Ghost Threads of Dhaka: The Rise, Fall and Revival Of Dhakai Muslin

Once upon a time - long before your Zara basics and TikTok fashion drops, there was a fabric so light, so fine and so coveted, it was literally called “woven air.” Yes, woven. air. This wasn’t just any fabric. This was Dhakai muslin: Bengal’s most iconic textile export, beloved by Mughal emperors, whispered about in European courts and at one point, sold for prices higher than gold.

But how did a fabric so delicate it could pass through a ring or fold into a matchbox, simply disappear? And why are people now trying to bring it back from the textile grave?

Let’s unravel it.

19th-century satirists had a field day with muslin, poking fun at how a sudden breeze, rain, or a bit too much sunlight could turn the wearer into an accidental nudity. Image: Sourced

The Original Soft Launch

Muslin wasn’t just born; it was cultivated with care, passed down like folklore. Its roots go deep into the lush riverbanks of what’s now Bangladesh, especially Dhaka; where the elusive Phuti Karpas cotton plant grew. This cotton, soft as moonlight and rarer than your cousin’s good side, was hand-spun by artisans whose fingers moved like poetry. It took 16 steps to get from plant to cloth and every inch of it was magic.

The result? A fabric so gossamer it was often mistaken for a breeze. Locals called it baft-hawa (woven air), shabnam (morning dew) and in the Mughal courts, it was couture long before the word existed.

From Dhaka to Dior (Before Dior Was Even a Thing)

Europeans were obsessed. Marie Antoinette wore it to scandalous effect. Napoleon’s empress swanned about in it. British ladies draped themselves in it during those early colonial tea-party days. But behind the hype was an industry of quiet genius - Bengali weavers (many of them women) who could spin thread so fine, it was invisible to the naked eye.

This was high fashion before “fashion week.” And Dhaka was the runway.

Joséphine Bonaparte, Napoleon’s first wife and fashion icon of her time, had a soft spot for Dhaka muslin, owning multiple Greco-Roman-inspired gowns spun from the gossamer threads of Bengal.

Colonialism Ruins Everything, Obviously

As the British East India Company flexed its power, everything changed. Cheap British mill-made fabric flooded the markets. Dhakai muslin’s slow, handcrafted elegance couldn’t compete with fast fashion’s earliest wave. Worse still? There are stories (some myth, some maybe not) of colonial powers purposefully cutting off weavers’ thumbs both figuratively and literally, to destroy the craft.

Soon enough, Phuti Karpas vanished, the weavers moved on, and muslin became a whispered legacy.

Enter the Revivalists

Flash forward to the 2020s. In between climate anxiety and cultural reawakening, there’s a movement underway to bring back the dream. Bangladeshi researchers and master weavers are now hunting down the original cotton strands, recreating the old methods and even managing to spin threads with counts as high as 700 - a level thought impossible in modern looms.

The new Dhakai muslin? It’s not just a revival - it’s a reclamation. Of heritage. Of craftsmanship. Of a global fashion history that began not in Milan or Paris, but on the rivers of Bengal.

Why It Matters

Muslin is more than just fabric. It’s memory. It’s movement. It’s proof that South Asian craftsmanship didn’t just decorate history, it shaped it.

Drik/Bengal Muslin

And if you think this is just rose-tinted nostalgia, think again. In an era of polyester blends and panic-inducing climate reports, muslin isn’t just a relic - it’s a revelation. Handspun, hyperlocal, and heartbreakingly delicate, this fabric whispers everything fast fashion screams over. It might just be our softest weapon in the fight for fashion that remembers, resists and rewrites sustainability.