There is a particular kind of brilliance in fiction that does not shout its message but instead weaves it into the very fabric of its storytelling, allowing readers to stumble upon uncomfortable truths as naturally as the characters do. Sukriti’s Bride’s Guide to Shopping in India: A Tragedy achieves this with remarkable subtlety and emotional depth. On the surface, it is a novel about a young designer’s journey across India to source materials for a celebrity wedding, but beneath this seemingly straightforward premise lies a piercing examination of the fashion industry’s most glaring contradictions—its celebration of craftsmanship alongside its systemic exploitation of artisans, its glamorous veneer masking the gruelling labour that sustains it. What makes Sukriti’s work stand out is not just its unflinching gaze at these issues but its ability to make them accessible, even relatable, without diluting their gravity.
The novel’s protagonist, Mihika, is the perfect conduit for this exploration. As a talented but relatively inexperienced designer, she enters the world of high-stakes bridal fashion with a mix of ambition and idealism. Her journey—from the bustling lanes of Chandni Chowk to the quiet, dye-stained workshops of Kalamkari artists in Tirupati—becomes a metaphor for peeling back the layers of an industry that thrives on invisibility. The artisans she meets are not romanticised symbols of tradition but real, complex individuals whose lives are shaped by the very crafts that the fashion world commodifies. Suresh bhai, the Patola weaver in Patan, speaks of generations of knowledge embedded in his work, yet his financial struggles lay bare the harsh reality that heritage alone cannot sustain livelihoods in an economy that prioritises mass production and profit margins. Similarly, Venkat, the Kalamkari artist, embodies the tension between art and survival, his intricate mythological motifs fetching far less than the designer outfits they eventually adorn.
What Sukriti does exceptionally well is frame these encounters not as isolated tragedies but as symptoms of a larger, deeply entrenched system. The novel does not villainise any single entity—not the designers, not the clients, not even the middlemen—but instead implicates the entire ecosystem that makes such exploitation possible. When Mihika’s team debates the cost of hand-embroidered zardozi versus machine-made alternatives, the scene is not just about budgeting; it’s a microcosm of the ethical compromises that define the industry. The machine wins not because it’s better but because it’s cheaper and faster, and in a world where trends change overnight, time is the one luxury no one can afford. Sukriti’s portrayal of this decision—made with guilt but also with resignation—captures the moral ambiguity that plagues even the most well-intentioned participants in the system.
The novel’s social commentary extends beyond labour exploitation to interrogate the cultural erasure that accompanies commercialisation. Nowhere is this more evident than in the team’s visit to Jaipur’s Gem Palace, where “tribal-inspired” jewellery is marketed to elite clients with no acknowledgment of the communities that originated these designs. Many great authors of this generation and before, mostly after the end of the colonial rule in India, have extensively highlighted this intellectual exploitation and exotic poverty tourism, symbolising the continuation of the colonial mindset, commodifying the culture. The gypsy men who pose for selfies with tourists, their bemused expressions hinting at a quiet awareness of their own exoticisation, serve as a poignant reminder of how marginalised cultures are often reduced to aesthetic trends. Sukriti does not labour these points; she simply presents them, trusting her readers to recognise the irony and injustice. This restraint is what makes the novel so relatable—it does not preach but instead invites reflection, allowing the weight of these realities to settle in gradually.
Mihika’s personal evolution mirrors this unfolding awareness. Her initial focus on winning the competition gives way to something more profound—a growing unease with her role in perpetuating these cycles. There’s a particularly telling moment in Dhaka, where she watches Saumya’s family weave muslin so fine it feels like mist, their hands moving with a precision honed over generations. The disconnect between the fabric’s ethereal beauty and the weavers’ stark poverty is a silent indictment of an industry that values product over people. Mihika’s reaction—wordless but visceral—captures the dawning comprehension of her complicity. It’s a credit to Sukriti’s writing that this realisation feels earned rather than contrived, the natural outcome of exposure to realities that can no longer be ignored.
There are other episodes of social realities in the story. Many of them present themselves to the readers in the course of Mihika and her team’s journey to distant parts of the country, famous for their artisans and weavers, traditions and culture, and a sense of fashion and clothing that has lingered for centuries. Though the descriptive presentation of the episodes might feel stretched and too tall to stare at for readers who rely on action-packed fiction for their leisure, many may delight in reading these encounters with social reality. As stated above, the novelist does not deliver sermons. She paints realism.
The novel’s accessibility is another of its strengths. Sukriti avoids jargon or heavy-handed polemics, grounding her critique in the day-to-day experiences of her characters. The banter between Mihika and her team—Bodhi’s dry wit, Sharvani’s impulsive warmth—makes the story engaging even as it tackles weighty themes. The bustling energy of Chandni Chowk, the serene intensity of Patan’s weaving workshops, the chaotic charm of Jaipur’s markets—all these settings are rendered with such vividness that readers feel like participants in the journey rather than passive observers. This immersive quality ensures that the novel’s social commentary never feels didactic; it emerges organically from the characters’ interactions with the world around them. Important to highlight, the very addition of Krita Suri, a social media star and celebrity bride, whose dress becomes the centre of the fashion swayamvar, makes the storyline interesting. Moreover, it adds another dimension to the contrasting representation of the fashion industry – what we see and what we seldom know. So, there is an interesting story. And there is an underlying reality left upon readers to decipher and decrypt.
If there’s one limitation, it’s that some of the artisans’ stories could have been fleshed out further. A deeper dive into their personal histories would have added even more emotional heft to the novel’s critique. That said, this slight unevenness does little to diminish the book’s overall impact. It could have made the novel unnecessarily lengthier. And ultimately, it is all up to the readers to subjectively judge a story.
To conclude this review, Bride’s Guide to Shopping in India: A Tragedy is more than a novel; it’s a conversation starter, a call to re-examine the human cost behind the clothes we wear. Sukriti’s achievement lies in making this conversation not just necessary but also deeply compelling, blending storytelling with social consciousness in a way that feels both urgent and timeless. For anyone who has ever admired a handwoven saree or a piece of intricate embroidery, this book is essential reading—a reminder that beauty should never come at the price of dignity. To get challenged by the ethical and essential dilemmas, practical questions and social realities, grab a copy and start reading! You can get a copy from Amazon right now!
Review by Parakashtha for The Best Books