In the current geopolitical climate, Yemen is viewed through a singular, tragic lens: as part of the backdrop for the theatre of West Asian conflict. Yet, for the Shahpurwala family, the name evokes a halcyon era that few today remember. Before the missiles, drones and the blockades, Yemen — specifically the port of Aden — was the glittering gateway of the Suez Canal, a cosmopolitan hub where Indian enterprise met European luxury. It was a world where ships docking from the Mediterranean brought not just cargo, but the blueprints of global style.

The family’s journey is rooted in the 1930s’ tradition of “Passenger Indians” — self-funded merchant classes who paid their own way to seek fortune across the British Empire’s trade routes. This was when Zulfi Shahpurwala’s granduncle, Akbarally Shahpurwala, first established himself in Addis Ababa, as a trader. The locals affectionately nicknamed him Kachins — the Amharic word for a “lean man”. Then, in 1958, Zulfi’s father, Asger Rajabali Shahpurwala, left Indian shores for Aden where he opened a store which he named after his uncle, Kachins.

“Aden’s strategic location enabled us to trade in premium quality fabrics from Europe, like velvet and chiffon, and Japanese silk from the Far East,” Asger recalled when this writer met him a few years before he passed away. He soon had a large, discerning clientele, thriving in the salt air and through the rustle of imported textiles.

The Aden, of the 1950s, a British Crown colony, was a strategic marvel, but the 60s saw a political upheaval. “We were doing very well,” Asger continued, “but then, suddenly, after the British left, there was turmoil in the country, so we closed shop and returned to India in 1968.”

The “lean man”, thus, arrived in Bombay not as a refugee, but as a merchant with an exquisite eye and a suitcase full of ambition. Asger, the merchant from Aden opened a textile and tailoring shop on Mohammad Ali Road called Elegant. Fate, it seems, is the best tailor; the shop was situated next to the legendary Punjabi Ghasitaram, famous for its lassi and film-star clientele. As the actors spilled over from Ghasitaram into Elegant, the relationship between the Shahpurwalas and the silver screen came to be stitched together. When this clientele grew, Asger opened another shop in Tardeo in 1973, reclaiming the family’s lucky mascot name: Kachins.

Inaugurated by the legendary filmmaker B R Chopra, the store sat at the epicentre of south Bombay’s cultural boom. “We had to sometimes pull down the shutters,” recalls 56-year-old Zulfi, the third generation to join the business, “because huge crowds would gather outside to get a glimpse of stars entering our shop.”

It was here that the family met their most famous client, another “lean man”: Amitabh Bachchan. The tall, lanky star did not have a “perfect” body for the era’s standards, so Kachins engineered his iconicity in a way. “Our designers gave him flared trousers in light colours, and loose shirts and jackets to suit his frame,” Zulfi reveals.

Whether he was the brooding dockworker in Deewaar (1975) — a film that defined the “Angry Young Man” archetype — or a sharaabi, the actor remained stylish. His wardrobe bridged the gap between Marxist angst and aspirational style. Even the famous indigo knotted shirt — a look born of a wardrobe malfunction where the shirt was too long — became a seminal fashion movement because of Kachins’ styling. While Raj Kapoor’s “Tramp” projected the pathos of the downtrodden through tattered hand-me-downs, Bachchan’s characters projected power through fine tailoring.

The 70s also saw the rise of Rishi Kapoor. To begin with, his clothes for the teenage sensation Bobby (1973) were tailored at Elegant. Later, it was at Asger’s Tardeo outlet that his colourful jerseys and slightly-flared trousers were designed, making him a style icon for many a college student in the country. However, the 80s and 90s films demanded the loud and the flashy—a period Zulfi remembers with brutal frankness.

“In the bargain, we got labelled as ‘too filmy’ which was not something to be proud of,” Zulfi points out. “The work culture had also changed and we were not happy doing what we did.” The “filmy” aesthetic began to grate against the family’s heritage of craft. Zulfi notes that the “unpredictability of film outcomes also often translated into inconsistent payment cycles,” which prevented them from building a truly disciplined, craft-led business.

In the 1990s, Zulfi made a definitive cut. He decided to dump the polyesters of dancing heroes to realign the business with the ethos of Savile Row and Brioni. He chose to “focus on a more discerning clientele that values the quiet luxury of craftsmanship, the nuance of fit and the enduring elegance of garments made without compromise.”

Zulfi grants that the early association with Hindi cinema “placed us at the heart of a vibrant and influential cultural moment,” but insists that true bespoke tailoring was their “true calling.” “This transition was not a departure from our past, but rather a return to our roots,” he emphasizes, “to create garments that are timeless expressions of individuality.”

Today, the Tardeo flagship is a sanctuary of craftsmanship, sourcing fabrics from global giants like Loro Piana and Albini; and it remains at the forefront, harnessing AI to perfect measurements and even expanding to include a ladies’ line. From the docks of the Aden of yore to the high-tech atelier of modern Mumbai, the Shahpurwalas have prospered by knowing when to change the suit and when to keep the soul. The “lean man” has certainly come a long way.