Ayesha Lari, 24, is known to be a sari connoisseur among her peers. Last year, she spent her first Eid away from home draping saris with six of her closest friends. It was a unique way of celebrating the festival since most women in Pakistan dress up in the traditional shalwar kameez (tunic and trouser set), or some variation of it, on special occasions. For Lari, however, the silhouette had become a regular part of her wardrobe after she found one of her late grandmother’s saris almost a decade ago. She now wears saris regularly to social gatherings and work.
Several young women, especially in urban spaces in Pakistan, have begun to embrace the sari (or saree), which had disappeared as daily wear in upper- and middle-class circles in the 1980s because of a perceived ban and changing fashion trends. There was also public backlash against the sari because of its association with India and Hinduism. In addition, the Islamization drive under President Gen. Zia-ul-Haq in the 1970s led to the perception that the garment was not appropriate for Pakistan’s Muslim women.
This perception has stuck, and many in Pakistan think that one cannot wear it without showing the midriff, though there are ways to wrap it without doing so. Indian pop culture, which often sexualizes the sari and makes it look sensual, contributed to this idea.
Yet in the past few years, young, urban women in Pakistan have been reclaiming the sari, and it has become a way for them to exert their agency in society.
In the past decade, they have been finding ways to make feminist interventions and reclaim public space. For instance, the annual Women’s March emphasizes messages like “my body, my choice.” The Girls at Dhabas movement in 2015 encouraged women to drink a cup of chai or hang out at the roadside eateries and tea shops that dot a very male-dominated public space.
“In one way there’s a bit of rebellion. It says I’m not conforming to what I’m meant to look like but I’m wearing something that’s mine and my own and I feel good and representative of my culture in it, even if it’s something we’re not ‘supposed’ to wear,” said radio jockey and journalist Sabah Bano Malik.
Many women, including fashion and social media influencers, are growing more comfortable with posting their photos online with hashtags like #Sarisforallsizes, and newer sari brands are popping up on Instagram. For instance, The Saree Girl, which has over 173,000 followers on the social media platform, has leading celebrities like Mahira Khan and Hania Aamir endorsing it.
Despite the growing popularity of the sari, not all women have embraced the trend. Malik said her mother scolds her every time she wants to wear one. “For my mom, the sari was associated with sexualizing women’s bodies,” she said, alluding to the influence of Indian pop culture on her mother’s views. This did not stop Malik from modeling in one for a brand in 2021, but not only was she heavily trolled online for wearing a sari because of its association with India, she was also fat-shamed.
In response, Malik and another social media influencer, Baemisaal, who highlights Pakistani fashion, ran social media campaigns and appeared on TV talk shows to highlight the sari culture while also raising awareness about body positivity. But their efforts received mixed reactions from viewers.
Beauty standards, rooted in the marriage market in South Asia, have long dictated that an ideal woman needs to be fair with clear skin, thin and not too short. But these expectations have recently come under scrutiny, as has the culture of body shaming and moral policing of young women’s and girls’ bodies, often expressed by way of unsolicited comments from relatives and acquaintances.
Growing up, I had seen many photos of my mother wearing the sari, but they were from a time before she had begun to wear the hijab. No one in my family wore the sari and instead preferred the shalwar kameez. Wearing saris was considered too provocative.
When I asked my mother if we could style it in a hijab-friendly way, she discouraged me because she thought it would not look good. Nevertheless, I wore the sari to my high school prom almost a decade ago and often wear it to social gatherings now.
Miral Khwaja, the founder of online sari brand Beenarasee, echoed my sentiments: “I strongly feel that if you are told not to behave a certain way, you usually have the urge to rebelliously do it more.”
For Khwaja, saris were a key part of her household. “When Zia banned the sari [for women in public-facing roles], I think my family was busy buying their new stock of saris,” she said. “My mother and aunt took me to India with them so many times that I never even cared for the taboo regarding saris.”
For many families in Pakistan who have relatives across the border, and even those who migrated during the Partition of India and Pakistan, saris remained a connection to their family traditions and history. Even though the sari was marginalized in mainstream Pakistani society, some families held on to heirloom pieces passed down by their mothers and grandmothers or those they sourced from India whenever possible.
Until the 1980s, saris were common in the country. Naseema Begum, daughter of former President Ayub Khan, would often wear silk saris while accompanying her father at political engagements. Nusrat Bhutto, wife of former Prime Minister Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, who founded the Pakistan Peoples Party, was also known as a style icon, particularly because of her saris. It would also not be unusual to see women wearing the outfit in advertisements, movies and on the news.
However, saris moved out of the mainstream in Pakistan for two reasons. First, there was a widespread misconception that Zia-ul-Haq banned the sari in Pakistan. However, the ban was partial and applied only to women working in government or who held public roles such as newscasters, explained journalist and author Saba Imtiaz, who writes on culture and human rights. Second, he characterized wearing saris and showing the midriff as Indian and non-Islamic, which created a sense that an outright ban existed.
“Since newscasters were seen as big trendsetters at the time, to no longer see them wear saris had a big impact. When you remove something from the public space, it trickles down into society,” Imtiaz told New Lines.
Later, when Benazir Bhutto — Nusrat and Zulfikar’s daughter, who became Pakistan’s first woman prime minister in 1988 — started wearing the shalwar kameez with her signature white scarf during public and political engagements, the outfit not only gained widespread popularity but also became the de facto traditional Pakistani attire, setting fashion trends for women who wanted to emulate the political icon.
Currently, many young, urban women have started experimenting with the sari. Instead of the traditional blouses, women have started pairing the sari with button-down shirts, crop tops and even sports bras. Niche fashion brands are also experimenting with the silhouette. One of them is the “pant sari,” which is a mix of the pantsuit and the sari.
“It has made saris easier and more accessible, and it’s one of the really ‘in’ designs for the younger generation to wear,” said Karachi-based Andaleeb Rana, who runs craft-focused fashion brand Bulbul.
But its association with India persists. Imtiaz recalled a time when a cab driver in Karachi asked whether she was Hindu or from India because he couldn’t imagine a Pakistani Muslim woman casually wearing a sari.
Many in India also hold this perception. Last year, when the media reported that a Pakistani woman had illegally traveled to India to live with her romantic partner, the couple’s landlord said he couldn’t have guessed she was Pakistani because she wore saris.
Yet despite the sari’s recent resurgence, Imtiaz is wary of describing recent trends as a rebirth of sari culture. “To say sari culture is growing or reviving would mean that everyone stopped wearing it, but really these changes are only being seen in [the] upper middle class in Karachi.”
While the sari was pushed out of upper- and middle-class circles in the 1980s, it continued to be a staple for Hindu women belonging to economically disadvantaged backgrounds.
Because such an interpretation does not account for class differences, Imtiaz does not call the recent surge in popularity a “revival.” What the poor wear doesn’t seem to define trends, she said.
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