To Dye For

We made it a game to find all the clothes that bore the tag “Made in India” whenever my mother took me to the mall.

As a girl whose life was defined by her extensive skirt collection and reruns of Say Yes To The Dress, I determined at a young age that there was no greater high than rummaging through department stores, envisioning my next outfit. At the same time, I knew that these escapades could only satisfy one of my wardrobes. Glittered graphic tees and sports leggings filled one drawer in my bureau, embroidered kurtas and dupattas filled the rest. The two rarely crossed paths, each reserved for their own time and place. The tags were the intersection of both, or rather, small tokens of appreciation that acknowledged my existence as an Indian and American in the States.

Fashion, still, is essential to understanding my character. But fashion, now, is essential to understanding the state of the world.

In 2016, my family and I tuned into our favorite Tamil news station to be met with the headline, “Pollution Cocktail.” Like an abstract art piece, the Noyyal River, starting from Coimbatore and ending in Tirupur, looked like it had been painted by Jackson Pollock. Plumes of neon fuchsias clashed with murky browns, and sickly yellows bled into mellow indigos. Even the sludged vegetation clinging to its banks wasn’t exempt; instead, it was a grotesque mosaic of stained, dying bushes, with leaves stiff with dried dyes. The image was a tragic testament to a Tamil Nadu government policy that had failed to combat pollution, resulting in contaminated groundwater and extensive miles of infertile soil that could no longer sustain the region’s diverse crops. The pollution in question? Textile industries in and around Tirupur, pouring toxic chemicals from their factories into the water.

The blues, purples, and reds that had tainted the river were supposed to be ubiquitous in nature. They were meant to suffuse the sky and splash across the surface of the sea—not poison our waterways. It was a direct result of synthetic dyes produced by fossil fuels, forming the basis for an infinite catalog of textile finishes, glues, plastics, faux leathers, synthetic fibers, inks, and more. Fossil-fuel chemistry is not only used in fashion, it also owes part of its existence to fashion. Fossil fuels are fashionable. Fashion is fossil fuels. I hadn’t known it until then, but their history had been locked away like a shameful family secret.

This whole situation was more than just a local environmental disaster; it was a reflection of pure greed. India, I now understood, was a major hub for textile production, producing millions of garments for the global market. As fashion trends shifted with dizzying speed, the demand for hyper-specific, fleeting styles intensified, leading to poorly made clothing designed to be worn just long enough until the new trend cycle. The reporter explained that the relentless cost-cutting measures to meet these insatiable requests took horrifying shape by means of rampant pollution and widespread exploitative labor. The camera switched to a dimly lit sweatshop, where hundreds of workers were encased in a room, stabbing away at their fingers and fabrics with rusted sewing machines. At that moment, I quickly surmised that the “Made in India” tags I had once cherished like trophies were markers for spilled blood: both that of my own people, and the world we inhabit.

In the past few years, the beginning of spring has been marked by the rise of pastels and florals in people’s wardrobes. Summer inspires shell prints and airy silhouettes, while fall and winter don faux fur and leather. Season after season, we mirror the natural world in what we wear: its colors, textures, and ever-changing qualities. Yet, we have failed to reflect its charred forests and liquid ice caps, or the slick oceans and depleting wildlife. We mimic the very ecosystems we help destroy, clinging to their image even as their reality disappears.

So, when the last tree falls, and the final silkworm cocoon shrivels into dust, will you weep, wrapped in the very fabrics that contributed to their deaths? Will you cling to the pictures of the cheetah’s fading spots or the magnolia’s wilted petals, until they too start to melt?

How long will it take before these clothes no longer feel like fashion, but like a home you can no longer return to?