The Story of Pakistani Embroidery: From Craft to Couture

Look closely at a Pakistani formal outfit and there is a good chance that the first thing you notice is the embroidery.

Maybe it is the shimmer of metallic thread catching the light. Maybe it is a border of tiny mirrors, a trail of resham flowers, or a densely worked neckline that looks almost like jewellery. Maybe it is the quiet sort of embroidery that you only really appreciate when you see it up close — the kind that doesn’t announce itself from across the room but becomes increasingly interesting the longer you look.

We tend to talk about embroidery as though it is simply decoration. Something added to a shirt after the “real” work of designing the garment is finished. But in Pakistani clothing, embroidery has always been much more important than that. It can tell you where an outfit comes from, what occasion it belongs to, how it was made and, sometimes, who made it.

And there is no single thing we can call Pakistani embroidery.

Across the country, embroidery traditions have developed within different communities and regions, each with their own stitches, motifs, colours and ways of using them. Balochi needlework looks very different from Sindhi mirror work; Punjabi traditions have their own visual language; and the sophisticated metallic and silk embroidery found in urban formalwear belongs to another part of this much larger story. In many communities, embroidery has also historically carried information about identity, occupation and social standing rather than existing purely for ornament.

That is what makes the subject so interesting. The embroidery on a Pakistani outfit isn’t just pretty. Quite often, it is saying something.

There isn’t one Pakistani embroidery

This is probably the first thing worth getting out of the way.

When we use the phrase “Pakistani embroidery”, we often imagine the heavily embellished formalwear seen at weddings: gold work, dabka, sequins, pearls and elaborate borders. But that represents only one part of a much bigger textile tradition.

Travel across Pakistan and the picture changes.

Balochi embroidery, for example, is known for extraordinarily intricate geometric compositions worked across specific areas of the traditional pashk. Sindhi embroidery has a long association with tiny mirrors, colourful threadwork and highly detailed surface decoration. In parts of Punjab and neighbouring regions, floral embroidery and phulkari traditions developed their own distinctive visual language. There are also regional forms of appliqué and quilt work, including rilli and gindi, that belong to the wider story of decorative textile craft.

What is particularly fascinating is that much of this work was never originally made for a fashion runway.

It was made for life.

Women embroidered clothing for themselves and their families, prepared dowry textiles, decorated household pieces and passed techniques from one generation to the next. In some communities, an embroidered garment could communicate where a woman came from or which community she belonged to. In Sindh, for instance, embroidered dowry collections could include clothing, quilts and household textiles, making the craft part of a much larger tradition of preparing for marriage and family life.

That makes the relationship between embroidery and fashion a little more complicated than simply saying that designers “took traditional craft and made it modern.”

The craft was already part of people’s wardrobes.

Fashion simply found new ways to use it.

From regional craft to the formal wardrobe

The embroidery most of us associate with Pakistani formalwear has another important layer to its history.

South Asian courtly dress was shaped by centuries of cultural exchange, including Persian influences and the textile traditions of the Mughal period. Court workshops, or karkhanas, brought together specialised craftspeople working across textiles, metalwork, jewellery and embroidery. Metallic embellishment became particularly important in formal dress, and techniques associated with zardozi and other forms of gold and silver work developed within this broader courtly environment.

But it is worth being careful with the history here.

It is tempting to give every embroidery technique a neat origin story — this started here, that was invented there — when the reality is considerably messier. Crafts travelled. Artisans travelled. Techniques changed as they moved between regions and communities. What eventually became part of Pakistani fashion inherited influences from across South Asia and the wider Persianate world.

That movement is part of the story rather than something that needs to be tidied away.

After Partition, the movement of people also meant the movement of skills. Artisan communities and established craft practices became part of the developing fashion industries of cities such as Lahore and Karachi, while regional traditions continued to be practised in villages, homes and smaller craft communities.

And that is how we arrive, eventually, at the Pakistani formalwear wardrobe we recognise today: a place where old techniques sit quite comfortably alongside modern silhouettes.

A heavily worked dupatta can be paired with a contemporary straight-cut shirt. A traditional gota border can appear on a playful mehndi outfit. Zardozi can move from a bridal lehenga onto a much simpler formal jacket.

The craft changes slightly.

The desire for beautiful clothes doesn’t.

So what exactly are we looking at?

If you’ve ever stood in front of an embroidered outfit and wondered why one piece looks delicate and flat while another seems almost three-dimensional, the answer is usually in the technique.

Zardozi, for example, is associated with raised metallic embroidery. It has a richness and physicality that makes it particularly suited to formal and bridal clothing. Look closely and the surface isn’t simply covered in gold-coloured thread; different metallic elements and techniques can be built up to create texture and dimension.

Then there is dabka, made using fine coiled metallic wire. It can be worked into extraordinarily precise patterns and is often used alongside other forms of embellishment. A dabka-heavy garment has a distinctive texture because the work sits on the surface rather than simply colouring it.

Gota is another familiar name, particularly around festive clothing. Unlike conventional thread embroidery, gota involves metallic ribbon or trim that is applied to fabric in different shapes and patterns. It has a flatter, graphic quality and is particularly at home on celebratory clothing. Its history crosses regional and cultural boundaries, and it became deeply embedded in Pakistani festive dress.

And then there is resham — silk-thread embroidery — which can be much softer visually. Florals, vines and other motifs can be worked in coloured thread, giving an outfit a richness without relying on metallic shine.

These names are often used interchangeably in fashion descriptions, but they create very different effects.

And once you start noticing the difference, it becomes difficult not to look at an embroidered outfit a little more closely.

The people behind the needle

This is the part of embroidery we probably talk about the least.

We talk about designers. We talk about collections. We talk about fabrics, colours and trends. We photograph the finished outfit beautifully and put it on a model.

But somewhere between the sketch and that photograph, someone actually has to make the embroidery.

In Pakistan, that work is often done by karigars — skilled craftspeople who may spend years, sometimes decades, developing a particular technique. Embroidery studios and karkhanas continue to operate in cities including Lahore, where craftspeople work on bridal and formal garments using techniques such as zardozi, dabka, resham and tilla. Some learn through family traditions rather than formal institutions, with skills passed down through generations.

There is something humbling about remembering this when you look at a finished outfit.

A motif that takes up perhaps five centimetres of a sleeve may have taken considerably longer to produce than it took you to scroll past the photograph of it online.

And that is one reason the phrase “hand embroidered” should mean something.

It doesn’t simply mean that a garment is expensive. It means that there was a person physically involved in creating that surface, often working stitch by stitch and following a design that has been transferred onto the fabric.

The finished garment is the part we see.

The labour is mostly invisible.

Hand versus machine: does it really matter?

It does — although perhaps not in the simplistic way we sometimes discuss it.

Machine embroidery has transformed what is possible in clothing production. It allows intricate patterns to be reproduced quickly, consistently and at a scale that handwork simply cannot match. For contemporary fashion, where collections need to be produced in quantities and at accessible price points, that matters.

There is nothing inherently wrong with machine embroidery.

The interesting question is what happens when we stop recognising the difference between machine work and handwork.

Hand embroidery has its own irregularities. The surface may not be perfectly uniform. A stitch may sit slightly differently from the one beside it. The density can vary. These tiny imperfections are not necessarily flaws; they are evidence of the hand that made them.

At the same time, machine embroidery has become part of the reality of modern Pakistani fashion, and many garments combine machine work with hand finishing or embellishment. The two aren’t always opposing worlds. Contemporary production often exists somewhere between craft and technology.

Perhaps the more useful question isn’t “Hand or machine?”

It is “What am I actually paying for, and what kind of work went into this garment?”

That is a much more interesting conversation.

When embroidery became fashion

One of the most interesting things about Pakistani fashion is that traditional craft hasn’t stayed trapped in traditional clothing.

Designers have continually taken techniques that were associated with older forms of dress and changed their context.

A traditional embroidery technique can appear on a sharply cut shirt. A centuries-old metallic embellishment can be used sparingly on a contemporary silhouette. Regional motifs can be enlarged, simplified or reworked until they feel completely different from their original context.

This is how craft survives.

Not by remaining frozen exactly as it was, but by continuing to be useful.

Pakistani designers have played an important role in that process, particularly as the country’s fashion industry developed into a more formalised design and retail sector. Embroidery became one of the defining features of Pakistani formalwear, from couture and bridal collections to the increasingly sophisticated world of luxury pret.

And somewhere along the way, embroidery stopped being something reserved only for a special wardrobe and became part of everyday fashion language.

A little gota on Eid.

A resham neckline for a dinner.

An embroidered organza dupatta with a relatively simple suit.

A fully worked formal ensemble for a wedding.

The scale changes.

The relationship with craft remains.

Why do we still love it?

Part of the answer is simply that embroidery makes clothes feel special.

There is something deeply satisfying about seeing texture on fabric. It catches light differently. It creates depth. It gives a garment something to look at up close.

But there is also an emotional reason.

For many Pakistani women, embroidery is tied to memories. It is the suit your mother wore. The dupatta your grandmother kept carefully folded away. The Eid outfit you were allowed to choose for yourself for the first time. The wedding dress that took months to finish. The familiar sight of women sitting together while clothes are discussed, altered, embellished and prepared.

Embroidery belongs to fashion, but it also belongs to memory.

That may be why the craft has survived so many changes in what we wear.

Trends come and go rather quickly.

A beautiful piece of handwork tends to stay.

The future of the craft

There is, however, a real tension at the heart of all this.

The fashion industry wants clothes faster. Customers want them at accessible prices. Machine technology can reproduce intricate designs at a scale that hand embroidery cannot. Meanwhile, traditional craft requires time, patience and people willing to learn skills that can take years to master.

That makes the future of hand embroidery less straightforward than the romantic version of the story would suggest.

Preserving craft does not simply mean putting traditional embroidery into a museum or using it once a year in a heritage collection. It means creating reasons for people to keep making it — and for younger generations to see skilled embroidery as a viable craft rather than a disappearing occupation.

There are encouraging examples of studios, training programmes and fashion businesses continuing to employ and teach embroidery skills, while designers continue to reinterpret traditional techniques for contemporary clothing.

But preservation also requires honesty.

We should know when something is hand embroidered. We should value the labour involved. We should understand that not every gold-looking surface is zardozi and that not every embroidered garment represents the same kind of craftsmanship.

The more we know, the more interesting fashion becomes.

From craft to couture

Perhaps that is the real story of Pakistani embroidery.

It isn’t simply a story about the past being brought into the present. It is a story about a craft that has continually adapted to the people wearing it.

From the women creating intricate regional embroidery at home, to the karigar working late in a Lahore karkhana, to the designer deciding how much embellishment belongs on a modern silhouette, there are many hands in this story.

And the next time you see a beautifully embroidered Pakistani outfit, look a little closer.

Look at the thread. Look at the spacing. Look at where the work begins and where it stops. Look at the way the light catches the surface. Look at the border on the dupatta and the tiny details you probably wouldn’t notice in a photograph.

Because once you start looking closely, embroidery stops being “the pretty bit on the dress.”

It becomes the dress’s story.

And perhaps that is why, after all these years, we are still drawn to it.