Brooks Brothers — who at one point boasted none other than Abe Lincoln as a customer and fan –filed for bankruptcy in 2020. The reason cited was poor sales due to the COVID-19 pandemic. A sudden shift to WFH culture resulted in a decline in the demand for office wear and a rise in demand for soft, stretchy lounging clothes: matching Pangaia sets in popsicle colors, soft-from-being-over washed graphic t-shirts, lots and lots of Lululemon. In the fall of 2020, Brooks Brothers were were purchased by a joint venture; several articles were written dissecting the evolving nature of the brand. Their role in the origins of prep is not a difficult one to trace: Ralph Lauren was a salesman at Brooks Brothers in New York in his early career, and Brooks Brothers eventually sued Ralph Lauren over who “owned” the polo button-down shirts.

Brooks Brothers has played an important role in clothing manufacturing that goes beyond the bright, preppy look it is now synonymous with. It introduced America to the ready-to-wear suit – before then, suits had to be custom tailored. Fabric purchased, measurements taken, suit tailored. Luxury label The Row – known for its minimal, lush aesthetic focused on luxury fabric and attentive cuts / detailing – is aptly named in honor of Saville Row in London, a street of shops known for high quality, custom tailoring.  

If you live anywhere in North America or Europe, this may sound completely primitive (or extremely lavish, depending on your perspective). If you – like me – are South Asian or Arab, then this seems remarkably familiar. That’s because custom tailoring is the norm in our culture: shopping for uncut fabric and being your own designer is a badge of individuality we wear proudly. Laces, buttons, zips, silhouettes, aurep (cutting fabric on the bias), nothing is too technical for the average consumer of this practice, which includes grandmothers, mothers, aunties, cousins, everyone, really. If we wish to outfit ourselves in a matchy-matchy orange-and-teal ensemble, then that is our birthright. We’ll wear it until we cannot stand to look at it anymore and it will meet its eventual fate: scraps used to tie your tailor’s fabric samples, often littered with cigarette burns (yet another badge of honor to mark the end of the fabric life cycle).

The configuration for a Pakistani women’s clothing doesn’t seem to change too much, though. Most often, there are three elements: trousers or shalwar, some variation of a shirt or kurta, and a dupatta or scarf. Not a ton of room for creativity, you’d think, nor a formula for igniting an absolute devotion to clothing that is the norm among Pakistani women of all social classes. A recurring joke between me and my Mum is how every 4-6 months or so, she promptly announces “Ab chhoti shirt ka fashion hai” and then in the next cycle “Aaj kal lambi shirts chal rahi hain”. Is that all that changes? I find hilarity in this. Wait long enough, and your shorter shirts will be trending again but don’t get too comfortable! It won’t be long before they’re long again. Pakistani shalwars are a similar Victorian-era-style tease with their endlessly fluctuating ankle girths.

Formulaically, Pakistani clothing isn’t too unlike The Row at least in one way: the devil is in the details. The configuration is fixed, so you can play endlessly with fabric, embellishments, embroidery, sleeve length, seam length, and so on. A long menswear-style kurta with a traditional shalwar in a heavy cotton would look completely different from say – an Anarkali – where the bust is sewn separately into a bouncy, voluminous skirt.

In the same way that Brooks Brothers changed how we engage with our own clothing, so did Khaadi. The company was founded in 1998 by Shamoon Sultan, originally selling loose khaddar fabric (Khaadi is derived from “khaddi”). Sultan studied handloom weaving at Indus Valley School of Art and Architecture and within a decade, expanded the company’s operations from a single shop in Karachi to 62 stores world-over, cementing himself as the industry leader in ready-to-wear Pakistani clothes. People still get their clothes tailored, for sure, but the needle moved (sewing needle?) – and Khaadi has played a significant role.

Arguably the best thing about South Asian clothes right now, though, is that one approach is not compromised for the other, at least not yet. It may be temporary, but we are living in a time when we can design and create our own clothes, spending hours at the tailor on alterations, or we can head straight to the mall for a quick and easy purchase, outfitted just in time for a last-minute dinner or wedding. It may be a stretch to say that this is probably reasonably unique for any group of people at any point in history. But it feels special, so let’s enjoy it while it lasts, before one method is forsaken for the other.