Where fashion falters: The life and afterlife of clothes

Take a walk down Commercial Street in Bengaluru, and you will see vibrant shops, colourful clothes, and a crowd eager to buy.

The entire cluster around it thrives on fashion, feeding every desire, dream, and fantasy. From embroidered garments to men’s wear to shoes, the streets are adorned not just with merchandise but also with people willing to buy.

Vendors sell cucumbers and guavas to shoppers who languidly wander, often picking up garments they may or may not truly need.

Fashion today faces heavy scrutiny around its waste. Consumers are blamed for overconsumption, while brands are questioned for failing to ensure circularity. Circularity simply means extending the life of a garment, giving it new purpose beyond its intended shelf life.

In India, this comes naturally. Hand-me-downs, donations, and repurposing are woven into our social fabric. Unlike in developed countries, where fast fashion dominates and disposal is inadequate, Indian households instinctively extend a garment’s journey. Clothes are worn, altered, transformed, and eventually passed along—ensuring little ever goes to waste.

Fast fashion, however, is the real culprit. In the United States, for example,
old clothes rarely get repurposed; products exist for every specific task, rendering an old t-shirt unnecessary even for mopping floors or wiping windows. Garments thus end up in landfills long before they wear out.

I remember being handed my aunt’s pinafore as a child. It was too long, so my mother hemmed it to fit my knees. Each year, as I grew taller, she would remove the hem and sew another. The faded stitch lines became a quiet record of my growth, much like rings inside a tree trunk.

Sarees too had their journeys—handed down with reverence, transformed into kurtis for modern wear, or reimagined into household items. Scraps became scrunchies or scarves. This practice of reuse and transformation extends to every corner of India, ensuring clothes always find a second life.

As one of the largest textile-producing nations in the world, India can be seen as the birthplace of fashion. Yet the birth of textiles often remains undocumented. Behind the bright fabrics lies an invisible cost: toxic dyeing, bleaching, and fumes released into residential air. In Bengaluru’s Electronic City, residents suffer chronic coughs and illnesses from garment factories in the vicinity. This is environmental racism—once relegated to rural communities of lower economic standing but now creeping into urban centres due to rapid industrialisation.

Pollution is equally visible in waterways. In Kolkata’s leather complex, rivers have become foul sludge, choked with chemicals and animal waste despite the existence of recycling systems. With the rise of fast fashion—largely synthetic—the problem multiplies. Cotton garments eventually biodegrade; petroleum-based t-shirts and polyester blends may outlast generations. Even as Lakmé Fashion Week highlights “sustainability”, the very same platform supported by Reliance helps promote mass-produced synthetics sold in their stores, thereby making a mockery of the concept.

As a society, we tolerate inconvenience. We navigate unfinished flyovers that linger for a decade or roads dug up each season. Rarely do we protest; instead, we develop habits of endurance and silence. This cognitive dissonance carries into fashion. When we buy a white salwar suit on Commercial Street and would like to change the colour to pink, we simply send it to the dyeing unit on Ibrahim Sahib Street.

Purchase, stitching, alteration, and dyeing—all can be done in one hub. The system works seamlessly above ground, dazzling us with convenience. Yet if one observes closely, the same street that dazzles with colour also carries its shadow. The nala that runs parallel to Commercial Street tells another story—the water darkened with dyes, its flow slowed by waste, silently mirroring the cost of our bargains.

Do clothes carry philosophy? In India, we are taught that death is not an end but a passage. The Garuda Purana reminds us: what is born will die, and what dies will be born again. This eternal rhythm shapes our understanding of existence. Should garments, which guard us against heat and cold, mark our rituals, and help us express joy and sorrow, not also be respected in their birth, their life, and their passing?

We have long excelled at extending a garment’s afterlife—handing it down, altering it, transforming it into something new. But its beginnings matter too. As the Bhagavata Purana says, “From purity comes strength, and from impurity, decay.” A garment’s birth—in polluted rivers or in clean, careful hands—shapes its destiny and ours. Poisoned waters, toxic air, and silent health tolls are the hidden costs of beginnings we ignore.

We may cherish the afterlife of clothes as they pass from one hand to another, but the silence surrounding their birth reveals uncomfortable truths. If we are to truly honour what clothes and protects us, we must not only celebrate garments’ longevity but also confront the conditions of their creation.

(The writer is a fashion environmentalist collaborating with the United Nations and World Bank on fashion and sustainability)

Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.