Dressing sense of Prime Ministers: How it shaped the nation

India’s Prime Ministers have always worn more than just clothes. Their dressing style—simple khadi or formal suits, turbans or Nehru jackets—has quietly spoken about what kind of nation they want India to be. From Gandhi and Jawaharlal Nehru to Narendra Modi, the way they dressed has shaped ideas of nationalism, modernity, tradition and even “cool” leadership. In Bollywood, songs like “Mere Desh Ki Dharti” or “Roobaroo” show similar emotions: one man in simple village clothes representing the soil, the other in crisp city attire representing progress. The Prime Minister’s wardrobe, in that sense, is like a national costume—which changes with each ruling era of mind and mood.

In indian History Mahatma Gandhi inspired the 1st dress which became the first “uniform” of independent India’s politics. Gandhi popularised khadi—the hand‑spun, hand‑woven cloth—almost like a political uniform. His loin‑cloth, shawl and sandals were not just about poverty; they were about pride in Indian production and refusal to depend on British factories.

Khadi became the fabric of protest. Villagers, students and urban activists followed him by wearing khadi shirts, trousers and sarees. In many ways, Gandhi’s dressing sense shaped the idea that a truly free India should “wear its own cloth".

Nehru: the suit with a difference

Jawaharlal Nehru, India’s first Prime Minister, did not wear khadi as strictly as Gandhi, but he created a new image: the statesman in a Western‑style suit fused with Indian symbols. Nehru’s black or dark‑coloured coat, often worn with a long Indian kurta or sherwani underneath, became iconic. This look was serious but gentle—modern yet Indian.

His collar and coat lines inspired what the world later began to call the “Nehru jacket,” even though he himself usually wore the full‑length achkan‑style coat. That jacket‑like silhouette—high‑collared, buttoned to the neck—slowly became a symbol of educated, secular India. Think of Shah Rukh Khan in Chennai Express wearing a high‑collar Nehru‑style coat, or earlier heroes like Raj Kapoor and Dilip Kumar in similar coats while playing the “social” or “nationalist” hero. Nehru’s dressed sense told people that India can be modern without copying the West completely; it can redesign foreign fashion with an Indian soul.

Gulzarilal Nanda: modest in power

Gulzarilal Nanda served as interim Prime Minister twice, for short periods, but his appearance was hardly flashy. He dressed like the typical Congress‑era Congressman: simple coat and trousers, sometimes a Nehru‑style jacket, never showy. His mild, academic look matched his role as a trusted senior leader rather than a mass‑charisma figure.

Nanda’s dressing sense reflects an image of “selfless administrator.” It is like the father or professor figure in many Hindi films—the one who appears in the background, wearing middle‑class cotton clothes, quietly repairing the household or guiding the younger generation. His modest wardrobe suggests: leadership does not need glamour; it can be in an ordinary man thinking clearly for the country.

Morarji Desai: starched and stern

Morarji Desai came to power after the Emergency, and his public image was one of austerity and moral seriousness. He dressed almost always in a very starched coat‑trousers combination, often with a white shirt and a legal‑collegian style. His appearance—tight‑fitting collar, glasses and a certain stiffness—made him look like an old‑school lawyer‑cum‑father figure.

His dressing sense matched his personality: strict, disciplined and traditional. In Bollywood, such a look is often used for characters who represent “old values” in contrast to the softer, modern lover. Songs where children sing about an old, firm grandfather—perhaps recalling numbers like “Papa Kehte Hain”—capture that mix of discipline and dignity. Desai’s minimal, formal wardrobe underlined that India, after the chaos of Emergency politics, needed restraint, not glamour.

Indira Gandhi: the sari that ruled

Indira Gandhi changed the language of power for Indian women leaders. She usually wore a simple white or off‑white silk sari with a light border—or sometimes bright colours—but always neatly draped, with the pallu over her left shoulder. She rarely wore heavy jewellery; her main ornament was the Congress party’s power and her own steely presence.

Her dressing sense turned the sari into a weapon and a symbol. Like the heroine in films such as Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge, who appears in a white sari as calm but emotionally strong, Prime Minister Indira used the everyday Indian sari to show that motherly softness could also mean iron‑fisted control. Her simple white sari at major events became the visual of “the nation’s mother,” even as she supervised wars and political crises. In that sense, not glitter or embroidery but posture and plain fabric made her the most powerful woman in India.

Chaudhary Charan Singh: village authority

Chaudhary Charan Singh was the farmer’s Prime Minister. He dressed like a well‑off, land‑owning farmer of northern India—kurta, dhoti and often a loose shawl or beard. He spoke the language of agrarian politics and his clothing matched his public face. There was no suit in his look; his authority came from soil and tradition, not from Parliament house.

His style is very close to certain Bollywood farmer‑heroes, like those in older rustic dramas where the hero’s dhoti and turban mark him as an “honest son of the village.” Charan Singh’s clothes declared that the real India lies not in cities but in its crop‑fields, turban‑tying farmers and village schools.

Rajiv Gandhi: the new age leader

Rajiv Gandhi, coming from the Nehru–Gandhi orbit but educated abroad, introduced a new visual grammar to Indian power. He wore Western suits and blazers, simple white kurtas, but with a more relaxed body language than the earlier Congress leaders. His shirt‑collar was open sometimes; his hair looked refined but modern.

His dressing sense matched the slogan “Youth says youth itself.” In 1980s and 1990s Hindi films, young heroes often wore open‑collar shirts, jackets without ties, and watched Western pop culture, yet still swept for social reform. Rajiv’s look promised that India could be tech‑savvy, world‑linked and still think about development, not just rallies.

P V Narasimha Rao: the quiet scholar

P V Narasimha Rao, the economist‑Prime Minister, dressed like a seasoned academic or a chief minister from the Dravida tradition—often in white or light‑coloured simple achkan, dress‑shirt or coat. His appearance was unflashy: calm, bookish and understated. He did not use his clothes to attract attention but to shelter his work behind them.

In Bollywood, such characters appear as the silent mentor who guides impulsive youth. Narasimha Rao’s wardrobe says that reshaping an economy does not need a stage; sometimes the leader who reshapes India is the one who looks like the man running late for his college lecture.

Atal Bihari Vajpayee: poetry in public life

Atal Bihari Vajpayee dressed simply: usually a light‑coloured kurta or shirt, sometimes an achkan‑style coat, and often a muffler around his neck. In older party speeches he appeared in a typical BJP‑inspired achkan, but later his silhouette softened into a calm, almost gentle look. He mixed formal coats used in Parliament with the folded hand of the poet. Vajpayee’s clothing language suggested that power can be powerful without being harsh; a leader can wear emotion and decorum to talk of both missiles and melodies.

H D Deve Gowda: the farmer in a coat

H D Deve Gowda, a Kannada‑hearted leader, often blended southern and North Indian styles: sometimes a kurta‑pyjama with a shawl, at other times a simple double‑breasted coat. His look reflected a man deeply rooted in rural concerns but dressed in urban formality. His turmeric‑yellow coat or olive‑grey blazers gave him a slightly “unpolished” but warm image.

In Bollywood, this is the “local MLA don” character who distributes rice in the village yet appears in a slightly ill‑fitting coat at city party meetings. Songs like “Chaiyya Chaiyya” show such mix: traditional dhoti dervishes dancing on top of a moving train, flashing smiles but rooted in simple life. Deve Gowda’s clothing captured that bridge—someone who answers to wheat‑fields and Assembly chambers at once.

Chandrashekhar and V P Singh: rebels in simple wear

Vishwanath Pratap Singh (V P Singh) and Chandra Shekhar were breakaway leaders who projected sincerity. V P Singh often wore a very simple starched coat‑trousers outfit with glasses, looking like a principled Gandhian or social reformer. He introduced the idea of “anti‑corruption” leadership, and his clothes backed that image—minimal, almost dull, no luxury.

Chandrashekhar, coming from socialist roots, usually wore kurta and sweater or simple coats, always appearing more like an activist‑teacher than a polished politician. Their wardrobes recall heroes in films about social movements, where characters wear plain shirts while fighting for workers or land rights.

I K Gujral: the gentleman in a shawl

Inder Kumar Gujral usually dressed like a cultured elder statesman: neat cotton or silk kurtas, light coats and often a shawl around his neck. His appearance was soft, tolerant and diplomatic, like the conciliatory father in a Bollywood family drama. He projected “gentleman politics” at a time when India needed calm and decency.

His simple but elegant look fits songs that speak of dignity and silence—tracks such as “Aye Mere Watan Ke Logo” or “Kar Chale Hum Fida,” where the singer’s eyes hold pain that their simple clothes cannot hide. Gujral’s dressing sense told people that leadership can be understated; what matters is not bright fabric but steady judgment.

Manmohan Singh: the quiet professor

Manmohan Singh, India’s Prime Minister of economic reforms, dressed like an economics professor barely aware of fashion cameras. White kurta, glasses, occasionally a coat, usually in ecru or off‑white; he rarely varied his look. He shopped not in boutiques but in government quarter‑marked ‘example’ stores, and yet he became the figure globally associated with calm, rational decision‑making.

His clothing code matches the “unlucky but noble father” in many 1990s and 2000s Hindi films—someone who does not look glamorous but is the moral centre of the family. Manmohan Singh reminded India that transformation can come from quiet people in simple clothes, not only from loud leaders in high‑pitched costumes.

Narendra Modi: the new‑brand leader

Narendra Modi’s dressing sense has perhaps been the most visibly engineered in modern memory. He often wears a half‑sleeve kurta (known popularly as the “Modi kurta”) with a Nehru‑style jacket or an open‑necked structured coat. His colours are sharp—white and green, saffron and ochre—and his turbans or safa on Independence Day or at Ramzan often change to reflect regions and seasons.

His wardrobe turned traditional wear into a national brand. The way he folds his turban or matches his pocket handkerchief with his stole looks planned. In Hindi films, such carefully dressed heroes appear as “larger than life” avatars—action + emotion. Think of the 2010s “pan‑India” hero who enters a jail in kurta‑pyjama and exits in sharp aviators and jacket, like Salman Khan in Bajrangi Bhaijaan or Sultan.

Modi’s dressing also signals a different national mood: backward‑village roots, upward mobility, Hindu‑cultural symbolism and global diplomacy. When he wears a colourful safa, it recalls regional traditions; when he meets world leaders in tightly cut achkan, he borrows both Nehru style and modern runway drama. His clothes tell the story of a new India that wants to be simultaneously traditional and turbo‑charged.

It may be held that Prime Ministers together—from Gandhi’s khadi loin‑cloth to Nehru’s juridical‑looking suit, then to Indira’s disciplined sari, Rajiv’s Western shirt, Narasimha Rao’s quiet collars, Vajpayee’s muffler, Manmohan’s professor’s kurta and finally Modi’s engineered jacket‑kurta—the picture resembles a single evolving national outfit. Each generation literally dressed the idea of India differently.

In Gandhi and Nehru’s era, clothes stood for independence and dignity. In Indira’s time, clothing symbolised centralised power. The 1980s–90s co‑existence of Rajiv’s Western formality and Vajpayee’s traditional‑plus coat was like a duet from a Hindi film: one man in jeans singing English lines, the other in bandhgala quoting classical poetry. By the 2000s, Manmohan Singh exemplified the idea that India’s engine would run on policies and numbers, not on costumes and rallies.

Now Modi’s look brings back fashion to politics, but in a very different way: more TV‑sophisticated, more “brand‑India.” Bollywood songs that once contrasted “Bombay” and “Bharat” now slowly fuse—heroes dance in ethnic kurtas on floating stages or in designer sherwanis while rappers surround them. In the same way, the changing wardrobe of our Prime Ministers quietly shows that “who we are” as a nation is constantly being restitched—by the hand of khadi, stilts of the Nehru jacket, silk of the sari, starch of the coat and finally the polished fold of the Modi safa. Each Prime Minister dresses for his era; the nation, in return, learns to dress its soul in those images.

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