A Daughter Remembers

I grew up around menswear.

Not in a glamorous way, but in the very real way of fittings, fabrics, long conversations around clothes, and watching my father build something from instinct, grit, and an incredible understanding of men. Kishor Bajaj knew how men wanted to look. But, more importantly, he understood how they wanted to feel in what they wore – sharp, comfortable, confident, effortless. That was always his gift.

What amazes me most, the older I get, is how much he built Badasaab with so little.

He used to say, very matter-of-factly, “I built my career with one sewing machine.” He hadn’t finished school. He wasn’t someone who understood technology. Even an email felt foreign to him. But he understood people. He understood craft. He understood hard work in a way that feels rare today. Once he decided something needed to be done, there was no second-guessing. He was like a horse with blinders, completely focused, relentless, and impossible to distract until the job was done.

And that focus built an extraordinary life.

Of course he built a remarkable business, he dressed generations of men, created costumes for hundreds of films, and became known for his instinctive sense of tailoring. But what stays with me most are the stories people tell about him. They are never really about clothes. They are about who he was. People say things like, “He changed my life,” or “He was there for me when nobody else was”. There was a generosity to him, a sincerity, an unwavering belief in showing up for people, that left a mark far beyond business.

At the heart of everything he believed in were two very simple things: ‘imandari’ and hard work. Sincerity and discipline. Do what you say you’re going to do. Do it properly. Put your head down and work. No shortcuts. No excuses.

That was the standard he lived by, and it’s the standard he raised me with.

One thing he was very clear about was education. He would always tell me, “Make sure no one can ever take advantage of you because you don’t know enough.” He had learned many lessons the hard way and was determined that I wouldn’t. If I wanted to study fashion, he wanted me to understand every single part of it, not just the glamorous side. So I studied everything, sketching, pattern making, cutting, sewing, construction, marketing, business, photography, every corner of what it takes to build a fashion house. He taught me early that fashion is not glamour. Fashion is work. Serious work. And knowing your craft is everything.

For years, I built my own world in womenswear, and I loved it. It became my language. But somewhere along the way, menswear quietly found its way back to me, and what surprised me most was how much joy it brought with it.

There’s something deeply exciting about designing for men. The discipline of it. The restraint. The fact that the magic lives in details most people would miss, the perfect shoulder, a beautiful stitch line, an unexpected button placement, the way a jacket falls, the way fabric moves with the body. Menswear doesn’t need to scream to feel special. In fact, the best of it never does.

And maybe there’s something deeper in why it’s found me now. Maybe working on it has been my way of reconnecting, of pushing through, of finding joy in something familiar while making it completely my own. I haven’t overthought that part too much, but I know it feels good. Really good.

What we’re building with Krésha Bajaj Homme is not about nostalgia, and it’s not about carrying forward what my father built exactly as it was. It’s about taking everything I grew up around, everything I absorbed without even realizing, and reinterpreting it through my own lens.

My father built something remarkable with Badasaab.

What excites me is building what comes next.