Is the aabhla going global now and can it avoid the "scandi-scarf" fate?

Somewhere between Stockholm and Sanganer, aabhla embroidery has become central to a steadily escalating discourse in fashion. The centuries-old technique, once featuring prominently on the bridal wear of northwest India and the garments of camel herders in Gujarat, is now appearing in the collections of international labels. But what once carried meaning specific to place and community now risks being flattened into moodboard fodder.

In 1999, Miuccia Prada debuted a mirror-trimmed collection that garnered attention from fashion critics and remains in circulation on resale platforms like The RealReal—an early instance of South Asian-inspired embroidery entering European high fashion. Since then, mirror work has resurfaced in collections by designers such as Tory Burch and J.Crew, with reflective mirrors embellishing dresses and skirts. Burch’s pink-and-yellow maxi dress, in particular, has become a familiar sight at weddings and across social media. While Burch acknowledges the technique’s Indian origins and craftsmanship, its rising popularity raises renewed questions about cultural exchange and the limits of adaptation.

This isn’t the first time mirror embroidery has made its way into Western wardrobes. In the early 2000s, boho fashion saw a wave of pieces adorned with mirrors, often mass-produced and largely uncredited. However, the current resurgence, particularly in the realm of luxury fashion, raises more pointed questions. When international houses adopt materials and techniques linked to specific communities, what obligations, if any, do they carry with them? 

In western India and parts of Pakistan, mirror work plays a role in local belief systems and daily dressing. Small reflective surfaces are sewn into fabric with the intention of warding off harm. Each mirror is wrapped and stitched by hand, a process requiring hours of labour. It is a skill passed down in families, sustained not by design schools or trend cycles, but by lived knowledge.

This understanding is frequently absent from current fashion discourse. Unlike Indian designers such as Rahul Mishra or Payal Singhal, who build on aabhla from a place of familiarity, many European designers approach it as a design reference, rather than a language. There’s no footnote, no gesture to where it came from—only an image, dislodged and redeployed.

In many cases, the artisans behind aabhla aren’t mentioned at all. Their work travels to runways all over the world, but their names don’t. There are no royalties, no design partnerships, and no recognition. The mirrors are seen while the people behind them are not.

At the same time, aabhla continues to hold ground within South Asia through continuity. Designers working within the region are creating garments that use the embroidery in ways informed by its origins. Some incorporate it into tailored separates, others into textiles meant for ceremonial occasions. In each case, the technique is not retrofitted into something new but applied with a sense of place.

Fashion will always borrow. But borrowing without conversation turns objects into symbols and symbols into trends. The question is not whether aabhla belongs on runways in Copenhagen or Paris. It’s who gets to interpret it and who is left out when it circulates in new contexts. 

Mirror work reveals much—whether the fashion industry is willing to grapple with it remains the pressing question.

Lead image: Getty Images

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