Every so often, fashion folds back on itself. The wheel turns. But rarely does a cycle complete with this much grace.

This summer, across Pakistan, at weddings, Eid soirees, and scattered through social media feeds, a particular silhouette is making a slow, sweeping return. Quite literally, the Farshi Shalwar is back in fashion.

“I like how it flows,” says Fatima Tashfeen, a 25-year-old student from Lahore, who has made Farshi shalwar her everyday staple. “It feels feminine, yes, cultural even. But also powerful, like I’m dragging history behind me.”

Billowing and floor-grazing, regal in its sprawl, the garment is reclaiming its place.

Gone are the predictable pastel chikankari (traditional hand-embroidery) kurtas and the overdone ghararas (loose-legged trousers). In their place: the revival of something older, grander, and far more dramatic.

By the time Eid al Fitr arrived in April, the fashion landscape of the subcontinent had shifted. The fervour is still going strong for Eid al Adha. 

From Lahore to Ludhiana, from Dhaka to Delhi, the Farshi Shalwar is making a bold statement.

Pakistani fashion icon Frieha Altaf sees it as a regional evolution. “I think in India, Pakistan and Bangladesh, we follow each other’s trends and adopt each other’s styles,” she tells TRT World. “It is essentially an evolution of harem pants brought in by Muslims into the sub-continent from Central Asian countries, Persia and Türkiye.” 

The Farshi’s quiet return owes much to the influence of Pakistani television and cinema popularised across the borders, where it has unfurled across screens with grace. Its recurring presence in dramas and cultural sagas has done more than just dress the past. 

A few stylists, fashion houses, and archivists retrieved the Farshi from the corners of bridal trunks, drawing it back into the light. 

Then came the images: brides at mehndis, trailing silk behind them; celebrities pairing the voluminous trousers with everything from crisp kurtas to flowing kameezes. Soon, the Farshi was everywhere, on the runway, in ad campaigns, and, most tellingly, on TikTok.

“A Farshi Shalwar is a classic piece of the subcontinent,” says Tabesh Khoja, fashion director. “Even our diaspora has picked it up, perhaps more so than the locals. The desis living abroad want to stay more connected to their roots through fashion,” he tells TRT World.

The designers are listening. Zara Shahjahan, Hussain Rehar, and The House of HSY are among those giving the Farshi new life. Crafted in chiffon, organza, and digitally printed silks, the design is disarmingly simple: wide-legged trousers, cinched at the waist, flaring out until they kiss the floor. 

Khoja elaborates, “It isn’t a traditional shalwar, nor a lehenga, and not even a wide-legged pant as some have called it. It is a garment that flares at the bottom, and that’s what makes it really special.”  

Less about gender, more about majesty

The word “farshi” is derived from the Persian “Farsh,” meaning “floor,” and the Farshi shalwar is defined by its specific design to create a dramatic, sweeping silhouette. 

But within those folds lies centuries of history. Its roots stretch back to Mughal India in the 18^th century, a hybrid of sorts; some say inspired by the grand gowns of British aristocracy, reimagined for a South Asian climate and sense of modesty. 

For generations, it was a hallmark of nobility in the courts of Lucknow and Hyderabad, stitched from velvets, brocades, and silks, embroidered with different techniques known as zari, gota, and dabka. 

Here’s the twist, though: it wasn’t just for women. 

Old photographs from pre-Partition India, and even post-Partition Pakistan, reveal men in Farshi pajamas, especially in courtly or Sufi shrines. 

Men in the performing arts embraced the garment, their attire blurring the boundaries between gender and fashion. The Farshi, in many ways, was always less about masculinity or femininity and more about majesty.

From shrines to screens 

In Pakistan, where cultural fashion often mingles with spiritual tradition, flared pants have made surprise returns over the decades, most notably in the 1970s, when bell-bottoms filtered in from the counterculture of the West.

Young people in Karachi and Lahore, inspired by icons like Pakistani actor Waheed Murad and soul-legend Jimi Hendrix, paired their quiet rebellion with florals and flair. From the rhythmic sway of shrine culture to the swagger of pop culture, these flared silhouettes have long exuded power.

Tashfeen, the student and fashionista, recalls first noticing the Farshi Shalwar in old family photographs, worn by her grandmothers to glamorous parties and outings with friends in their younger years. “Seeing Dadi in her Farshi Shalwars, all grace and elegance – it felt like a different world," she says.

"Now that they’re trending again, it’s wild to think how her style is suddenly everywhere. She was effortlessly iconic before any of us knew what that meant.”

While the Farshi itself faded into closets for a time, its spirit never quite left.

Now, in 2024, we are witnessing a similar cycle. At cultural festivals, university campuses, and Eid gatherings, the Farshi has re-entered the chat. 

This is no ordinary trouser. The Farshi’s beauty is in its construction – made from six to eight fabric panels, each piece is cut, joined, and angled so that the fall is just right. 

The hem, sometimes several kilos heavy with embroidery, requires a master tailor’s balance. Passed down through families, these pieces are often heirlooms, bearing witness in every thread.

Contemporary designers are adapting the garment with practicality in mind—swapping out heavy brocades for breathable cotton blends and digitally printed silks. But even in this modern remix, the soul remains: the swish, the sweep, the subtle dominance of fabric in motion.

Stitching India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh together

Though its roots lie deep in Mughal-era Uttar Pradesh, the Farshi shalwar has always transcended borders. 

After Partition, it remained in fashion-conscious pockets of Pakistan, occasionally making appearances in wedding trousseaus and drama serials. 

But lately, its influence has seeped back into India and Bangladesh, not as nostalgia, but as aspiration.

On the other side of the border, Indian designers are taking notice too. 

In bridal collections and lookbooks, Farshi silhouettes have begun to appear. Bollywood’s long-standing flirtation with the shalwar-kameez —Hum Aapke Hain Kaun, Jab We Met or Khushi Kapoor’s latest Nadaniyaan —now finds new expression in Farshi's exaggerated flair. 

India’s top designers like Heena Kochhar and Sheetal Batra are reinterpreting the Farshi in softer pastels and streamlined cuts, threading comfort into tradition. Indian weddings—style laboratories in their own right—are increasingly seeing brides opt for Farshi trousers in lieu instead of the overdone lehenga.

In Bangladesh, where local weaves like jamdani and muslin are also being revived, similar silhouettes are finding new life. Especially in regions like Sylhet and Chittagong, traditional cuts are finding new life with Gen Z brides and festive wear, because of its in-between space: it’s not a saree, not a lehenga, not a churidar, but it reminds one of all three. And that’s why it is winning the new generations.

The Internet has played its part. South Asian designers, models, and influencers are being seen and followed globally, and with them, the garments they wear are getting a second (or third) lease of life.

Leggy legacy you can wear

So why now? Why is this expansive garment returning in an age dominated by fast fashion and minimalist trends? 

Designers and cultural commentators suggest resurgence reflects a broader shift—a renewed appreciation for craft, regional identity, and garments that tell a story. In an era of fleeting trends, its deliberate construction and historical weight offer a meaningful alternative. 

People are genuinely excited, says Khoja, “They want to celebrate the culture.” 

For many wearers, the garment is a bridge: connecting them not only to heritage but to personal histories of grandmothers, mothers, and traditions passed down through fabric and thread.

Khoja elaborates, “Farshi shalwar is a connection that has bridged the young and the old as women are going back to basics while their children are eager to connect with their values and tradition, especially the diaspora.”

Across the region, from Lahore’s Defence, in Dhaka’s Dhanmondi, and Delhi’s Khan Market—the Farshi is back. It’s about cultural confidence—an embrace of volume, drama, and legacy in a world that’s finally ready to make space for it again.