Draped in a breezy white night gown, Saroja Devi shimmered across the TV screen, sweetly singing “love birds, love birds” in P Susheela’s velvety voice in the Tamil film Anbe Vaa (1966). The scene remains an early memory, one that made me see the “nightie,” a garment I’d always taken for granted, in a completely new light. Suddenly, it sparkled with a glamour I’d never noticed till then.
The roots of the nightie trace back to the Victorian nightgown, designed in loose-fitting silhouettes and typically made from cotton or linen. The affluent wore silk versions, often adorned with delicate embroidery. According to Johnson’s Dictionary of the English Language (1755), a nightgown was defined as “a loose garment worn in a state of undress.”
Much like how heels, tight stockings, and skirts, now iconic elements of women’s fashion, were once embraced by men, the nightgown too had versions worn across genders. Another one of its predecessor, the negligee, rose to popularity in 18th-century France as a preferred choice when it came to women’s nightwear. These garments were sheer, flowing, and were often cinched gently at the waist, sometimes with a sash.
The nightdress found its way to India through the so-called ‘Fishing Fleet’ — a term referring to the tradition of sending young women to the subcontinent with the hope of securing a husband. An 1882 British manual titled Indian Outfits and Establishments (p. 8-9) emphasised the necessity of bringing a generous stock of sleepwear to the British colony. It advised women to pack at least a dozen thin cotton nightdresses, along with another dozen of standard weight, likely in preparation for India’s fluctuating weather. The book also cautioned against frills, lace, and complicated fastenings, noting that the local dhobi (washerman) had a reputation for being harsh on delicate fabric, sometimes deliberately so.
A lithograph from Curry & Rice on Forty Plates, published in 1860, provides an early visual cue of this influence. The image shows a British memsahib reclining in her colonial bungalow, attended by her ayahs. Her attire, an airy, loose-fitting cotton garment, closely resembles what we now recognise as the nightie, ideal for the heat and stillness of Indian summers.
British colonial life introduced many cultural shifts, including fashion. Over time, elements of Western dress, such as stitched blouses, petticoats, and hats, were gradually absorbed by sections of Indian society. Anglo-Indian communities and affluent Indian families, especially those with access to Western culture, were among the first to adapt these styles.
Royal households, too, embraced these changes. With access to international fabrics and tailors, Indian aristocrats incorporated elements of Western fashion into their wardrobes. The late Maharani Gayatri Devi, revered for her sartorial style, in her memoir, A Princess Remembers (1976), had reminisced about how her mother, Indira Devi, sourced much of her bridal trousseau from Europe. Among the items were fine nightgowns made from mousseline de soie, a sheer silk muslin from Paris; testament to the growing presence of European nightwear traditions in Indian elite circles.
The nightie on screen today stands as both a symbol of domesticity and desire, shaped by over six decades of cinematic representation that has locked onto particular stereotypes. In Andaz (1949), Nargis, playing Neena, wears a satin nightgown paired with a lace shrug and a matching silk sash cinched at the waist. Her character is affluent; she is the daughter of a wealthy businessman and educated overseas, an aspirational embodiment of womanhood in a newly independent India. But this image remained distant and unattainable for much of the Indian public.
Across the 1950s and 60s, actresses like Nutan in Dilli Ka Thug (1958), Nimmi in Aan (1952), Nargis again in Awaara (1951), Nanda in Jab Jab Phool Khile (1965), and Sharmila Tagore in An Evening in Paris (1967), were all shown in versions of the nightie — crafted from airy cottons or sensuous silks, trimmed with lace, and sometimes adorned with tassels. Yet their roles echoed the same theme — women who were affluent, Westernised, and embodied the aspirational Indian memsahib.
The designs mirrored European influences, and, quite often, Victorian sensibilities. These garments weren’t printed, were typically layered with over-gowns, and were clearly intended for indoor use, or specifically, as sleepwear. In terms of fabric, embellishment, and styling, they were quite distinct from the nighties we see today.
Post liberalisation, in the 90s, there was a shift in how nighties were depicted, especially in Hindi movies. Glamorous nighties became a part of ‘dream’ or ‘fantasy’ sequences in romantic songs, where the heroine and hero longed for each other after their first encounter — from Madhuri Dixit in Yash Chopra’s Dil To Pagal Hai (1997) or Rani Mukherjee in Vikram Bhatt’s Ghulam (1998) — functioning much like the chiffon sari once did.
Since then, especially in films post-2010s, actresses have begun appearing in practical, daily wear nighties while depicting middle-class characters. From Bhumi Pednekar in Dum Laga Ke Haisha (2015) to Vidya Balan in Do Aur Do Pyaar (2024) to regional and documentary films like the Malayalam film The Great Indian Kitchen (2021) and Payal Kapadia’s All We Imagine as Light (2024), the trend signals the acknowledgement of how the garment, once a cultural import, has ‘become’ Indian.
The printed nightie, familiar to us now, first surfaced in the 1970s and 80s. Its emergence was tied directly to advancements in textile technology that flooded Indian markets with vibrant cottons and polyester prints. They were affordable, visually striking, and supremely comfortable. Major textile players like Calico Mills (Ahmedabad), Bombay Dyeing, and Arvind heavily invested in rotary printing and copper roller machinery. The 1978 launch of Reliance’s Only Vimal brand campaign triggered widespread domestic polyester usage. This gave rise to a cascade of affordable, printed apparel that resonated deeply with the Indian taste for bold, practical design. The nightie, once reserved for the elite, began its descent into the wardrobes of the masses.
Kerala was the first state in India to embrace the garment widely. During the Gulf migration boom of the 1970s and 80s, returning workers brought back flowing, maxi-style nighties from abroad. The trend of domestic “maxis” quickly spread across households — first in Kerala, then in cosmopolitan hubs like Mumbai and Kolkata, and then entire states, like Maharashtra and Gujarat, by the late 80s. Sensing the shift, Ernakulam-based couple, N A Benny and Sherly Benny, established a dedicated brand in 1987 — now known as N’Style. By 2018, the company reported annual revenues exceeding ₹100 crore.
Today, nighties are ubiquitous — worn for a quick trip to the neighbourhood vegetable market, on early morning walks, or while dropping off children at the school bus stop. These short excursions, just outside the home, are seen as a temporary extension or continuation of the domestic space, allowing women to “transgress” modesty codes and get away with wearing a nightie outdoors. The appeal of course lies in the brilliance of a nightie’s simple, functional design, similar to the traditional kameez or abaya, but longer, and with a shapeless, boxy, and modest silhouette. As a South Asian cultural artefact of our times, the nightie, however, is not monolithic in terms of use; its form, fabric, and how it is worn shifts with geography, class, and context.
Designed for ease of movement and made of breathable material, the nightie has adapted naturally to the rhythms of different Indian households. For women engaged in physical labor in and around the house, it offers an ease unmatched by the sari. Yet when the nightie is restyled — marketed as a “kaftan” or upscale lounge gown — it acquires a more affluent identity. These versions, embraced by the middle class and elite, prioritise aesthetics over function. They move the garment away from its utilitarian roots, rebranding it as a garment of leisure and indolence. While the “Kerala nightie” template symbolises comfort and resilience, these newer avatars carry the same connotations of luxury as their European predecessors, often incompatible with manual domestic work. During the pandemic, even the usually dolled up, fashion-forward filmstars paraded around their homes in kaftans, signaling their relatability on Instagram reels.
The nightie, as a garment, constantly negotiates the divide between the public and the private. Though it’s rooted in the concept of nightwear, small styling adjustments, like adding a dupatta or layering over a thicker petticoat, help render it more ‘acceptable’ for public spaces, mimicking some of the modesty cues of traditional garments like the sari or the salwar-kameez.
This entire spectrum of adaptation plays out vividly in India’s bustling street markets. Shoppers are enticed by hanging displays that advertise the nightie’s versatility — from basic cotton, half-sleeve versions to flamboyant, risqué designs dubbed “honeymoon nighties,” dripping in synthetic lace, loud florals, frilled necklines, and flashes of faux satin. There’s a kind of performance embedded in how Indian women wear and style the garment — shifting from practical to playful, from sensible to sensual.
Since the Indian nightie routinely and blithely erases the line between domestic and public fashion, the garment has sometimes sparked moral backlash. In 2018, a nine-member council in Tokalapalli, a coastal village in Andhra Pradesh, issued a ban on women wearing nighties between 7 am and 7 pm, calling them “indecent.” We have even seen women police other women, like in Gothivali village in Navi Mumbai, where a local women’s group in 2015 came down hard on the “maxi fad,” and threatened to impose a fine of ₹500 on any woman seen wearing a nightie on the streets.
But despite occasional naysayers, the popularity of the nightie in India remains unaffected. This is because the nightie is ultimately more than clothing — it embodies a uniquely Indian balancing act. Women swear by it as they navigate domestic chores or when they come home, eager to shed their “outside clothes.” Little girls dream and play in it. Pregnant women live in it, and grandmothers pass away wearing one. Its significance lies not in its much-lauded “practicality,” but in the quiet power of its informality, demanding the space to just be.
Anmol Venkatesh is a fashion designer whose work reimagines Indian sartorial traditions, exploring fashion, as both cultural commentary, and a creative reflection of the world we live in.
