Chandigarh: The Indian Army’s recently introduced uniform regulations, widely understood to have been undertaken at the government’s behest as part of a broader push to reduce the lingering imprint of colonial-era traditions, have been welcomed across sections of the media, serving officers, defence analysts, and assorted custodians of national authenticity.The centrepiece of this initiative is the newly issued Army Uniforms, 2026, regulations, which remove several residual colonial dress customs. The changes include the indigenous bandi jacket as formal wear – better known in recent years as the “Modi jacket” – the phasing out of ceremonial pouch belts, more commonly known as Sam Browne belts which are named after General Sir Samuel Browne of the British Indian Army, the curtailment of sword-carrying on ceremonial occasions, and the elimination of assorted vestiges of imperial terminology and practice.Collectively, these measures aim to give Indian military dress a more distinctly atmanirbhar, or indigenous, character. Yet, they also raise an intriguing question: if decolonisation is to be pursued to its logical conclusion, perhaps the time has come to confront the greatest surviving British contribution to military attire: shirts and trousers themselves.Though neither garment originated in Britain, it was the British who popularised the tailored shirt-and-trouser combination, which by the early 19th century had become standard male attire across much of the Western world and, eventually, the globe. Few items of clothing are more closely associated with the British imprint on modern dress.An 18th-century depiction of Henry Every, with the Fancy shown engaging its prey in the background. Photo: Public Domain.After all, before the arrival of the East India Company in the early 17th century and the Raj that followed the 1857 uprising, assorted Indian campaigners did not spend much time worrying about shirt collars, trouser creases, or whether a belt was correctly aligned with its buckle. Rajput cavalrymen, Maratha horsemen, Sikh warriors and even earlier Mughal soldiers had won and lost wars across the subcontinent with remarkable success despite the complete absence of cargo pockets and regulation trouser lengths.Military history before the advent of the British was surprisingly indifferent to the question of trousers and shirts as standardised elements of uniforms, a concern that, if decolonisation is to be meaningfully undertaken, must itself be re-examined.Chhatrapati Shivaji, whom contemporary political discourse – particularly within strands of the BJP’s broader civilisational imagination – often invokes with considerable emphasis, built his empire through a combination of mobility, political cunning, and battlefield audacity, without any concern for combat attire or sartorial codes. Maharaja Ranjit Singh’s Khalsa Army, likewise, expanded across Punjab and deep into Afghanistan through discipline, organisation, and formidable firepower, rather than any preoccupation with whether shirts were properly tucked or trousers fell at the correct angle above the boot.An early-20th-century painting by Sawlaram Haldankar of Shivaji fighting the Bijapuri general Afzal Khan. Photo: Public domain.Countless other Rajput military campaigners too raised and commanded armies and governed vast territories without ever consulting a dress regulation manual or pausing to debate uniform etiquette of trousers and shirt as a condition of martial effectiveness. In that medieval world, operational effectiveness was measured in campaigns won, forts taken, and alliances forged – not in the precise alignment of collars, cuffs, or creases.Hence, the logic of the BJP-led government’s decolonisation drive, if pursued to its natural conclusion, would seem to make the continued survival of shirts and trousers increasingly difficult to justify.Should such a programme ever be undertaken, the first casualty would naturally be trousers, replaced by the dhoti – wholly indigenous, environmentally friendly, and gloriously free of zips, buttons, and imported synthetic fibres. It would instantly recast the armed forces as a nativised Hindu military, though infantry obstacle courses, route marches, and the occasional tactical sprint might prove somewhat problematic. But then, every civilisational revival demands sacrifice – even if it plays better in BJP-oriented symbolism than it does in operational field conditions.In such a scenario, infantry, artillery, armoured corps, and other specialised and related formations would each require tailored dhoti variants calibrated for functionality: lighter, more flexible models for field mobility and sustained deployment, flame-resistant combat dhotis with tactical pleats for armoured crews, and reinforced airborne versions for paratroopers and Special Forces, fitted with anti-entanglement technology.Alongside this, the Defence Research and Development Organisation (DRDO) would undoubtedly launch a detailed programme – guaranteed to last decades – to develop the Advanced Integrated Smart Dhoti System (AISDS), incorporating artificial intelligence, satellite connectivity, and a classified capability embedded in its fabric that no one would fully comprehend, but would nonetheless insist is essential.Thereafter, public and private sector companies would be harnessed to serially produce the AISDS, which would also be certified by a newly constituted specialist agency – perhaps the Bureau of Indigenous Combat Apparel Standards – after exhaustive trials in deserts, mountains, jungles and air-conditioned conference rooms. Multiple years and several thousand crores later, the system would be declared a ‘resounding success’, notwithstanding a few minor teething problems involving parachute harnesses, tank hatches and unexpectedly strong crosswinds.For troops deployed at high altitudes, like Siachen, the standard combat dhoti would naturally prove inadequate. A specialised High-Altitude Tactical Dhoti would therefore be developed, woven from an advanced blend of pashmina, yak wool, and classified indigenous fibres reputedly capable of withstanding sub-zero temperatures. After years of trials in Ladakh and Siachen, the garment would be declared a triumph of Atmanirbhar innovation, though soldiers might quietly continue to prefer their existing Western cold-weather gear, a reality that would remain an open secret and left unrecorded in bi-annual Army Commander Conferences.Deputy Air Staff Chief Awadhesh Kumar Bharti with Air Force personnel during his visit to celebrate Diwali with them on October 20, 2025, at Siachen Glacier. Photo: PTI.In due course, a Ministry of Defence (MoD) committee – comprising senior civil servants, military personnel, textile experts, technicians, and, of course, cultural historians and BJP members – would be convened to develop the next-generation AISDS Mk II, despite Mk I/IA remaining incomplete. The upgraded variant would be designed to incorporate enhanced survivability, improved drape characteristics, and seamless integration with the Indian military’s doctrine of Atmanirbhar textile warfare, but would remain forever in the developmental pipeline.Simultaneously, the Indian Navy would unveil the Maritime Dhoti Mk I, specifically engineered for operations in tropical seas and high-salt environments. Naval architects from the Warship Design Bureau in New Delhi – earlier the Directorate of Naval Design – working closely with textile designers, would spend years refining their hydrodynamic properties to ensure optimal performance on rolling warship decks and aircraft carriers.Special attention would need to be devoted to preventing unexpected unfurling during rough weather, a contingency that would undoubtedly occupy several chapters of the already voluminous naval dress regulations. The garment would also feature discreet waterproof compartments for navigational aids, emergency whistles and, in keeping with naval tradition, ceremonial functions.In parallel, drawing on its earlier introduction in 2023 of the pyjama-kurta as formal dress for select occasions, the Navy would frame the Maritime Dhoti as a natural continuation of its evolving sartorial doctrine. Its admirals and other senior officials would solemnly explain that the Maritime Dhoti represented not merely a uniform, but a fusion of ancient Indian seafaring heritage and 21st-century maritime capability, encompassing sea denial, sea control and maritime power projection, while simultaneously reaffirming India’s emergence as a leading power in indigenous naval apparel in the Indian Ocean Region and the Indo-Pacific.The Indian Air Force (IAF), for its part, could respond with the Aerodynamic Dhoti Mk-1/1A and Mk-II. Developed after extensive wind-tunnel testing and computational fluid dynamics modelling, it would be constructed to ensure unflappability during high-speed operations, though the precise technology behind it, acquired through joint overseas collaboration, would remain classified.Fighter pilots would receive flame-resistant variants designed to withstand extreme cockpit conditions, while transport crews would be issued long-endurance versions optimised for strategic airlift missions. Air Marshals would proudly brief the media on the garment’s revolutionary aerospace- and even space- applications, arguing that the Aerodynamic Dhoti had become a critical enabler of fourth- and fifth-generation air power, delivering unprecedented gains in manoeuvrability, pilot comfort and strategic deterrence.Some defence correspondents, meanwhile, would struggle to understand how a piece of cloth worn by generations of Indian farmers had somehow evolved into a force multiplier in modern air warfare. But the majority would, nonetheless, endorse it unthinkingly as an unmatched innovation – unequalled by any other air force in the world and beyond comparison in its dhoti class.And, before long, competing claims over whose dhoti offered superior operational performance would become yet another chapter in the timeless saga of inter-service rivalry, eventually requiring the intervention of the Chief of Defence Staff to prevent a full-blown doctrinal dispute over military textiles.Discard the shirt, bring in the kurtaIn all this brouhaha, the colonial-origin shirt too would have to go, with the kurta emerging as its natural successor. Comfortable, traditional and unmistakably Indian, it would lend military life an altogether different, decolonised atmosphere.Rank insignia on the kurta would inevitably present fresh challenges. Traditional shoulder stars and badges might be judged colonial, requiring years of study by expert committees to determine whether rank should instead be displayed through embroidered motifs, Vedic symbols and the strategic placement of Zari work. Services promotion boards would no longer simply count stars and crossed swords in rank hierarchy, but interpret ever more elaborate textile insignia, with junior officers left wondering whether a particular arrangement of stitching denoted a Lieutenant General or merely an overenthusiastic regimental embroiderer.Predictably, each of the three services would, like the dhoti, demand its own kurta version.The Army would unveil the Tactical Kurta Mark-I, and the IAF, unwilling to be outdone as always by the numerically larger force, would introduce the Aerodynamic Kurta Mark-1/1A/II. The Navy, in turn, would counter with the Kurta (Marine), specially engineered for life at sea, high-level naval diplomacy and ceremonial photographs taken against sunsets.Tactical juttisRegulation boots, being unmistakably colonial in origin, would also need to be ditched.In their place would emerge a range of indigenous military footwear inspired by archaeological discoveries, ancient temple carvings and selective interpretations of classical texts. Multi-crore contracts would be awarded for combat mojaris, tactical juttis and advanced battlefield Kohlapuris incorporating shock absorption, all-terrain grip and civilisational authenticity.Extended field trials would reveal that while all the new and varied footwear performed admirably during ceremonial occasions and PowerPoint presentations, its effectiveness during route marches across rocky terrain remained the subject of spirited debate. Several years later, however, an audit might reveal that the footwear was assembled from components sourced from six foreign countries, prompting the launch of a high-level official investigation.After two decades of deliberations, sub-committees, expert consultations and inter-ministerial correspondence, the inquiry would finally conclude that imports had indeed taken place, though only in the interests of promoting indigenous self-reliance. By then, the original footwear would have long since been withdrawn from service, replaced by a newer generation of civilisationally authentic combat sandals containing an even greater proportion of imported components. The cycle of decolonisation would thus continue, one foreign-made indigenous shoe at a time.A special committee would inevitably be appointed to oversee the dhoti-kurta-shoes programmes, and procurement contracts worth crores would flourish as never before. Its first recommendation would be the creation of a permanent apex body to coordinate future studies on indigenous military apparel, thereby ensuring that the process of decolonisation remained every bit as elaborate as the colonial bureaucracy it sought to replace.The true test, however, of all this modernisation and upgrades would come not in committee rooms but on the exercise grounds where India’s armed forces regularly train with foreign militaries. Multinational exercises in the deserts of Rajasthan, the jungles of the Northeast and the Himalayas would inevitably acquire a different character.Foreign contingents would arrive in conventional combat uniforms equipped with the latest communications systems, night-vision devices and body armour. The Indian contingent, by contrast, would deploy in digitally patterned tactical kurtas, high-altitude dhotis and civilisationally authentic combat footwear.Initial amusement among visiting officers would quickly give way to bewilderment as they were subjected to lengthy presentations on the strategic significance of indigenous textile sovereignty. NATO observers would diligently take notes, US generals would commission studies, and bewildered defence attachés would attempt to determine whether the High-Altitude Tactical Dhoti constituted a garment, a doctrine or an emerging capability of which they had no inkling whatsoever.By the exercise’s conclusion, entire seminars would be devoted to the role of Indian traditional attire in network-centric and multi-domain warfare. Alongside, India’s principal defence suppliers – Russia, Israel, France and the United States – would sit through lengthy presentations on the strategic importance of textile sovereignty. Senior defence advisers and military vendors from all these countries would nod politely while privately wondering, with a growing sense of unease, whether combat dhotis and kurtas represented a new doctrine and whether they were somehow missing the next great innovation in 21st-century warfare after drones.And, in this imagined futuristic scenario, British officers too might find themselves reflecting that the future of warfare, as demonstrated by the native-clad Indian military, had perhaps always been waiting in the folds of the dhoti and kurta.