Mapping the real post-consumption journey—from wardrobe to reuse, informal recovery, rag and finally waste, in a series of multiple writings, states Rony Banerjee.
An old shirt in an Indian home does not become waste overnight. First, it moves from the regular wardrobe to the back of the cupboard. It may then become home wear, pass to a younger member of the family, go to a household worker, be donated to an NGO, sold in a second-hand market or exchanged for utensils. If it survives all these stages, it may finally become a cleaning cloth. Only after it can no longer serve even this purpose does the question of disposal arise. In India, therefore, the “last wear” is rarely a single event. It is a long journey through different users, locations and uses. We understand this journey as long as the garment remains useful. What happens after that is far less visible.
True, India has never really been a throwaway society when it comes to textiles. Clothes are repaired, altered, handed down, donated, resold and put to several secondary uses. Long before the term “circular economy” entered industry discussions, Indian households and informal markets were already extending the useful life of garments. Yet this strength also hides an important weakness. Our system works remarkably well as long as the garment can still be worn or reused. Once the fabric itself reaches the end of that journey, the chain becomes uncertain. Collection is scattered, sorting is mostly informal, fibre content is difficult to establish and recycling options are limited. India has a strong culture of textile reuse, but it does not yet have an equally organised system for textile-material recovery.
Why this series, and why now?
This is the starting point of After the Last Wear, a multi-part series that will follow discarded textiles through their possible second economy. The subject is often treated mainly as an environmental concern. It is certainly that, but it is also a question of materials, technology, urban management, MSMEs, livelihoods and investment. The series will examine what can be recovered, which technologies are suitable, what products can be manufactured and where a viable market may exist or be created. While the discussion will remain national, it will carry a deliberate Eastern India lens, particularly covering Bihar, West Bengal, Odisha, Jharkhand and Assam. The purpose is not to recreate Panipat everywhere, but to explore decentralised models suited to local materials, skills, enterprises and markets.
In our country, a garment rarely moves directly from the wardrobe to a waste bin. It usually passes through several stages. When it is no longer wearable, becomes obsolete because of changing fashion or is discarded because of its condition, it gets hoarded in the household for some time. It may then be converted into a wiping cloth. Only a part of it reaches an organised recycling unit; the rest may enter mixed municipal waste, be dumped or burnt. The journey is, therefore, neither straight nor properly recorded. What one household considers waste may still be raw material for another enterprise.
Has the general consumer ever wondered how a discarded garment can take several different routes? If it is still wearable, it may enter a second-hand market or move through donation and community networks. If it is damaged but the fabric remains usable, it may be converted into cleaning cloth or stuffing. But what about the material? People now have a general understanding of a PET bottle being disintegrated inside a shredder and reconstructed into usable plastic. People know what happens to a daily newspaper when the kabadiwala procures it from the doorstep. But in the case of textiles, the ideas are still vague. Very few would know confidently that the route depends upon fibre composition, colour, contamination, trims and the availability of a nearby buyer.
The chain works reasonably well while a garment still has some visible use. The difficulty begins when it must be treated as material. Every discarded PET bottle in a railway-station waste bin now has an invisible label on it saying, “I am going to be converted into usable plastic again.” But a discarded shirt, sari or T-shirt has not yet achieved the privilege of being identified in terms of reclaimable polyester, viscose, wool, elastane, dyes, coatings, buttons, zips, metal and so on.
How green is my valley?
India does not necessarily have a shortage of discarded textiles. It has a problem of identification, collection, aggregation, grading and, of course, monetisation for the consumer. The kabadiwala who buys broken utensils, old batteries, broken plastic or discarded books usually carries a high-pitched vocal rate card. But for textiles, there is nothing as such. They are silent.
Municipal systems increasingly recognise plastic, electronic, biomedical and construction waste as distinct categories, but discarded textiles usually disappear within mixed dry waste. There is almost no reliable record. Cities do not know how much textile waste they generate, where it originates, what proportion is reusable and how much material could be recovered.
The absence of data has practical consequences. Municipalities cannot plan collection systems, recyclers cannot estimate feedstock availability, investors cannot assess commercial viability and MSMEs cannot identify dependable business opportunities.
A discarded garment can follow several routes, and each route retains a different level of value. The final destination depends on the garment’s condition, fibre composition, colour, contamination, trims and the availability of a nearby buyer or processor. What looks like one heap of old clothes is actually a collection of very different materials, each requiring its own grading, technology and market pathway.
Concluding proposition
Looking back, many old shirts travel through several hands, uses and markets. India has extended their useful lives remarkably well. But once they can no longer be worn, the material largely disappears from organised economic view. India possesses the social behaviour and informal networks needed for genuine circularity. What it lacks is the bridge connecting these networks with systematic collection, material identification, sorting, processing technology, manufacturing and reliable markets. Building that bridge must begin by recognising discarded textiles as a distinct material stream. The next question, therefore, is simple: how much textile waste do our cities actually generate? Next time!
About the author:
Rony Banerjee is an independent MSME development professional with over 25 years of experience across design, clusters, livelihoods, investment facilitation and public policy. He has been associated with institutions including NIFT, IL&FS, HCL, Invest India and EY. He writes on textiles, circularity, enterprise development and the changing economic landscape, especially of Eastern India.