Worship or Wear? The Cultural Clash Behind India’s Leather Industry

India is the world’s second-largest producer of leather. And yet, it is also the land where the cow is a symbol of motherhood, purity, and non-violence. This duality isn't new. It dates back centuries and has always made space for contradiction. But in a world of increasing polarization, it has become harder to ignore.

The cow, revered as “Gau Mata,” has been central to India’s spiritual and cultural psyche. The Vedas speak of her with the tenderness one might reserve for a mother. But fast forward to today, and India’s leather exports fetch billions annually. Where do we draw the line between reverence and resource?
Contrary to popular belief, ancient Indian texts weren’t entirely against the use of animal products. The Rig Veda mentions leather in contexts like footwear and musical instruments. The mridangam and tabla, still used in temple performances today, are traditionally made using animal skin.

In the Manusmriti, one finds passages that mention occupations involving hides and skins—but usually reserved for certain castes, especially those deemed “lower.” This hints at a functional, though socially stratified, acceptance of leather in society.

So while there was never a blanket ban, the use of leather was often wrapped in layers of ritual, restriction, and status.
The leather industry in India has been historically sustained by Dalit and Muslim communities. Leatherwork, often labeled “unclean,” was relegated to the margins of social life but kept essential to the economy.

Even today, many tanneries and leather goods factories across Uttar Pradesh, Tamil Nadu, and Maharashtra are run by individuals from marginalized groups. For many, leather isn’t just a craft—it’s a lifeline, passed down from generations.

Ironically, while the end product—say a Louis Vuitton leather belt or a sleek laptop bag—is celebrated for its sophistication, the people who make it often live in poverty, dealing with hazardous chemicals and social stigma.
Walk into a premium mall in Delhi or Mumbai, and you’ll find leather showcased with pride. Italian-inspired shoes, designer handbags, and minimalist wallets made from Indian hide are marketed as luxury essentials.

Yet, go behind the curtains and you’ll see environmental damage—tannery waste seeping into rivers, laborers with respiratory diseases, and communities displaced due to factory setups.

The contradiction sharpens here: leather is both glamour and guilt. We are proud of our global leather exports, yet embarrassed to acknowledge the craftsperson. We want the aesthetic, but not the process.
My visit to Kanpur felt like walking a tightrope between pride and discomfort. The city runs on leather. Over 400 tanneries operate in the region. You’ll find workshops creating luxury leather jackets, belts, and boots, and side-by-side, slums struggling with chemical waste, smell, and skin infections.


I met one leather artisan, Salim, who said:
“Main bachpan se yeh kaam kar raha hoon. Humare liye yeh rozi hai, lekin log humein ganda samajhte hain.”
("I’ve done this work since I was a child. It’s our livelihood, but people think we’re dirty.")

The heartbreak is not in the leather—it’s in the disconnect between creation and credit.
Globally, veganism has risen as a cultural force. Ethical fashion now demands cruelty-free alternatives. This pressure has reached India too, especially among urban millennials and Gen Z consumers. Mushroom leather, cactus leather, and lab-grown options are now making their way into designer studios.

But the question remains—can a country where leather is tied to livelihoods, religion, and identity just “cancel” it?

For many Indian artisans, switching to alternatives isn’t just a business decision—it’s an existential crisis.
Here’s a twist—Hindu mythology doesn’t always paint leather as taboo.

Shiva, the ultimate ascetic, is often shown wearing a tiger or elephant hide.
Narasimha, the lion-headed avatar of Vishnu, is raw and primal in his depiction.
Even the mridangam and damaru (both associated with divine sounds) are made of animal hide.

In Tantric traditions, animal skin is sometimes considered spiritually powerful. The dichotomy, then, is not spiritual—it’s social.
Instead of demonizing or blindly glorifying leather, India must find a third path—one that respects tradition while evolving ethically.

That means:

Better environmental regulations for tanneries.
Social recognition and better wages for leather artisans.
Space for vegan leather without moral policing.
Acknowledging leather’s legacy in Indian history and mythology.

The future is not about choosing between leather and ethics—it’s about reimagining both.

Leather in India is a symbol. Of contradiction. Of craftsmanship. Of caste. Of cultural confusion.


It’s sacred and secular.
It’s old-world and modern.
It’s hidden in plain sight.

When we wear leather, we carry a story stitched in struggle, history, and survival. To understand leather in India is to understand ourselves—our hypocrisies, our ingenuity, our capacity for both reverence and reinvention.

As I left Kanpur, the smell of processed hide still clinging to my jacket, I couldn’t shake off the irony. We chant prayers to the cow in the morning and ship her hide to Milan by evening.

Maybe it’s time we stopped pretending these contradictions don’t exist—and started talking about them. Only then can we honour the craft, the animal, the artisan, and the cultural complexity that binds them all together.
Explore the latest trends and tips in Health & Fitness, Travel, Life Hacks, Fashion & Beauty, and Relationships at Times Life!