Imagine, a busy city in a country located in South Asia, mid-July, where the humidity could wring out a watermelon and the heat is a permanent companion, like an uninvited guest. In this inferno, a corporate soldier trudges along, his shirt drenched and his tie—ah, the tie!—clinging to his neck like a python mid-squeeze. This is the tragicomedy of tropical fashion: the tie, a colonial relic, proudly worn as a badge of corporate servitude.

Let us take a moment to think about the absurdity. The tie, that long strip of fabric whose only functional purpose is to make breathing a tad more difficult, is a mandatory accessory in boardrooms and bureaucratic chambers across the Indian subcontinent or countries in the tropics. In these lands, where nature conspires against even the lightest linen, the tie remains steadfast, a stubborn artifact of an empire that left decades ago but lingers like a bad aftertaste.

Blame it on the British. Much like cricket and bureaucracy, the tie was an import from those stiff-upper-lipped colonisers who decided that choking oneself with a piece of cloth was the epitome of sophistication. Back then, it served a dual purpose: to signify authority and to remind the colonised that they were not fit for the "civilised" world unless they adopted these alien customs.

Read more

Breathing in the apocalypse

Post-independence, while the Union Jack was lowered, the tie remained. It slithered into our wardrobes and took root in our psyche, a subtle but enduring reminder of who once held the reins. It's no coincidence that government offices, schools, and corporate environments insist on this relic; the tie is the last gasp of a colonial culture that refuses to loosen its grip.

George Orwell, who lived in Burma (then part of British India), would have smirked at this irony. In his essay Shooting an Elephant, he speaks of the absurdity of colonialism—its rituals, its façades, its pointless pantomime. Were Orwell alive today, one imagines he'd point at the sweat-drenched executives of Dhaka, Delhi, and Karachi and chuckle, "The empire is gone, but the noose remains."

Fast forward to the 21st century, and the tie has shed its colonial skin only to emerge as the shackle of corporate slavery. Walk into any multinational office in Mumbai or Dhaka, and you'll see it: a sea of white shirts and ties, as if creativity were anathema to success. The tie is no longer about class—it's about conformity. It's about proving you're a cog in the machine, ready to trade comfort for capitalism.

The corporate world loves the tie because it's a metaphorical leash. It keeps you tethered to the desk, a reminder that your identity is secondary to the logo on your business card. As Michael Douglas's Gordon Gekko says in Wall Street, "Greed is good." But what Gekko doesn't tell you is that greed comes with a dress code, and the tie is non-negotiable.

Even pop culture hasn't spared the tie. In the sitcom The Office, Michael Scott's ill-fitting ties symbolise his desperate attempt to fit into a corporate mold he barely understands. In contrast, characters like Harvey Specter from Suits wield their ties like weapons, proof that in the corporate jungle, even your neckwear can signify dominance. Yet, whether ill-fitting or razor-sharp, the tie binds everyone to the same ridiculous ritual.

The great irony is that tropical countries have a rich tradition of comfortable, climate-appropriate attire. The dhoti, lungi, kurta, and panjabi are perfectly suited for battling heat and humidity. But these garments, rooted in local culture, are rarely deemed "formal" enough for offices or events. Instead, we persist with the tie, a fabric noose that serves no practical purpose in a climate where walking ten feet can leave you drenched in sweat.

And let's not forget the gender disparity. While women in these regions can often choose breathable fabrics and functional styles, men are stuck with polyester suits and ties. The result? Heatstroke chic.

Consider the absurdity of politicians in South Asia donning suits and ties during election campaigns in 40°C heat. Their lips spout promises of decolonisation and cultural revival, while their necks remain strangled by the West's sartorial leftovers.

The tie has not escaped literary scrutiny. Franz Kafka's The Trial offers a glimpse into the suffocating absurdity of bureaucracy, symbolised by its rigid rules and nonsensical rituals. Though ties are not explicitly mentioned, the ethos of Kafka's world—a labyrinth of meaningless formalities—fits the tie perfectly.

Gabriel García Márquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude also echoes. The tie, like the banana company in Márquez's Macondo, represents a foreign imposition that uproots local culture and leaves behind a legacy of exploitation. Márquez might well have viewed the tie as a metaphor for the inescapable grasp of global capitalism on the individual.

There have been rebellions. Former Indian Prime Minister Manmohan Singh often ditched the tie for his signature bandhgala, a nod to tradition and practicality. In Bangladesh, Nobel laureate Muhammad Yunus has been seen championing the panjabi, offering a vision of professionalism that doesn't require imported shackles.

Read more

The art of imperialistic absurdity

Even in popular culture, characters have occasionally defied the tie. The Dude from The Big Lebowski would probably laugh at the very idea. And who can forget the iconic image of Marlon Brando in The Wild One, tie-less and unapologetically rebellious, his leather jacket a middle finger to conformity?

So, why do we persist? Why do we continue to throttle ourselves with ties in a region where even fans struggle to combat the heat? The answer lies in our reluctance to break free from outdated norms. The tie is a comfort zone for the insecure, a way to signal status without substance.

But the winds of change are blowing. Startups, with their hoodie-wearing CEOs, are redefining professionalism. Climate-conscious movements are questioning the environmental cost of air-conditioned offices designed to accommodate suits and ties. The pandemic showed us that productivity doesn't depend on neckwear; a Zoom call in pajamas worked just fine.

It's time to retire the tie in tropical countries, to embrace attire that reflects our climate, culture, and common sense. Let's untie ourselves from this colonial relic and reclaim our sartorial freedom. The tie, after all, is a symbol of a bygone era. Let it rest there, in history, where it belongs.

As we bid adieu to the tie, let's remember its legacy not as a mark of elegance but as a cautionary tale—a reminder of how deeply the past can strangle the present. So, the next time you're tempted to reach for that strip of fabric, ask yourself: is it really worth the choke?

H. M. Nazmul Alam is an academic, journalist, and political analyst. He can be reached at nazmulalam.rijohn@gmail.com.

Views expressed in this article are the author's own. 

Follow The Daily Star Opinion on Facebook for the latest opinions, commentaries and analyses by experts and professionals. To contribute your article or letter to The Daily Star Opinion, see our guidelines for submission.