Ashok Ogra
ashokogra@gmail.com
Come marriage season in India and it’s not the bride’s lehenga that first catches the eye. It’s is Pagdi-that glorious crown of fabric men sport as though they had always been royal heirs.
And before the vows are even exchanged, dozens of proud uncles pose for selfies, their heads wrapped in bright pinks, fiery reds and the occasional zebra-stripes that confuse tradition with experimental fashion. Turban on, ego upgraded.
Across India, occasions dictate design. A groom’s first right to dignity is his pagdi. A guest of honour receives a pagdi as respect. A martyr is honoured with one. At harvest festivals, colours pop to match the mood. At funerals, fabric becomes austere and white, silence folded into cloth.The head is never bare without meaning.
What we casually call a TURBAN-pagdi, safa, pheta, peta, dastar and dozens of other names – lies at the intersection of culture, geography, climate, caste, faith, honour and politics.Each pleat hides a slice of history, each knot a social code. It is haute couture that predates couture by centuries.
A headwrap was a statement long before slogans appeared on T-shirts.
Headgear originally emerged from pure practicality: protecting the head from the harsh Indian sun. Over time, though, the cloth began circling not just the head but the identity of the wearer. “The headgear was designed to protect from sunstroke,” as per the Maharaja Fatehsingh Museum in Vadodara, which houses over 200 pagdis and turbans from Gujarat, Rajasthan and Maharashtra. “Later, it became a symbol – for war, protection, coping with weather.” Somewhere between survival and style, the pagdi went from shade to significance.
A pagdi wasn’t merely worn- it was bestowed. It meant you were important. Placing a pagdi on someone’s head was the Indian equivalent of a knighthood. To lose it- literally or symbolically – was to lose honour. Unlike today’s one-size-fits-all wedding turbans, there were precise distinctions: rulers, priests, soldiers, merchants, even lowly villagers- all had their authorised variations. The slightest tilt of the knot could reveal a lifetime of social history.
Colour was never random. Pink marked celebration, saffron proclaimed sacrifice and valour, white expressed mourning and wisdom. Even within communities, the angle of a fold or the number of pleats could convey marital status, age, or rank. Rajasthani headgear was – and remains- a walking Wikipedia.
Rajputs reserved their most flamboyant turbans for battles and royal courts – towering structures adorned with pearls, enamelled brooches and the sirpech: a jeweled plume that signified lineage as much as bravery.
In Rajasthan – land of fortresses, feuds and fierce pride – the safas grew larger and louder. The desert demanded drama. Jodhpur preferred a flatter front and a thick tail at the back; Udaipur fashioned extra length that flowed; Jaipur dazzled with leheriya waves reflecting monsoon celebrations; Jaisalmer and Bikaner carried the sandstorm-tested sturdiness of survival.
Gujarat, by contrast, mastered elegance with economy. The Sorathipagh from Saurashtra rose tall and neat, its compactness mirroring the land’s grit. Kutch had its own vocabulary – bold bandhani dots and vibrant hues that lifted spirits in salt-crusted terrains. And nowhere was the pagdi more performative than during Navratri, when even the shyest of men embraced flamboyance as though Garba were their true calling. Farmers tied sturdier versions to withstand the relentless sun, while wealthy Kathi warriors flaunted heavier zari borders.
Further West, the Maratha pheta marched alongside empire. Shivaji’s men tied the Mawali pagdi like armour – functional enough for combat, symbolic enough for defiance. As the Maratha Confederacy spread, so did the aesthetic: the Kolhapuripagdi with its stiff frame and sharp angles; the Puneripheta with its proud crest; the orange Kesari pagdi that still reigns at festivals and political rallies. Every Maratha man with a pheta believes he is halfway to heroism.
Climb further north, and the headgear tells new tales. In Jammu, the Dogra turban embodied loyalty and martial honour – especially within the Dogra regiments who carried their reputation from battlefield to folklore. In Kashmir, the Karakul cap, fur-lined or felted, became synonymous with leadership – from Sheikh Abdullah to present-day politicians. The embroidered skull cap often worn at prayers honours humility and devotion.
The turban used to be the traditional headgear of the Kashmiri Pandit males, though its use is very restricted now. This turban is not much different from the turban the Muslims wear except that the Pandits would not wear any scalp cap inside.The headdress of a Kashmiri woman is a brightly coloured scarf or Taranga.
Meanwhile in Ladakh, the Perak headdress – studded with turquoise, symbol of purity-transforms women into living custodians of heritage. It is not worn; it is inherited – a matrilineal crown where every stone tells a story of ancestors.
If turbans are cultural encyclopaedias, Vadodara resident Anantlal Chavda is their devoted archivist. His enviable collection – including specimens from the Gaekwads of Baroda, the Khengars of Kutch and various Thakore households -preserves stories of migrations, royal hunts, crop cycles, and battles where both courage and cloth were tested.
Among princely turbans, the Gaekwadipaghdi stands out like a royal signature. Maharaja Sayajirao Gaekwad III – progressive, worldly and impeccably turned out – famously downsized the pagdi. Once requiring 38 metres of Chanderi fabric (and perhaps a strong neck), the Gaekwadipagdi today is a manageable 21 metres. Sindoori red was standard, though Sayajirao often wore green during Moharram and Eid – a gesture of cosmopolitan harmony. While touring Europe, he paired his pagdi with Savile Row suits – proof that elegance can be bilingual.
His predecessor Maharaja Khanderao favoured theatrical grandeur, ensuring room for the sirpech and pearl tassels that bounced with royal swagger. The tradition continues. When Samarjitsinh Gaekwad was crowned at Laxmi Vilas Palace in 2012, his pagdi shimmered with jewels, a turra standing like pride itself.
Beyond borders, the desire to crown the head remains universal. Bedouins identify tribes by wrap patterns, Berbers battle sandstorms behind indigo veils, Afghan turbans spiral into regional maps, and even European aristocrats once adored turbans as exotic glamour. Wherever the sun beats or identity matters, cloth rises to the head.
Yet ironically, for a country obsessed with symbols – from cars to cricket jerseys – headgear remains understudied. Historian Tushar Tere insists that decoding turbans would unlock a parallel emotional history of India. “Before medals or titles,” he says, “the pagdi itself was honour.”
Modernity, however, is impatient. Uniform factory-made pagdis have replaced fine-tuned craftsmanship at urban weddings. Velcro has defeated tradition. Plastics have infiltrated respect. The pagdi survives mostly in rituals now: the Sikh dastar tied each morning with devotion; the Rajput safawala who still folds memory into fabric; royal families who refuse to surrender heritage to convenience.
What makes the pagdi extraordinary is that it democratised the crown. A king wore it. A farmer wore it. A poet, a soldier, a saint, a bridegroom – all could be crowned simply by cloth. The pagdi teaches the simplest truth: dignity does not descend from pedigree; it rises with pride.
In a world that increasingly prefers shortcuts, the pagdi still demands patience- twist by twist, fold by fold – the way identity, honour and beauty always have. Every head deserves a crown – and India has known that for centuries.
(The author works for reputed Apeejay Education, New Delhi)
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