Madhav Agasti recalls the glory days of the costume designer in the Hindi film industry. Excerpts from an interview
A dated photograph of Madhav Agasti’s store in Bandra
How did your travels to various cities for work before settling in Mumbai shape you as a professional?
Those travels taught me resilience. I went from city to city with just a few stitched samples, looking for work and, most importantly, acquiring skills. Every rejection made me sharper; every small opportunity taught me to listen and adapt. By the time I opened my shop in Dadar, I had not just the skill but also the patience and humility to build lasting trust with clients.
Do you have a favourite memory from your film projects that you keep revisiting?
Designing Mogambo’s look for Mr. India will always stay with me. Boney Kapoor and Shekhar Kapur wanted a villain who looked regal yet terrifying. I drew from military uniforms and royal robes to craft that silhouette. When Amrish Puri-ji first tried it on the sets of the film, he said, “Madhav, Mogambo khush hua,” I felt khush too, because the look had become part of cinema history.
Agasti and his wife Mrunal
You mention how in the late 1970s and 80s, Maharashtrian designers were rare. Why do you think that was the case?
In the book, I write about how most designers in Hindi cinema came from North India or from families already in the industry. Very few Maharashtrian youngsters even thought of costume design as a profession. For me, that absence was a challenge but also an advantage. Filmmakers trusted me when they wanted authenticity in portraying Marathi households or local politics. In Ardh Satya (1983), the uniforms of everyday policemen had to look worn, not starched. In the Marathi classic Sinhasan (1979), which explored the world of state politics, I drew inspiration from leaders of the time. The starched white kurta-pyjama, the slightly crumpled Nehru jackets, the way a shawl was draped — these details came from observing politicians in Mumbai and Pune.
How has the costume design industry in films evolved?
When I started, designing for films was a personal craft. Everything was done by hand — sketches on paper; fabric hunting in Crawford Market; endless hours with tailors. Costumes were born out of conversations with producers, directors, actors, and lighting technicians. You had to imagine how a fabric would behave under hot arc lights or how a colour would translate to the screen.
Today, technology allows designers to create digital renderings in minutes. Fabrics and garments can be sourced from anywhere; entire wardrobes are put together like corporate projects. There are larger budgets, bigger teams, and more international exposure. The profession has also gained visibility and respectability; designers are now seen as stylists, collaborators, and influencers in their own right.
But I feel something has been lost. In the old days, every costume carried the fingerprint of the tailor who stitched it, the eye of the master who cut it, the patience of the dye-master who matched its tone. We knew every tailor by name, every mill that spun our fabric, and every actor’s quirks. The work was slower, but intimate. Behind every iconic costume was not just a designer but an entire ecosystem of artisans whose names may never appear in credits.
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