Cottoning to the Times: A Thread of Revolution

 

In the Beginning, There Was Cotton

Long before polyester promised "wrinkle-free" and fashion forgot how to breathe, India’s looms were quietly spinning legends; one cotton thread at a time, soft enough for skin and sharp enough for history.

By 3000 BC, communities along the Indus River were already cultivating cotton and spinning it into cloth. Indian muslin was so light and delicate that the Romans were amazed by its fineness. Traders in the Middle East, Africa, and Europe prized Indian cotton, while Chinese silks had their admirers, Indian cotton dressed the world.

It wasn’t just a product; it was poetry on a loom.

The British Textile Coup

Fast-forward to the 1600s. The East India Company arrives, not with fair trade contracts, but with cannons and ledgers. India was rich in resources, particularly cotton textiles, and Britain had a plan: If you can't beat them, break them.

The East India Company came to trade but quickly figured out that trade profits were smaller than colonial monopolies. So began a slow, deliberate economic sabotage. First, Indian finished textiles were slapped with heavy duties in Britain, while British machine-made fabrics waltzed into Indian markets duty-free. Then came the bans; Indian textiles were outright prohibited from sale in Europe, choking off their most lucrative markets.

But it didn’t stop there. Indian farmers were coerced into growing cotton; not for their own weavers, but for British mills in Manchester and Lancashire. The raw cotton was exported, turned into machine-woven fabric, and shipped right back to India where it was sold cheaper than handloom products. Britain had the factories. India was reduced to a supplier of cotton and a dumping ground for cloth.

Worse still, the British didn’t stop at undercutting Indian weavers; they deliberately shattered the very looms that had sustained generations of skilled artisans. In a ruthless bid to break India’s spirit and destroy its heritage, they tore apart centuries of craftsmanship and independence, one broken thread at a time.

The result? Indian weavers were ruined. Some literally cut off their thumbs in protest (a possibly apocryphal story, but one that captured the anguish).

India, once the world’s textile hub, became a mere supplier of raw cotton for British factories.

In effect, Britain exported the Industrial Revolution and imported poverty into India.

By the 19th century, Lancashire thrived while Indian weavers starved. This wasn't free trade; it was a textile coup.

Cotton Fights Back

But cotton wasn’t done. Stripped of its global glory and forced into colonial submission, it found an unexpected champion in Gandhi. Where the British had weaponised industrial cotton to break India, Gandhi picked up a humble tool; the spinning wheel and turned it into a symbol of resistance.

And the irony? Thick as a tweed overcoat in the heat of Chennai. The British, who once swooned over Indian muslins and paraded them in Versailles ballrooms, now feared a bit of rough handloom., because every thread of khadi was a strand of defiance.

Cotton in Literature: Reading North and South with Indian Eyes

This all hit me harder after reading ‘North and South’ by Elizabeth Gaskell; a novel set in the smoky heart of 19th-century Lancashire, where mill owners battled strikes and workers coughed their lungs out in cotton fluff-filled air. It's all about class tensions, clashing worldviews, and, yes, romance with brooding mill owners (move over Mr. Darcy).

But behind the factory romance and moral dilemmas, the real drama was cotton: how it turned human lives into cogs and communities into profit margins.

Reading it as an Indian woman? A revelation. There I was, nodding along with the mill workers and their struggles, while also realising that the prosperity of Mr. Thornton’s mills was built quite literally on the ruins of Dhaka, Surat, and Kanchipuram. It was like sympathising with the wolves after seeing your sheep farm flattened.

So yes, while Mr. Thornton worried about supply chains and profit margins, the other side of the story: India’s was conveniently left offstage. Our looms went quiet so Manchester could hum.

And so, when Gandhi picked up that spinning wheel, he wasn’t just making thread. He was rewriting the story. Quietly, daily, defiantly.

The Post-Independence Unraveling

When India finally dusted off the Union Jack in 1947, one of the first things it reached for wasn’t a flag but the spinning wheel.

Yes, the humble spinning wheel once wielded by Gandhi like a political lightsaber; became a symbol of self-reliance and economic dignity. Gandhi’s khadi was not just homespun cloth; it was homespun resistance, woven in defiance of Manchester mills and colonial greed.

The idea was noble: revive handloom, uplift rural artisans, rebuild local industry.

And for a time, it worked. India’s textile mills began to hum with activity. Power looms, still frowned upon by purists, brought in efficiency, while the handloom cooperatives proudly stitched their heritage into weaving cotton and khadi amidst palm-fringed quietude. They survived, not thrived.

But somewhere along the way, the thread snapped again.

Urbanisation and industrialisation brought new challenges. The traditional weaver had to compete with powerlooms and synthetic blends. Handloom became “niche.” Cotton became “poor man’s cloth.”

And still, it endured.

Cotton Gets a Corporate Makeover

Then came the modern textile industry.

Someone asked: “What if we took this ancient, organic, breathable, ethical miracle and made it... industrial, exploitative, and slightly toxic?”

Today, cotton may still claim the title of "natural fiber," but many of its virtues are now buried under pesticides, sweatshops, and a mountain of fast fashion landfill. Spoiler alert: not all cotton is created equal.

Then came Zara. And Shein. And “drops” every 48 hours. Cotton was no longer about comfort or community; it was about volume. Buy, wear once, bin. A t-shirt today travels more than a pilot: grown in India, spun in Vietnam, sewn in Bangladesh, shipped to Sweden, worn in the USA, dumped in Ghana. Yes, Ghana. Where our discarded fashion goes to die.

Still think that tee is a steal? Behind that bargain bin lies a mountain of waste, oceans of dye, and a trail of sweatshops where “fast” fashion leaves slow damage.

So next time you're tempted by a “limited drop,” remember: it might end up as someone else’s landfill problem, wrapped in last season’s hype.

A cotton confession

While in the UK, I’d stand there in a high-street stores like Marks and Spencer and Boden, flipping tags a detective. “Made in India.” “100% cotton.” “Ethically sourced.” But I’ve learned the hard way: the words "sustainable" and "ethical" are often more marketing than meaning. So I’d do the ritual: check the weave, tug at the seams, squint at the care instructions. I’d frown thoughtfully, nod as if I'd solved the mystery… and still somehow walk out £60 poorer, holding a dress made in India, sold in London.

The deeper irony? Here I am in a British store, eyeing cotton dresses made in former colonies. Cotton! The very fabric Britain once plundered from India, ruining our handlooms, our livelihoods, our history of excellence in muslin, khadi, and kalamkari. Now, I find myself paying £60 for a machine-printed cotton dress; designed in London, sewn in India, and then returned to me through a distinctly British retail experience.

Full colonial circle. Somewhere, a Victorian mill owner probably laughed in ghostly approval.

The American Fashion Paradox

American fashion has its own unmistakable personality; oversized everything. I walk into stores where the smallest size could easily double as a parachute. The fabrics? They feel like they’ve never met a natural fiber in their lives. I keep asking myself, “Where is the cotton? The real kind?” The kind that breathes with you, not against you.

A Return to Roots

Despite the vastness of the global fashion landscape, I find myself constantly drawn back to my roots. I search for Indian cotton crafted by Indian designers; homespun, handwoven, the real deal. Every now and then, I stumble upon treasures that truly make my heart sing.

But let’s be honest: even in India, I’ve occasionally been outwitted by a clever label or two. Authenticity is often disguised, and discerning the genuine from the gimmick requires patience and a keen eye.

Cotton as Cultural Memory

Cotton is far more than just cool comfort; it’s cultural memory. Centuries of craftsmanship are woven into each thread. And here I am, decades after colonialism, still checking the weave, second-guessing the label, still longing for cloth that carries stories, not just stitching.

The Online Fabric Fiasco

Since COVID gatecrashed our lives, shopping turned into a digital rodeo: a click, a scroll, a hopeful cart full of dreams. But the digital bazaar has its pitfalls. Sometimes the fabric arrives just right, whispering stories of handlooms and heritage. Other times? It feels off, like a cotton impostor in disguise.

Meanwhile, the physical shops; those havens of touch and texture are closing at an alarming rate. The charm of browsing aisles, chatting with store owners, and feeling fabric before buying is becoming a nostalgic daydream. But maybe that’s a blessing in disguise. It forces us to be choosier, to demand transparency, to support brands that actually care about ethics and artisanship and not just the buzzwords.

Let’s talk couture

Not Paris. Not Milan. Indian couture. That curious, glorious middle ground between tradition and drama, where a humble kurta can cost more than a month’s worth of groceries.. There’s something beautifully maddening about Indian designers. They’ll spend hours perfecting a neckline embroidery that no one will notice and call it “minimal.”

I've scrolled through several Indian fashion sites with an Instagram handle and a poetic tagline, convincing myself that this hand-block-printed cotton dress will transform my entire personality.

It didn’t, of course.

But it did make the aunties at church nod approvingly. Someone at the supermarket once said, “Oh, that’s a pretty print!” And for a moment, I believe I’ve made a spiritually sound fashion choice.

Threads That Travel

Denim, cotton’s tougher, hard-wearing cousin, has quite the history. Originating as sturdy cloth for sailors and miners in the 1600s, it truly made its mark in the 1870s when Levi Strauss riveted pockets onto jeans for California’s gold miners. Built for durability and practicality, denim quickly became the working-class uniform across the world.

When denim first arrived in India, it was something of a novelty. I still remember my very first pair; a curious slice of Western culture that definitely raised some eyebrows. My family looked at me as if I’d sprouted horns. “Is that really proper Indian wear?” they asked, their suspicion barely concealed. Wearing jeans felt like a quiet act of rebellion.

But fast forward a few years, and denim is everywhere; on schoolchildren, grandparents, street vendors; a true everyday staple. My son now wears jeans like he was born in them, and denim has woven itself seamlessly into India’s modern identity, much like cotton has done over the centuries.

Cotton started it all: from ancient looms by the Indus River, through colonial upheavals, to the denim on our backs today. It’s far more than just fabric; it’s a story of survival, adaptation, and enduring style that stretches across continents and centuries.

The Lure of Viscose

And then, just when you think you’ve cracked the ethical fashion code, along comes viscose. It sounds vaguely suspicious like a villain in a Sherlock Holmes story. “The Case of the Vanishing Viscose.” Sorry, I read a lot!

But wait. Not all viscose is evil.

I came across in a dress label that proudly said Lenzing Ecovero viscose.. Sounded impressive. Eco-sounding even. I Googled it on the spot. It’s made from renewable wood sources, produced with 50% fewer emissions, and often comes with traceability promises. It feels light, drapes well, and in the fashion jungle, it’s a relatively greener vine to swing on especially when cotton is being drenched in pesticides or greenwashed beyond recognition.

Spinning Forward: Where Do We Go from Here?

Ethical fashion isn’t about being perfect; it’s about doing your best. It’s asking, “Who made this?” and “What is it made of?” It’s supporting real weavers, choosing better fabrics, and avoiding clothes that fall apart after one wash.

So there you have it; cotton and denim, two humble fabrics with rich history. They’ve survived colonial plunder, industrial revolutions, and my own questionable fashion choices. From the hand-spun cotton of ancient India to the rugged denim of California gold miners, these textiles have been silent witnesses to centuries of human drama, resilience, and style upgrades.

Wearing them isn’t just about comfort or fashion; it’s like carrying a little piece of history on your back. That kurta you bought online? It might have a story of a weaver who’s been stitching dreams into thread for generations. Those jeans you slipped on this morning? They’re descendants of a tough, practical fabric that went from sailors and miners to school kids.

And yes, while chasing ethical fashion can sometimes feel like navigating a labyrinth with a blindfold, every thoughtful choice chips away at the throwaway culture that’s been choking our planet.

And if all else fails? Just make sure your outfit has pockets. Because ethical or not, we all need a place to stash our keys, our courage, and maybe a snack.