India on the runway: Where inspiration ends and appropriation begins

Whenever global runways spotlight India, the ensuing spectacle always manages to both dazzle and inspire critical dispatches from the subcontinent’s most respected voices. There is an echoing quality to these critiques, which usually centre around calling out global fashion houses for their lack of transparency, and raising pertinent questions about authorship and creative credit. For those in the know, it’s long been standard practice among fashion’s biggest names to outsource intricate hand-stitching and zardozi embroidery—among other craft traditions—to ateliers in India, yet the hands and faces responsible for the production of these handicraft techniques are more often than not rendered anonymous, relegated to being uncredited cogs in the global luxury machine.

 

This is a pattern that has deep roots, with Indian craft having a long and complicated history with global fashion, stretching as far back as the 17th century, when the exported handwoven cotton, chintz, fine muslin, and indigo dyes were much-coveted commodities, dominating European wardrobes in the late 1600s, sparking trade wars, and even leading to legislation like Britain’s Calico Act, which was put in place in 1721 to protect domestic English mills from Indian textile imports.

Centuries later, Indian handicraft has inexorably woven itself into the fabric of global menswear, with Etro Founder Girolamo Etro using his collection of Kashmiri shawls as the inspiration for the brand’s paisley-focused prints from the 1980s to the present day, and designers such as John Galliano and John Paul Gaultier making no secret of India’s outsized influence on their creative imagination

Journalist Hamish Bowles, in his book India in Fashion (2023), writes that, “India’s impact on Western fashion has been a complicated and layered history of admiration, appropriation, exploitation, and celebration.” The nuance that Bowles explores has perhaps never been better exemplified than in this year’s Prada S/S’26 men’s show in Milan, which featured a T-strap sandal so closely reminiscent of the kohlapuri chappal— handcrafted in Maharashtra since at least the 12th century— that it prompted critics to cry foul.

The sandals, initially billed simply as “leather sandals,” gave artisans and lawmakers in India much to complain about, and compelled Prada’s Head of Corporate Social Responsibility, Lorenzo Bertelli, to respond via a letter to the Maharashtra Chamber of Commerce, stating: “We acknowledge that the sandals...are inspired by traditional Indian handcrafted footwear, with a centuries-old heritage.” A Prada spokesperson added that the fashion house has “always celebrated craftsmanship, heritage, and design traditions.” Days later, a team from the Italian luxury house visited the famous Chappal Galli of Kolhapur.

The sandals—still in prototype—retail on Prada’s website for a staggering $844, which stands in stark contrast to authentic kohlapuris sold domestically in India for an average of $12. The episode highlights a recurring pattern: Centuries-old Indian craft forms being appropriated without context or credit by global fashion houses and sold for astronomical mark-ups to their high-end clientele, unmoored from their historical roots and the craftspeople whose hard work and technical expertise have ensured the survival of these traditions, even in the face of the current global marketplace’s infatuation with fast fashion and cheaply made goods.

It’s important to note that kohlapuris have a GI tag, which is a denomination assigned to products that have a specific geographical region of origin, such as Banarasi brocade or Kashmiri pashmina. But without a concerted effort to make such protected crafts known, the tag functions as little more than a symbol.

In contrast, consider homegrown labels such as Kartik Research, whose founder Kartik Kumra integrates Rajasthani mirror-work, bagru block prints, and natural indigo dyes into menswear with full traceability and all due credit to the artisans involved in the fabrication. Or Indian couture powerhouse Sabyasachi Mukherjee, whose consummate inspiration is the textiles of Bengal, and who has always named craft partners in the press materials accompanying his collections. Neither Kumra nor Mukherjee are in the habit of “borrowing” visual motifs; they are instead engaged in the meaningful work of building value chains that include Indian artisans at every step

The catch? These designers remain the exception rather than the norm, especially when it comes to European couture houses. For every Prada that retroactively credits artisans in the face of backlash, there are many Western labels that adopt Indian aesthetics divorced from their historical origins. Even when brands pledge engagement with Indian artisans, the contracts are often limited in scope and duration, relegating craftspeople to temporary collaborators rather than long-term creative partners.

Outside the realm of menswear, women’s fashion has been the biggest offender when it comes to appropriating Indian crafts without credit. Think back to Chanel’s Paris/Bombay 2012 pre-fall collection, where Karl Lagerfeld’s models walked down the runway in saris and bindis. More recently, Gujarati mirror-work dresses were heralded by popular American media as the “wedding guest dress of the summer,” once again without mention of where the craft originates. Fashion heavyweights like John Galliano, who also infamously deployed sari-‘inspired’ drapes for his 2003 Bollywood/Holi collection for Dior, are not immune to this kind of uncredited “borrowing” either, as evidenced by Alessandro Michele’s Gucci sending models out in Sikh turbans at their Milan Fashion Week presentation in 2018. Both the sari and the turban are intrinsic symbols representing their respective communities, and their appropriation by high fashion signalled an alarming lack of sensitivity towards the communities affected, and an inherent disregard for the artisans who have spent generations perfecting their craft.

Like with women’s fashion, luxury menswear’s flirtation with Indian handicraft is not unwarranted. In the age of the quiet luxury aesthetic, when quality fabrication and the use of luxe materials reigns supreme in the imagination of the high-end consumer, the textures and techniques of Indian craft helps feed menswear’s appetite for handcrafted detail, depth, and storytelling. The sparkle of mirror-work, the unparalleled tactile softness of jamdani, and the sustainability of historical natural dyes are all modes that fit comfortably into the lexicon of contemporary menswear. As India’s domestic luxury market bolts towards a projected $200 billion value, it’s understandable that global designers have their eye on India.

But this moment also forces a reckoning: Where is the line between collaboration, inspiration, and cultural mining? Does producing India-inspired goods with luxury labels and dizzying price tags toe this line, or is it instead the latest in a series of cultural appropriation offences committed by global brands? Why is Indian handicraft only valued when it walks down the runway in Paris, New York, or Milan? And why do Indian artisan communities—which are centuries old and GI protected—remain on the margins of both credit and profit?

These questions are more easily asked than answered, but perhaps the rejoinder lies in intent and execution. Too often, the words “influence” and “inspiration” are stand-ins for due credit and historical context, and a kohlapuri chappal on a Paris runway becomes an exercise in exoticised modern bohemia rather than an homage to craftsmanship.

Viewed through this lens, the imperative becomes clear—brands must do more than borrow; they must build. This means long-term relationships with artisans, shared intellectual ownership of designs, fair pay, and telling every story in the chain of production: From dyer and weaver to designer and creative director. Fashion’s capacity to connect and meld cultures is perhaps its greatest strength, but that connection must necessarily be rooted in respect. Kutch-inspired mirror-work and kohlapuri chappals can open dialogues and bridge worlds, yes, but only if those dialogues are inclusive, honest and grounded in a foundation of equality. In the absence of this, the global runway looks less like cultural exchange and more like cultural erasure and colonial-era appropriation. The secret to future-proofing fashion doesn’t just lie in wearing handicrafts, but paying for them, crediting their roots, and sharing in their inheritance. In that shared legacy lies the promise of the future of menswear—a future that prioritises ethical collaboration over aesthetic inspiration.

This article first appeared in the August-September 2025 issue of Harper's Bazaar India 

All images: Getty Images
 

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