Sole Survivor: The Kolhapuri That Outwalked Time

The Kolhapuri chappal was never launched. There was no advertising campaign, no jingle, no influencer post, and certainly no Italian name. It simply existed—like some brands do—quietly, authentically, and without ever needing a tagline.

When I speak to young brand managers or PR students today, I often remind them that the strongest brands don’t always speak the loudest. Some let product truth and lived experience do the talking. Kolhapuris belong to that rare category.

I’ve worn mine across a few countries: through the malls of Dubai, the souks of Bahrain and Qatar, and the greyer-than-grey streets of Reading, outside London, where a passing stranger once asked, “Is that from India?” I smiled and said yes. “Custom-made,” I added. Which was true. They were made by Namdeo, my childhood chammar from Dadar.

Namdeo had no logo, no press kit, no distribution network. Just a humble kiosk that leaned against the Dadar Portuguese church wall as if seeking spiritual shade. He was from Sangli, wore a Gandhi topi that had faded into off-white, and worked with tools that fit into a single tin box.

A bucket of water to soften the hide. An awl. A hammer. Hooked needles with worn wooden handles to stitch leather using fortified twine. A few nails. A dark red paste that stuck to everything, including his fingers. His kiosk smelt of leather, wood smoke, and time. There was no fancy polish or packaging. His wife brought him lunch. His son walked to the municipal school nearby. The family spoke little. The chappals spoke for them.

Namdeo never called them Kolhapuris. Just chappals. Kaam ke liye; for work, for walking, for living. He made them for the postman, the schoolteacher, the BEST bus conductor, and occasionally, for someone like my father and me. Our chappals had no shine. Just soul.

He also repaired my football boots, stuck the loose sole of ageing Kolhapuris with evil-smelling glue, polished shoes, stitched straps over rubber flip-flops. He never said no

The Kolhapuris weren’t crafted for fancy showrooms. They were built for tar and stone, for the Deccan plateau. The Kolhapuri chappal originated in the 13th century, during the Yadava rule. Made of thick buffalo hide. Water-resistant. Durable. Hand-stitched. Designed not in a boardroom, but on dusty city streets, under shady trees and village nakkas. 

India has always had a rich footwear heritage; Rajasthan’s mojris, Punjab’s juttis, South India’s braided grass sandals. But Kolhapuris were built to last. Like any great brand, they solved a real problem and then quietly stayed relevant across centuries.

When the Marathas travelled, so did the chappals. From Satara to Srirangapatna. From temples to battlefields. They survived climate and conflict. They didn’t trend. They endured.

Then came the British with boots, with brogues, with their distrust of the handmade. The Kolhapuri stepped aside and refused to adapt

In the 60s, Kolhapuris resurfaced—on college campuses, on artists, on NGO types who believed in village industries. By the 90s, they had returned to designer stores. Some had rubber soles. Some had platform heels. Some were priced like luxury items but not all carried legacy.

That legacy still lives in pockets of Kolhapur, Ichalkaranji, Nipani, and of course, Sangli. Families still tan their own hide, stitch by hand, and dry their work in the sun. No press releases. Just pride.

Having spent a lifetime in journalism and public relations, I see something rare in the Kolhapuri story. It’s branding without branding. Word-of-mouth without SEO. Longevity without reinvention. The product is the pitch. The durability is the campaign. The user is the ambassador.

Once made for dusty roads and daily life, Kolhapuris now find themselves in glass shelves and glossy catalogues often priced absurdly by foreign luxury brands that once scoffed at their simplicity.

The irony? What was once dismissed as “native footwear” is now repackaged with Italian tags and designer flourishes. The soul is missing.

Kolhapuris were never about fashion. They were about function, form, and familiarity. Built by artisans who knew the weight of a day's work, not runway trends. But global brands saw a story. They saw “handmade heritage,” added a few zeroes to the price tag, and suddenly our humble chappals became “ethnic chic.”

The real tragedy isn't that Kolhapuris went global. It's that many of us forgot where they came from. The man with the awl and hammer. The smell of leather and smoke. The kiosk in the shade. We traded that for a label. And a lie.

Namdeo has passed on now. But his kiosk still stands. His son runs it. In its place are readymade kolhapuris, shoes, and flip-flops. 

Kolhapuris aren’t loud. They don’t demand praise. They walk with you, through cities, memories, relationships.That’s more than most shoes manage. That’s more than most brands manage.