How to style kolhapuri chappals with modern outfits
Let’s start with a confession: I stole my first pair of Kolhapuri chappals. Not from a store, but from my grandfather’s dusty almirah. They were cracked, sun-bleached, and smelled like monsoon rain trapped in leather. When I slipped them on, he quickly came running into the room and started laughing and said “Beta, those aren’t shoes. They’re heirlooms with soles.” He was right. Today, those same sandals, born in Maharashtra’s sweat-drenched workshops, stitched by hands that know the weight of history, are my secret weapon. And I’m here to show you how to make them yours.
1. The Corporate Anarchist: Crushing Boardrooms in Barefoot Energy
(For the woman who signs merger deals in blood-red lipstick and daydreams of burning the HR handbook)
The Outfit:
Imagine this: A tailored black pantsuit so sharp it could slice through small talk. Silk camisole beneath, the color of overstepped chai. Hair slicked into a bun tighter than your quarterly targets. Now, the sabotage. Instead of stilettos that scream “I tolerate blisters for power,” strap on raw-edged Kolhapuri chappals, the ones with brass buckles oxidized by time, not lab chemicals. Leather that’s seen monsoons clashes against steel elevators. The CEO side-eyes your feet during the presentation. Let him. Those chappals whisper, “I’ll close this deal, then hike a mountain you’ll never find on LinkedIn.”
Pro Tip:
Roll your cuffs once. Let the chappal’s straps dig into your ankles as you stride. Paint your toenails the exact shade of a Bombay sunset mango orange bleeding into bruised purple. When the intern asks where you bought them, smirk. “They’re older than you darling.”
2. The Philosopher Nomad: When Your Instagram Bio Says “Wanderer” But Your Bank Account Screams “Adulting”
(For the man who reads Kafka in the car/cab and argues with baristas about the existential weight of oat milk)
The Outfit:
Wide-leg indigo pants, faded like your college jeans. A billowy cotton shirt dyed with beetroot (your ex’s DIY disaster). Now, the anchor: Kolhapuri footwear in burnt sienna, the soles still flecked with clay from some potter’s forgotten wheel.
Secret Sauce:
Wrap a rusted silver chain around your left ankle stolen from your sister’s 10th-grade punk phase. Let it clink against the chappal’s straps as you walk. Pair with socks so loud they’d make notice you. (one polka-dot, one neon tiger stripes). You’re not “boho.” You’re a walking paradox.
Pro Tip:
Rub sandalwood paste into the leather. By midnight, they’ll smell like a temple and a dive bar had a lovechild.
3. The Genderfluid Alchemist: Rewriting Rules in Parking Lots and Poetry Slams
(For the soul who codes in binary by day and writes sonnets about local rats by night)
The Outfit:
A thrifted men’s blazer (shoulders swallowing your frame), paired with a sequined skirt that belonged to a 1980s disco queen. Now, the chaos: Kolhapuri chappals slashed with geometric cutouts, revealing slivers of skin like secrets. The leather’s roughness against sequins? That’s not fashion, it’s a manifesto. Strut into the cafe, order a chai, and watch the art-school posers short-circuit.
Dangle a toe ring from your pinky. Not the dainty kind, chunky silver, stolen from your mom’s stash. When someone calls it “cultural appropriation,” deadpan: “My ancestors invented irony. Check your Vedas.”
4. The Anti-Bride: Because Whites and Reds Are for Amateurs
(For the woman who vows to love, honor, and occasionally forget to text back)
The Outfit:
A raw silk lehenga the color of midnight ink, slit just right for the footwear to be visible Now, the heresy: Kolhapuri chappals dipped in 24-karat gold leaf, their straps coiled like serpents. The sandals’ cracks mirror the stretch marks you earned surviving diet culture. The gold? That’s for the aunties who said you’d never marry. Crush hibiscus petals into a paste. Paint your soles crimson. Let it stain the leather, a temporary tattoo that screams, I did it aunty Ji
5. The Grunge Aristocrat: When You’re Too Broke for Savile Row, Too Wild for Zara
(For the guy who sips darjeeling from a cracked teacup and quotes Tagore in Tinder bios)
The Outfit:
A velvet smoking jacket (forest green, stolen from a college theater’s “Othello” production). Silk pajama pants, pilled from too many all-nighters. Chest bare, because hair is the ultimate accessory. Now, the twist: Kolhapuri chappals inlaid with mother-of-pearl, shimmering like wet pavement at midnight. The clash of opulence and rebellion isn’t accidental. Scuff the soles on purpose. Perfection is for people who still think their ex will come back.
Why Kolhapuri Footwear Isn’t a Trend, It’s a Time Machine
These chappals aren’t accessories. They’re anthropologists. Each crease holds stories: the tanner who hums bhajans to calm angry bulls, the dyer whose hands are permanently stained like a monsoon sky, the cobbler who whispers blessings into every stitch.
Wear them to a rooftop party. Let concrete tattoo their soles. Dance until the straps leave rebel marks on your skin, a temporary tattoo of defiance.
The Unspoken Rules
- Never “save them for good”: The first scuff is a rite of passage. Let them age like your grudges, visible and unapologetic.
- Name them: Mine are “Laila” (left) and “Majnu” (right). They’ve seen more breakups than my therapist.
- Befriend the blisters: Every raw patch is a love letter from the artisan. Don’t bandage it. Earn it.
Last Words (Before You Scroll Away):
Your feet are time travelers. Let them walk in 400-year-old sandals while your soul plots revolutions. The next time someone says “ethnic footwear,” laugh. Then ask: “Ever made out in a pair that survived Partition?”
Tag your chaos #KolhapuriKarma. We’ll mail your selfie to Rukmini’s granddaughter, who’s learning to stitch curses into soles.
P.S. If your chappals ever feel heavy, remember: That’s not leather. It’s the weight of a thousand sunsets, countless rebellions, and one cobbler’s hope that you’ll dance in them until the soles dissolve into stardust.