Unlike mass-produced garments, tribal attire in the North East of India is handcrafted, intentional, and imbued with layered meaning. Every border has a purpose. Every color has a name. Every weave is a worldview.
This truth was worn, not spoken, in 1960, when Angami Zapu Phizo, the architect of Naga nationalism, appeared publicly in a traditional warrior shawl. The shawl, reserved for headhunters and merit-feasters, was a symbolic rebuke to colonialism and the Indian state alike. In a single garment, Phizo signaled allegiance to indigenous sovereignty and ancestral codes, not to Delhi. Two decades later and hundreds of kilometers away, the streets of Assam saw a different uprising. During the 1983 Assam Agitation, protestors filled the roads not just with slogans but with gamusas — the red-bordered, handwoven cotton cloth of Assamese identity. Draped over shoulders and tied around heads, the gamusa became a protest flag: peaceful, indigenous, and unmistakably political. It was worn to reclaim Assamese culture from what many feared was demographic and political dilution. These were not just garments. They were manifestos on skin.
High in the mist-laced valleys of Arunachal Pradesh, the Monpa and Apatani tribes carry centuries of tradition on their backs — quite literally. The Monpa chuba, a thick woolen robe striped in bold reds and blacks, serves as both shield against the Himalayan chill and spiritual echo of Tibetan Buddhist aesthetics. Down in the Ziro Valley, Apatani women sit at backstrap looms, rhythmically weaving layered skirts and shawls etched with geometric patterns — like the twin-diamond motif said to honor sisters turned into stars. These aren’t just garments; they are living expressions of cosmology, clan, and climate.
In 2024, both communities were awarded Geographical Indication (GI) tags for their distinctive textiles, and their artistry reached wider acclaim when the Monpas revived Mon Shugu, a 1,000-year-old handmade paper tradition once used for sacred texts. Meanwhile, Ziro Valley’s blend of ecological wisdom and cultural continuity earned it a place on UNESCO’s tentative list of World Heritage Sites. In every thread and fiber, these highland weaves whisper stories of survival, memory, and meaning — ancestral archives worn against the sky.
Each Naga tribe boasts distinctive shawls, serving as visual narratives of social status and tribal affiliation. The Ao Nagas’ Tsüngkotepsü, traditionally reserved for warriors who had taken enemy heads or hosted feasts of merit, features motifs like mithuns, spears, and celestial symbols, encapsulating tales of bravery and wealth. Similarly, the Khiamniungan Naga’s Nütsah shawl, adorned with cowrie shells and human figures, signified the wearer’s achievements in warfare and social standing. These intricate designs are meticulously crafted by women using traditional backstrap looms, a skill passed down through generations. The cultural significance of these textiles has garnered international recognition; notably, the Chakhesang shawl received a Geographical Indication (GI) tag in 2017, acknowledging its unique craftsmanship and heritage. Today, while these shawls are showcased globally, they remain potent symbols of the Naga people’s enduring spirit and rich cultural tapestry
In 2018, the Tetseo Sisters lit up Lakmé Fashion Week in full Naga regalia — iconic shawls and all — turning the runway into a stage for tribal storytelling. Their performance wove Nagaland’s heritage into haute couture, proving that ancestral threads dazzled in global spotlights.
In Assam, fabric becomes both identity and instrument. The ubiquitous gamusa — a red-bordered white cloth — might be gifted in reverence one day, and hoisted in protest the next. During the 1983 Assam Movement, protestors tied gamusas around their foreheads, turning tradition into political symbolism. Recently, the gamusa gained Geographical Indication (GI) status, and its profile rose globally when Prime Minister Modi wore it during International Yoga Day celebrations, prompting Assam’s Chief Minister to call him its “brand ambassador.” Assamese women, meanwhile, wear the elegant mekhela chador, which today often integrates Bodo and Tiwa motifs as a quiet but deliberate act of inter-ethnic solidarity through weave.
Handwoven on a traditional throw shuttle loom, it is often made from soft cotton or mulberry silk and dyed with natural pigments, sometimes using onion skin or wild turmeric for the signature red. No two are exactly alike; many bear tiny woven poems or blessings, making each one not just a cloth, but a keepsake. It’s fabric with soul — equally at home on an altar, a protest line, or a presidential podium.
From looms tucked into bamboo verandahs to patterns born of myth and movement, Mizoram and Manipur carry some of the most rhythm-infused textiles in Northeast India. In Mizoram, the Puan is more than festive wear. When dancers step between clapping bamboo poles in the Cheraw dance, their Puanchei sways in precise harmony, its bold stripes keeping time like a visual drumbeat. Traditionally woven on loin looms, each Puan reflects symmetry, status, and story — some even bearing subtle signature lines identifying the weaver’s clan. No wonder five Puan varieties, including the once warrior-exclusive Tawlhlohpuan, now carry Geographical Indication (GI) tags, sealing their legacy in law as well as in lore.
In Manipur, textiles accompany life’s most sacred transitions. The Phanek, a gracefully wrapped skirt, is a constant in a woman’s life — seen at festivals, rituals, and funerals alike — its folds quietly marking the milestones of femininity and resilience. Draped over the shoulder or folded with reverence, the Moirangphee shawl carries stories in every motif, many drawn from the lyrical legends of the Moiraang Kangleirol, Manipuri epics passed down like lullabies. Worn during classical dances or wrapped around a bride or widow, it is less cloth and more chronicler. In the hill regions, among the Tangkhul Nagas, certain weaves are never worn twice — bridal shawls and burial cloths are tucked away like sacred scrolls, their silence speaking of lineage, loss, and legacy.
In Meghalaya, women of the Khasi and Jaintia tribes drape themselves in the Jainsem — a two-piece wrap that symbolizes the strength of their matrilineal society. During protests for tribal autonomy, women marched in Jainsems, asserting not only political demands but the cultural matriarchy underpinning their world. In Tripura, the Rignai and Risa represent the heart of tribal womanhood — garments worn during Garia Puja, but also increasingly reimagined by a new wave of young tribal designers blending heritage with haute couture.
Ryndia silk, also known as “peace silk” due to its non-violent production process, is a traditional fabric woven by the Khasi and Jaintia tribes of Meghalaya. In 2025, Ryndia silk gained international attention when handwoven stoles from Ri-Bhoi district were presented as gifts during India’s Republic Day celebrations in Singapore. This initiative, spearheaded by The Meghalayan Age Limited, marked a significant milestone in showcasing Meghalaya’s textile heritage on a global platform.
In Sikkim, the Bhutia Bakhu and Lepcha Dumdyam garments bring together monastic grace and animist aesthetics, with colors derived from berries and bark, and forms suited for both ritual and terrain. Meanwhile, Eri silk from Meghalaya, known globally as “Ahimsa Silk” for its non-violent harvesting process, recently received Oeko-Tex certification from Germany, cementing Northeast India’s role in the global sustainable textile movement. Prime Minister Modi himself lauded it in his Mann Ki Baat broadcast — a rare moment when tribal textile heritage entered national and global consciousness.
Across Northeast India, textiles are not just worn — they are decoded. Anthropologists have traced migration routes and inter-tribal alliances through the shared patterns found on shawls, like the Tsüngkotepsü of the Ao Nagas, once worn by warriors and now studied for its layered symbolism. In Meghalaya’s Ri Bhoi district, blurred textile boundaries among Khasi, Karbi, and Khat-ar Lyngdoh communities reveal long histories of cultural mingling and movement. Among the Bodos and Mishings of Assam, specific weaves and motifs signal everything from marital status to clan identity, offering researchers a social blueprint woven in cotton. Even motifs inspired by rivers, birds, or celestial forms serve as maps of memory — linking myth, ecology, and belief. A shawl might contain a mountain’s silhouette; a skirt border might echo a fertility chant.
Among many tribes, red denotes blood, life force, and fertility. Black stands for earth, grief, or ancestral realms. White often marks peace, purity, and new beginnings. These shades don’t just decorate garments — they structure reality. A single motif or weave style might indicate marital status, age, or even clan allegiance. Among some Ao Nagas, a woman’s shawl differs subtly before and after childbirth. Among Bodos, the arrangement of pleats in a dokhona can distinguish between a girl and a married woman. Function too, plays a part. Complex garments are reserved for feasts of merit, head festivals, or spirit appeasement rituals, while simplified weaves serve in fieldwork. The binary is not of style versus comfort, but of ritual time versus daily time.
Traveling with this knowledge is like carrying a decoder ring, suddenly, every shawl, stripe, and stitch reveals a story. You’re not just seeing the region; you’re reading it. Instead of just admiring the clothes, you’ll begin to understand the person inside them — their place in the community, their stage in life, their story.
