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CORPORATE ATTIRE: WHEN DID THE SUIT BECOME MORE INDIAN THAN THE KURTA?

Kamlesh Tripathi

    Walk into an Indian corporate office and look around. The dress code may appear modern, global and professional: shirts, trousers, jackets, suits and, occasionally, ties. Yet there is something curious about what Indian corporate culture has traditionally accepted as “formal Indian wear.”

    The sari has long been accepted as respectable office attire for women. The salwar kameez too has gradually become part of the corporate wardrobe. But for men, the kurta-pyjama and dhoti have often been treated as too casual, too traditional or simply “not professional enough.” Why?

    Was the kurta-pyjama considered unsmart? Was the dhoti regarded as unsuitable for the workplace? Were these clothes too closely associated with politicians, rural India or traditional society? Or did we inherit a colonial idea that Western clothing represented modernity, efficiency and professional competence? Even after independence, the Indian corporate world has been sleeping over this aspect of dressing up.

    The question is not entirely imaginary. Emma Tarlo’s Clothing Matters: Dress and Identity in India examines precisely how clothing in India became entangled with caste, education, urbanisation, status and ideas of Indian identity. Her research shows that clothes have historically been used not merely to cover the body but to assert power, challenge authority and negotiate social identity.

    Literature provides an intriguing illustration. Rabindranath Tagore’s family itself experimented with the question of what an Indian should wear. His brother Jyotirindranath Tagore attempted to create a national costume combining Indian and European elements. The problem was that the dhoti was considered insufficiently “business-like”, while trousers appeared too foreign. The resulting compromise tried to combine both worlds.

        We may laugh at the awkwardness of this nineteenth-century sartorial experiment, but the dilemma survives in the twenty-first-century corporate office. We have become comfortable with the idea that Western trousers and a shirt constitute “professional attire”, while a kurta-pyjama requires some explanation.

    Gandhi turned this hierarchy upside down. In 1921, Mahatma Gandhi deliberately abandoned much of his conventional clothing and adopted the simple dhoti and shawl as a political and social statement. His decision was rooted in his desire to identify himself with India’s poor. The dhoti was no longer merely clothing; it became a statement of solidarity, self-respect and resistance to foreign clothes.

    Indeed, Gandhi’s clothing became so powerful a political symbol that his apparently simple attire could carry greater political meaning than the most elaborate suit. Clothing, in his case, became a language.  So then why did the Indian corporate world not inherit this confidence in Indian attire?

    Perhaps the answer lies partly in history. During the colonial rule, Western dress became associated with education, employment and social advancement. A striking example cited in discussions of Indian clothing history is that a young man wearing European dress could gain access to government employment, while a candidate appearing in a dhoti could be treated as inadequately dressed.

    The irony is that independent India subsequently produced leaders who deliberately rejected European dress. Jawaharlal Nehru made the kurta-pyjama, sherwani and Nehru jacket part of his public identity. Indian national dress was no longer necessarily a rejection of modernity; it could represent modern India itself.

    There is also a gender question here. If a woman can walk into a boardroom wearing an elegant sari and be considered perfectly professional, why should a man in an equally well-tailored kurta-pyjama automatically appear less professional? Is the difference really about the garment—or about the assumptions attached to it?

    And then comes an amusing contemporary twist. When temperatures rise dramatically in Britain, office dress codes can suddenly become flexible. During recent heatwaves, British workplaces have debated whether shorts should be acceptable office wear, with some employers relaxing traditional dress expectations. Indian corporate offices, meanwhile, have traditionally regarded shorts as almost unthinkable in formal workplaces.

    So perhaps the next corporate revolution will not be about artificial intelligence, hybrid working or the four-day week. It might simply be about what we wear. If a temperature of 40 degrees can make shorts respectable in a London office, could an Indian summer make the kurta-pyjama respectable in a Mumbai or Delhi boardroom?

    Perhaps it is time to stop asking whether Indian clothes look “corporate” and start asking whether our definition of corporate clothing is unnecessarily Western. After all, professionalism is ultimately a quality of the person—not a property of the trousers.

   A well-cut kurta does not make an employee less efficient. A dhoti does not make a manager less capable. And a tie does not automatically make an executive more intelligent.

    Perhaps the real dress code should be simple when you think of global warming. If you want to reduce contributors to global warming, if not fully eliminate them, Indian dresses can come in handy with reduced air-conditioning. Indian HR needs to wake up.

    Dress appropriately. Work professionally. And let competence—not clothing—make the impression.

Written and posted by Kamlesh Tripathi

Author, Poet, & Columnist

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https://kamleshsujata.wordpress.com

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