Nehru collars turned into overpriced staples at Brooklyn pop-ups, India was already dressing the world. For centuries, the West hasn't just taken inspiration, it has taken textiles, techniques, patterns, and entire silhouettes. These were then rebranded as exotic, edgy, or artisanal, with their Indian origins blurred or conveniently forgotten. 
 

What began as colonial trade quietly morphed into colonial theft. Today, we call it fashion influence. But make no mistake, many of the trends celebrated on Western runways were born in Indian wardrobes. 

From Cummerbunds to Couture: The Indian Origins of Western Fashion Staples 

Indigo Dye 

No, it’s not just Levi Strauss you should be thanking. That blue in your denim? It’s ours. Indigo dye has deep roots in India—literally. The Indigofera tinctoria plant thrived in the warm, humid climates of regions like Bengal and Madras. For centuries, Indian artisans mastered the complex fermentation and dyeing techniques to produce deep, rich blues on cotton. European traders were hooked. But under British colonial rule, the indigo trade turned violent and exploitative. The infamous "Blue Rebellion" of 1859 was a direct response to the cruel treatment of Indian farmers forced into indigo cultivation. While denim became an American icon, the blood-stained blueprint was unmistakably Indian. 

Madras Checks 

That charmingly crumpled checkered shirt your uncle wears to brunch? It started in Chennai. Madras checks were handwoven cotton fabrics dyed with natural, non-colourfast dyes that bled beautifully over time. This imperfection became its trademark. When British and later American traders got a hold of it, Madras checks were marketed as elite leisurewear, especially in prep-school and Ivy League circles. But few know that the fabric also became part of the brutal transatlantic trade, used to clothe slaves and colonisers alike. What you see today as heritage plaid is rooted in a legacy of exploitation. 

Linen 

Long before Instagram influencers discovered summer linen fits, India was cultivating flax and weaving proto-linen textiles during the Indus Valley civilisation. These ancient Indian linens were soft, breathable, and perfect for the subcontinental heat. While Egypt and Europe take the limelight in linen history, Indian coastal regions quietly produced fine flax cloth, especially in Bengal and Gujarat. The colonial trade ignored these roots, and today, the linen story is Euro-washed, despite its deep Indian weaves. 

Bandana (bandhnā) 

From biker gangs to pop divas, bandanas have been many things. But originally? They were Indian. The word comes from the Hindi bandhnā, meaning "to tie," referring to the tie-dye method used in Rajasthan and Gujarat to produce colourful dot patterns on cotton cloth. These pieces were exported to Europe as early as the 18th century, where they became fashionable neckerchiefs. Now it's Americana cosplay at Coachella, but the roots are undeniably desi. 

Cummerbund (kamarbandh) 

The cummerbund isn’t a tuxedo accoutrement—it’s a colonial rebrand. Derived from kamarbandh, which literally means "waist binding," this sash was part of traditional Mughal and Rajput attire, offering both form and function. British officers adopted it to deal with India's blistering heat during formal dinners, eventually dragging it back to England as an exotic alternative to waistcoats. Now it’s black-tie etiquette. Back then, it was cultural cherry-picking at its finest. 

Nehru Jacket (bandhgala/achkan) 

What Western designers dubbed the "Nehru jacket" is really the bandhgala or achkan, tailored staples that trace back to Mughal and Rajput courts. These closed-neck, long-line coats were a symbol of refined power, worn by aristocrats and nobility. Nehru’s adoption of the style gave it global recognition, but the West slapped his name on it and turned it into a modish statement in the 1960s. From Bond villains to Beatles, everyone wore it—just without bothering to say where it came from. 

Pajamas  

The word pajama comes from the Persian and Hindi pāy-jāmā, meaning "leg garments." Worn by Indian men as loose, comfortable trousers for sleep or leisure, pajamas were picked up by British colonials who preferred them to heavy nightshirts in India’s sweltering climate. Back in Britain, they became a symbol of casual luxury, and eventually seeped into global loungewear. No one remembers the etymology now, but your bedtime wardrobe owes everything to the subcontinent. 

Chintz  

Credit: Hector Manuel Sanchez

Think of floral drapes or breezy summer blouses. That’s chintz. Originally a woodblock-printed or painted cotton fabric from India, chīnt means "spotted" or "variegated" in Hindi. These richly coloured, floral-patterned fabrics were hot commodities in Europe during the 17th and 18th centuries. So hot, in fact, that France and Britain banned them to protect their domestic textile industries. Later, they copied the patterns and produced imitations en masse. Now it's cottagecore aesthetic. Then, it was piracy dressed in floral. 

Ikat  

Before ikat became a Pinterest-approved boho trend, it was a precise, labour-intensive art form in India. Double ikat weaving, especially the pātola saris of Patan in Gujarat, involved pre-dyeing each thread before weaving—a process so intricate it could take months to complete. These patterns were once worn exclusively by aristocracy and royalty. Western designers borrowed the "blurry aesthetic" without crediting the cultural or spiritual context. Now it’s printed on throw pillows and sold in Scandinavian boutiques. 

Zardozi Embroidery 

Zardozi, from the Persian words for "gold" (zar) and "embroidery" (dozī), was Indian haute couture long before Paris even existed. Royal workshops in Delhi, Agra, and Lucknow specialised in zardozi work, using real gold and silver threads to create elaborate motifs on silk and velvet. Under British rule, the craft was degraded—precious metals were replaced with imitation threads, and zardozi lost its royal patrons. Today it survives in bridal couture and luxury brands, though rarely linked back to its regal Indian past. 

Paisley (buta) 

That funky teardrop motif on neckties and scarves? It started life as the buta motif in Persian and Indian textiles, especially Kashmiri shawls. European traders, unable to match the craftsmanship, reverse-engineered the pattern and mass-produced it in Paisley, Scotland. Hence the name. The Western version became a counterculture favourite in the '60s, but the Kashmiri artisans who inspired it were left behind in a haze of forgotten credit. 

Khaki (khākī) 

Khākī means "dust-coloured" in Hindi and Urdu—and that’s exactly what it was. Indian soldiers first dyed their uniforms this colour for camouflage during colonial military campaigns. British officers quickly realised the practicality and adopted it across the empire. Today, khaki is a neutral fashion staple. But its roots lie in dusty colonial battlefields, not minimalist fashion blogs. 

Jodhpurs 

Horseback riding got a stylish update from the Marwar region of Rajasthan. Originally designed by the Maharaja of Jodhpur, these flared-at-the-hip, tight-at-the-calf trousers allowed greater flexibility in the saddle. British officers stationed in India adopted them quickly for polo and fox-hunting. Later, they trotted into European high fashion. Today, they crop up in equestrian clubs and Fall/Winter collections, far removed from their Rajput origins. 

Mull (mulmul) 

Mulmul was once described as "woven air." This ultra-fine muslin originated in Bengal and was so delicate it was rumoured that an entire sari could pass through a ring. It became a luxury export to Europe and the Middle East, with Roman and French elites obsessed with the featherweight texture. The British, recognising its value, throttled the domestic industry and replaced it with Manchester mill cloth, destroying one of India’s proudest textile heritages. Now it’s back in fashion, except no one remembers who wove it first. 

Dacca Muslin 

Even finer than mulmul, Dacca muslin from present-day Bangladesh was handspun and handwoven with such microscopic precision it required specific humidity conditions. Often woven from a single thread, it was once reserved for royalty and nobility across continents. Napoleon’s wife Josephine had closets full of it. Colonial policies destroyed the industry. Today, artisanal revivals exist, but the legend of Dacca lives mostly in whispered textile lore—not mainstream fashion histories. 

Calico 

Named after Calicut (modern-day Kozhikode), calico was India’s answer to cheap, durable printed cotton. The West loved it so much that calico became shorthand for any printed fabric. Eventually, European mills imitated the look and pushed India out of its own market. Now it’s seen as basic craft-store fabric, but it once powered entire colonial trade routes. 

Toile Prints (inspired by Kalamkari) 

Before French toile de Jouy got its name, India’s kalamkari had already laid down the blueprints. Kalamkari artists from Andhra Pradesh painted mythological and pastoral scenes on cotton using natural dyes and bamboo pens. The narrative visuals, colour blocking, and detail were adapted by French and English mills into what we now call toile. The visuals are Western; the concept and technique were Indian. 

Tie-Dye 

Long before American hippies made it psychedelic, India was already tie-dyeing with surgical precision. Bandhani from Gujarat and Rajasthan used intricately tied knots to produce delicate patterns on cloth. The Western version took the look but left the mastery. Today’s tie-dye is synthetic and chaotic; bandhani remains an exercise in control, repetition, and cultural continuity. 

Banjara Embellishments 

Mirrorwork, tassels, coin embroidery—festival fashion is basically dressed in Banjara drag. The nomadic Banjara communities of Rajasthan, Gujarat, and Maharashtra developed their distinctive aesthetic not for the runway, but for daily wear imbued with symbolism, utility, and identity. Western fashion has since picked it apart for fringe, sparkle, and “boho” flair, often without recognising the craft, context, or communities behind it. 

Angrakha 

Before the wrap dress got its Diane von Furstenberg moment, there was the angrakha—a wrap-style robe worn by musicians, nobles, and dancers across Rajasthan and Gujarat. Flowing, layered, and often block-printed, it offered ease and elegance. Today, wrap silhouettes are fashion essentials, but the angrakha’s place in their lineage is mostly footnoted, if mentioned at all. 

Turbans 

From fashion week runways to hip-hop videos, turbans are now an edgy accessory. But in India, turbans carry regional, religious, and cultural weight—from the Sikh dastar to the Rajasthani safa. Western fashion's flirtation with turbans rarely respects the histories they hold, reducing them to exotic costume pieces instead of acknowledging them as centuries-old markers of identity and resistance. 

Phulkari 

Bright floral embroidery on dupattas and veils? That’s phulkari, a folk art from Punjab passed down through generations of women. Often stitched for weddings and special occasions, phulkari is deeply personal and community-rooted. Today, its patterns are copied onto machine-made dupes and fast fashion, with little attention to the stories or skills that define it. 

Block Printing 

Now a minimalist go-to in eco-conscious boutiques, block printing began in the artisan clusters of Rajasthan and Gujarat. Using hand-carved wooden blocks and natural dyes, craftsmen created endlessly repeating patterns for saris, bedsheets, and shawls. The West picked it up for table linens and summer dresses, but the process—time-consuming, meditative, and community-based—rarely gets the credit. 

Dabu Print 

Dabu is resist-printing using mud. Yes, mud. This centuries-old technique from Rajasthan involves hand-applying a mud mixture to cloth, dyeing it—often in indigo—and then washing off the mud to reveal patterns. It’s sustainable, stunning, and straight-up genius. Of course, it's now been absorbed into the Western “artisan” aesthetic, often stripped of its roots and tagged vaguely as "ethnic print".