While most guests at the Met Gala 2025 were preoccupied with nailing the theme ‘Superfine: Tailoring Black Style’ in Western silhouettes, pinstripes, shoulder pads and polished tailoring, Diljit Dosanjh walked in like a sovereign from a parallel fashion cosmos. Dressed head-to-toe in custom Prabal Gurung, the Punjabi megastar and global music icon turned the red carpet into his royal court—and he’s now facing backlash for supposedly ‘missing the memo’. But let’s set the record straight: Diljit didn’t overlook the theme, he reinterpreted it with quiet brilliance.
His look drew directly from the regal stylings of Indian Sikh royalty—more specifically, the sartorial legacy of Maharaja Ranjit Singh and the princely states of Punjab. We’re talking pearl-encrusted layering, hand-embroidered ivory capes, a bejewelled turban, and yes, a sword—the kind of swagger that doesn’t ask for permission. It commands presence. And while some critics dismissed the ensemble as too 'ethnic' for a night celebrating Black dandyism, the irony couldn’t be more misplaced. Diljit’s look was not a detour from the theme. It was an exquisite, historically grounded detonation of it.
Dandyism has always been about subversion through style—self-styling as a form of resistance, rebellion, and radical pride. Just as 19th-century Black dandies weaponised elegance to challenge colonialist caricatures, Diljit tapped into his own ancestral power to assert identity through luxury. His turban wasn’t a costume—it was a crown. His cape didn’t mimic European aristocracy—it referenced a uniquely South Asian mode of majesty. His sword, in a sea of tuxedoed lapels, cut through the noise as a cultural artefact and a fashion statement.
Let’s be clear: Black dandyism and Asian dandyism are not interchangeable—they exist in different historical contexts and speak different languages of resistance. But they share a common thread: the art of using style as armour, defiance, and self-definition. Diljit understood that—and answered with a vocabulary that was entirely his own.
The sartorial vocabulary of Sikh nobility is, in fact, deeply intertwined with the spirit of dandyism—both value embellishment, silhouette, and finesse. But more crucially, both movements use dress to tell stories of resistance. Diljit’s look bridged that gap masterfully. At a time when fashion is urged to decolonise, this was a vivid reminder that royalty doesn’t only reside in Versailles or Savile Row—it lives in the palaces of Patiala and the legacy of the Khalsa Empire.
It’s also worth noting that Maharaja Ranjit Singh’s army—the Khalsa—welcomed African soldiers, including Sardar Mahan Singh, who rose to become a general. That nuanced history of cultural solidarity makes Diljit’s homage feel all the more poignant. This wasn’t a grab-bag of heritage chic—it was a thoughtful interpretation of shared defiance.
In other words, Diljit wasn’t off-theme. He was just playing a different instrument in the same symphony—and doing it immaculately. While others bent over backwards to repackage the dandy aesthetic, Dosanjh walked in as one. Tailored not by Western codes, but by centuries of Sikh legacy.