Chikankari: Threads of Pride of India
There was once a time when a woman wore chikankari not because it was “in,” but because it whispered of heritage. It was thread poetry, hand-stitched over weeks, often months. Passed from a nazaakat of generations. Held together by dignity, not trend cycles.
And now? It’s being mocked as “chhapri.”
The same embroidery that once adorned Nawabi angarkhas, and Begums’ dupattas is now reduced to an Instagram slur. A casteist insult. An aesthetic stripped of its depth, dignity, and history, Thrown into the hands of fast fashion, TikTok humor. Into the hands of clueless consumers who wouldn’t know a French knot from a fake print.
Chikankari: A Legacy Threaded with Soul
Chikankari began in the heart of Lucknow. Some say Noor Jahan, wife of Mughal emperor Jahangir, brought it from Persia. Others say it was already here. Grown from the soil of Awadh, watered by the fingers of generations of Muslim women, and men who carried their art like prayer.
It’s not just “embroidery.” Chikankari has rules. Techniques. Language. Bakhiya. Phanda. Murri. Tepchi. Every stitch is an intention. Every thread is a thought.
This is not machine work. This is legacy. And yet, today, we wear factory-made polyester kurtis with digital patterns that pretend to be chikankari. We wear it because it’s “cute.” But then, the same mouths that wear it turn around, and call it chhapri.
Why “Chhapri” Is a Casteist, Classist Slur
Let’s be very clear.
“Chhapri” isn’t just a TikTok insult, or a Gen Z meme. It’s a caste-coded, class-loaded dismissal disguised as fashion snobbery. It’s a shorthand for “cheap,” “tacky,” “wannabe,” “too loud”. But dig deeper, and you’ll find that it’s often a reaction to someone who doesn’t belong to the elite, or “aesthetic” crowd.
It’s aimed at those who don’t shop at Zara, or Calvin Klein, who love color, sparkle, and street-style swagger. Those who wear what they love, not what fashion magazines tell them to. Those who don’t speak in English, but carry themselves with pride.
“Chhapri” isn’t about clothes. It’s about who is allowed to be seen. It mocks the expressions of people who exist outside quiet luxury, and global minimalism. It ridicules ambition when it doesn’t come in a sleek, Savarna-approved package. It sneers at joy when it isn’t curated by class.
When Chikankari Becomes “Chhapri”
Take chikankari, for instance. A centuries-old hand embroidery tradition from Lucknow, worn by nawabs, and film stars. When it was rare, and expensive, it was heritage. When it entered mass markets, and fast fashion, it suddenly became “chhapri.”
But chikankari didn’t change, the wearer did.
Now it’s worn by girls in government colleges, street dancers on reels, local influencers. And that’s what bothers people. Because caste, and class in India have always policed access, whether it’s to language, luxury, or legacy.
Calling chikankari “chhapri” is not fashion critique. It’s casteist gatekeeping. It mocks the very artisans who make these intricate stitches by hand for pennies. Their work is bought cheap, mass-produced, and then laughed at when worn by someone “ordinary.” Meanwhile, influencers wear the same, and call it “ethnic core.”
So when someone says “chikankari is so chhapri now,” what they really mean is:
“It’s no longer mine. It belongs to too many people now. And that makes me uncomfortable.”
That’s not commentary. That’s casteism in sequins.
The Problem With “Chhapri” Is Bigger Than Fashion
At its core, “chhapri” isn’t just about aesthetic. It’s about who is seen as aspirational, and who is dismissed as “trying too hard.” And nine times out of ten, the people who are called chhapri are from non-elite, non-English speaking, working-class, or lower-caste spaces.
It punishes visibility. It mocks people for wanting to be seen, to be loud, to be stylish in their own way.
What’s considered elegant is still largely dictated by upper-class, upper-caste tastes. And “chhapri” becomes the word we use to put others in their place.
It tells you that if you didn’t grow up in fashion capital cities, or speak a certain way, your idea of beauty is a joke. It makes fashion exclusive again, by bullying those who dare to enter.
The Chikankari–”Chhapri” Connection
Chikankari, once the pride of Mughal courts, and the hallmark of royal elegance, is now carelessly labelled “chhapri” by fashion’s self-appointed gatekeepers. But this insult isn’t about embroidery, it’s about entitlement.
When chikankari was rare, and worn by the elite, it was heritage. Now that it’s found in local markets, and on college girls, and influencers, it’s mocked as “too common,” “too loud,” or “too wannabe.”
What’s being ridiculed is not the craft, but the democratization of it. The moment something historically rich becomes accessible, it stops being elite, and that’s when labels like “chhapri” emerge. This isn’t fashion critique. It’s a casteist discomfort with seeing the marginalized claim visibility through art they’ve long created.
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