From Mughal-inspired statement necklaces to nostalgic kacher churi, explore the traditional jewelry revival shaping modern style in Bangladesh and beyond.
I have always loved beautiful jewelry. Not the kind that are with big chunks of asymmetric wood or metal or stones that shouts in colour and size, but the kind that is traditional, artisan—the intricacy of metal, the quiet dignity of silver, small semi and precious stones, the warmth of copper, the softness of pearls resting against skin. When I was younger, I leaned toward traditional designs, but never the overwhelming ones. I avoided anything too large, too bold, too prominent. I liked my jewelry the way I liked my thoughts—contained, detailed, quietly expressive. My mother had a few such pieces, and I remember how they felt less like accessories and more like extensions of her presence.
Over the past few years, I have been witnessing, and slowly participating in, what can only be called a traditional jewelry revival. And at the heart of this revival lies something I once resisted: the neckpiece. The unapologetic, intricate, often heavy necklace that does not sit quietly but defines the entire look.
I see them everywhere now. Large, layered, Mughal-inspired, traditional Bangladeshi old style necklaces with kundan settings, antique gold finishes, detailed filigree, motifs of flowers, lotuses, paisleys. Pieces that sit high on the collarbone or fall dramatically across the chest. Pieces that refuse to be ignored. And to my own surprise, I am drawn to them.
One may notice that this return to statement neckpieces did not happen suddenly. It began forming quietly in the late 2010s. Designers like Sabyasachi Mukherjee started reintroducing Mughal and Bengali heirloom jewelry into contemporary fashion. But what they did was not mere revival—it was reframing. Jewelry was no longer an accessory. It became the center. The garment adjusted around it.
And cinema followed.
Many Bollywood films did not just showcase jewelry; they elevated it into narrative. The layered necklaces, the chokers stacked with longer haars, the weight of kundan and polki—these were not decorative choices. They communicated power, lineage, sensuality, and sovereignty. When such imagery is repeated across screens, it settles into collective memory. One begins to see beauty differently.
At the same time, globally, something parallel was unfolding. Hollywood red carpets, once dominated by restrained diamonds and minimal styling, began shifting toward bold, archival pieces. Necklaces became larger, more sculptural, often vintage or inspired by historical design. Even within evolving fashion narratives around films like The Devil Wears Prada, styling has leaned toward strong, defining accessories. The necklace is no longer supporting the outfit. It is the outfit.
This convergence—Bollywood’s historical opulence and Hollywood’s archival boldness—created a shared aesthetic direction. The traditional jewelry revival became global.
But in Bangladesh, this movement feels closer to the skin.
Because we never truly lost it.
Our traditions remained, even if quietly. And now, they are returning—not as memory alone, but as daily expression. I see women wearing large neckpieces with simple saris, even with cotton kurtas, sometimes with Western silhouettes. The contrast is intentional. The necklace anchors the look. It gives it gravity.
Alongside these necklaces, I have been noticing another return one that feels even more personal. The return of kacher churi.
Glass bangles never truly went out of fashion in Bangladesh. Women have always worn them. Young girls still do. But for a period, they moved slightly away from the center. Fashion leaned toward metal bangles, geometric shapes, experimental materials wood, jute, resin. Interesting, yes, but somewhat detached from memory.
And now, the kacher churi is back very vibrantly.
This Eid, they sold like something long-awaited. Bright, glittering, layered, musical. The soft jhunjhuni of glass against glass something we grew up with has returned to everyday life. And with it, a flood of memory. I remember my sisters’ collections. Large baskets tucked under beds, filled with bangles arranged by color. Ribbons tied around sets greens in gradients, blues like water, reds deep and festive, pinks, yellows, oranges. Endless variations. I would sit there, trying them on, imagining that one day I too would have such abundance.
Recently, while wearing a set, I caught myself thinking half amused, half relieved that I do not have a daughter to compete with for these treasures. There is something quietly indulgent about returning to one’s own ornaments, wearing them fully, without negotiation. Jewelry, in that moment, becomes not just adornment but reclamation.
And then there are the headpieces.
Bengali women have always adorned their hair—kopa, kata, subtle elements placed with care. But now, these have become more elaborate, more visible, more intentional. Heirloom-inspired head ornaments are no longer confined to weddings. They are being worn more freely, more frequently almost everyday. I find myself particularly drawn to these. There is something about adorning the head that completes the body’s expression. As if the thought, the face, and the form have aligned.
Earrings have followed a similar path. Jhumkas are no longer just occasional. Kundan work has returned with hint of modernism, bringing with it a layered luminosity. Stones, patterns, intricate settings all speaking in a language that feels both old and immediate.
Beyond these, the revival has expanded into smaller, more experimental territories. Anklets once usually silver or gold now comes with beads, pearls and other metals. Rings have become almost narrative objects. Large rings shaped like lotuses, rings with miniature paintings, rings referencing literature, humor, even satire. Jewelry is no longer just aesthetic. It is conversational.
One may also observe that men are beginning to engage with this space. Not in the same way, but in parallel rings, chains, subtle traditional elements. The boundaries of adornment are softening.
At its core, the bold traditional jewelry revival is not simply a reaction to minimalism, though that is certainly part of it. It is a deeper movement toward presence. Minimalism asked us to reduce, to edit, to become almost invisible. This revival asks the opposite. It invites fullness. Detail. Weight.
In a world that often feels fast, digital, and detached, there is a growing desire for things that feel grounded. Jewelry, especially when rooted in tradition, offers that grounding. It connects one to lineage, to craft, to memory. Of course, not everything within this revival is equally meaningful. Many designs are replicated, mass-produced, stripped of their original context. “Heritage” is sometimes constructed rather than lived. But even within that, the larger movement remains significant. It reflects a collective shift in how women and increasingly men choose to present themselves.
I find myself somewhere within this shift. I still love my silver, my copper, my quieter pieces. That part of me remains unchanged. But now, I allow space for more. A large neckpiece worn with a simple sari. Glass bangles stacked without restraint. A headpiece placed not for occasion, but for pleasure.
These choices do not feel excessive anymore. They feel complete. Perhaps that is what this moment is offering not excess, but expansion. Not noise, but articulation. A way of saying: I am here, fully, with all that I carry.
And in that, there is a kind of joy that feels both new and deeply familiar.
Aziza Ahmed.
Photo: Ai.
