A yellow Ambassador glides onto the red carpet. Flashbulbs erupt as Shanti Priya (Deepika Padukone) steps out in blush pink silk, her wave choreographed for stardom. Moments later, the fabric catches Om’s sleeve, setting in motion one of Hindi cinema’s most cherished meet-cutes. Years earlier, audiences had travelled to an altogether different world, where Helen danced to Mehbooba Mehbooba inside a cave lit by flickering torches. One film recreated the glamour of 1970s Bombay. The other conjured a ravine that never existed. Both persuaded millions that these worlds were real.

If you’ve ever visited the Harry Potter studio outside London, wandered through Warner Bros’ archives in Hollywood or admired K-pop exhibitions in Seoul, you know some entertainment industries preserve their history behind glass. Bollywood, for some reason, has never done so. Here, the cave comes apart plank by plank, the palace becomes plywood again, costumes disappear into garment bags and props are counted, labelled and packed into trucks. Still almost nothing is truly discarded.

“Most costumes and many props are hired,” says veteran filmmaker Prahlad Kakkar. “You use them for the shoot, return them afterwards and pay the rental.” Furniture, crockery, chandeliers, doors, windows and architectural fragments all begin another journey once the cameras stop rolling. Every item is checked against an inventory, packed away and stored until another script calls it back into service.

Ad filmmaker and photographer Sunhil Sippy says production designers often become collectors by default. “Many own prop houses themselves, or they’ve spent years building collections from Chor Bazaar and antique markets.” It’s not unusual for things from their own homes and studios to even find a way into frames. “For close-ups, I’d often bring something from my own house, an object I lived with every day because I knew I wouldn’t find it in a rental house. The right object gives a frame its truth.”

Cement brains and books

Not every prop returns to a rental house. Some end up at Many Many Things, a Versova prop studio run by production designers Shaira Kapoor and Dhara Jain, whose work covers Gully Boy, Bombay Velvet and The Archies. Over the years, productions have left behind what many would see as a museum-worthy collection of collectibles: a miniature red vintage car sourced for a Lays commercial featuring Ranbir Kapoor, gold bricks made for a smuggling sequence in Bombay Velvet, even two cement brains created as paperweights for a radio station set in Tumhari Sulu.

“We never planned to start a prop house,” says Kapoor. “Some pieces stayed back after productions, others came from family, and many were simply too special to let go.” Every object is catalogued, barcoded and tracked before heading out to its next assignment.

That, they insist, is how Bollywood has always worked. Doors, windows, plywood, lights, furniture and fabrics are dismantled, stored and reinvented. “We pride ourselves on making the same object look completely different,” Kapoor says. “A new lampshade, fresh upholstery or different artwork can transform it.” Nothing illustrates that better than Zoya Akhtar’s The Archies. The pair sourced nearly 10,000 vintage books, along with vintage cookware and utensils, for Betty’s (Khushi Kapoor) home from Mumbai, Bengaluru, Ooty, Bangkok, and international Etsy sellers. Once filming ended, most were sold on. “We don’t know exactly where they went,” Jain says. “But they’re still in the ecosystem. They’ve simply moved to another shelf.”

History in mulmul

While a handful of props are preserved, Kakkar says that remains the exception. “Commercials work on rentals. Keeping elaborate sets after a shoot isn’t practical. The economics just don’t support preserving every unique creation.”

Costumes have had an even more uncertain fate. Academy Award-winning costume designer Bhanu Athaiya treated preservation as second nature, says her daughter, Radhika Gupta. “She never folded old saris or fabrics. She rolled them, wrapped them in mulmul cloth and stored them in steel trunks.”

Even that could not protect them from the weather and termites that infested them. Athaiya began designing in 1953, long before climate-controlled storage. Studio lights generated intense heat, makeup stained fabrics and colours faded under harsh lamps. “The costumes didn’t survive very well,” Gupta says. “More importantly, they belonged to the production houses, not to her.” Until the 1970s, few studios archived costumes. Raj Kapoor was among the exceptions, though many garments, including costumes from Mera Naam Joker, were later lost in the RK Studios fire. Gupta still remembers actors arriving at their home to try on costumes as tailors and embroiderers worked around them. “My mother was a director’s designer,” she says. Directors described the character and mood of a scene, and Athaiya translated them into attire, even using colours in the black-and-white era to create tonal contrasts on screen.

Not quite Narnia

Looking back, Gupta believes preserving costumes is about far more than saving clothes. “As Indians, we don’t really have a strong culture of preservation,” she says. “We tend to discard things and take them for granted.” Conservation, she adds, requires time, expertise and sustained funding.

Some of Athaiya’s surviving work has reached the public through the People of Mumbai exhibition at CSMVS, where costumes, sketches and archival material traced both her career and the city’s cinematic journey. “Bhanu Athaiya became a natural choice because her journey from the Sir JJ School of Art to costume design reflects that evolution,” says the exhibition’s architect, Nandini Somaya. Displaying the collection required a careful process. Costumes were protected under acrylic sheets, while larger garments—including the landmark sari worn in Gandhi—were mounted on custom plastic supports and enclosed in protective cases to prevent stress on the fragile fabric. But such examples remain rare.

Madhav Agasti, who tailored costumes for more than 350 films, including Mr India and Andaz Apna Apna, says costumes usually remained with producers once filming ended. Mogambo’s military-inspired uniform, he believes, is still with Boney Kapoor. Lead costumes are never really reused, Kakkar explains. Designed for one actor and one character, they often end up with producers, collectors or members of the crew. Sometimes they become personal keepsakes. Shivam Hingorani, an assistant director on Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani, still treasures the brown AllSaints jacket worn by Ranbir Kapoor. “The moment I saw it, I knew I wanted it.” And once production wrapped up director Ayaan Mukerjee handed it to him.

And, thus, Bollywood’s best stories survive in fragments: a sari wrapped in mulmul, a villain’s uniform in a producer’s cupboard, or a prop on someone’s shelf. They may never draw museum crowds, but for the person who recognises one from the screen, those ordinary objects still possess the power to collapse time, carrying them back to the moment the story first came alive.