In many South Asian homes, furniture has never just been about function. A wooden jhoola in the living room wasn’t only a swing. A bajot wasn’t just a low stool. These objects held space for ritual, memory, and relationships. And they were made with care, using materials like teak, rosewood, cane, brass, and khadi. Materials that came with a sense of place and purpose.
Now, these same pieces are often reduced to trends. Cane chairs become “boho.” Carved benches are labeled “vintage.” The language has changed. So has access. And in that shift, something is lost. Not just beauty, but the stories and labor that once shaped these objects.
To understand how we got here, it helps to look at the past. During colonial rule, British tastes changed the way many homes were furnished. Formal dining rooms, glass display cabinets, and symmetrical wooden chairs replaced local, floor-based ways of living. Indian artisans adapted their work to fit this new visual order, blending traditional carving with imported shapes and styles.
Even today, you can still see that mix. In some homes, you’ll find a Godrej cupboard next to a carved wooden shrine. It’s a design language that is part imitation, part resistance. A strange coexistence of the local and the foreign.
After the independence of several South Asian countries in the mid-twentieth century including India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, and Bangladesh, there was a wave of cultural rebuilding. Design was seen as one way to shape new national identities. Institutions like the National Institute of Design in India and the Mayo School of Industrial Arts in Pakistan became central to conversations around how to blend modern aesthetics with traditional craft. Designers began working with local materials like teak, rosewood, bamboo, and handloom textiles not just for their beauty, but for what they represented: self-reliance, cultural pride, and a break from colonial aesthetics.
Still, the gap between designers and artisans remained. Craft traditions were studied, archived, and displayed, but the craftspeople themselves were often left out of the spotlight. Their labor was essential, but their voices were rarely centered in the institutions or markets that celebrated their work.
Today, in many urban homes, you’re more likely to find flat-pack furniture than a hand-woven bench. Companies like IKEA offer affordable options, which makes sense in tight city apartments. But the materials are different. Lighter. Cheaper. Often meant to last just a few years.
These changes are practical, but also say something about what we value. When furniture is built to be thrown away, it loses the sense of care that once made it feel like part of a home. A plastic coffee table doesn’t carry the same weight, physically or emotionally, as a table made from your grandfather’s mango wood.
Still, there are people trying to hold on to older ways of making. A number of South Asian designers are returning to charpoys, jhoolas, and cane stools. They’re changing proportions, mixing materials, and working closely with craftspeople to rethink classic forms. Studios like Phantom Hands, Josmo Studio, and Gunava Design Studio are leading this shift. Some work with teak and cane, others with brass and banana fiber, but what connects them is a respect for the history behind the form and the hand that shapes it.
Some of these pieces now show up in galleries or designer homes overseas, and sometimes they receive more recognition abroad than they do within South Asia. This kind of global interest can bring visibility and appreciation to traditional forms, but it also creates tension. When objects connected to cultural memory are praised in one context and overlooked in another, it raises important questions about who is benefiting from these revivals and what they truly represent. These contradictions do not take away from the value of the work. They simply remind us that bringing tradition into the present is not always a simple or neutral act.
What happens when the same objects are celebrated in one context and ignored in another?
The point isn’t to stay in the past. It’s to move with care. South Asian furniture carries more than design. It holds language, labor, and time. It remembers things even when we don’t.
To return to these materials and ways of making is not just about style. It’s about choosing to honor what they represent. In a world where fast and disposable is the default, keeping things that last and knowing where they came from starts to feel more radical than ever.
