Sanjay Garg’s idea of meditation? A disco dance party

We meet for coffee on a quiet Kensington street a short walk from the Design Museum, the late winter light hovering somewhere between grey and silver. Sanjay Garg has arrived before me. During our conversation I’ll learn that he’s usually early for everything. He’s dressed with the kind of restraint that might surprise anyone familiar with his brand Raw Mango’s saturated universe. He is wearing a Uniqlo x Jil Sander black puffer coat, sharply tailored black trousers, and polished leather shoes paired with a sleek Jil Sander man bag slung neatly across his shoulder and black Windsor glasses. The only burst of colour appears accidentally: cobalt-blue socks flashing beneath the hem.

“Only because my black pair are wet!” he laughs, immediately aware of the irony—a designer known for riotous textiles dressed almost entirely in monochrome.

On Monday, he will present Raw Mango at London Fashion Week. Tonight, he is meeting a friend for dinner. But the show sits visibly at the edge of every thought, interrupting our conversation in small, practical ways: timings, arrivals, fittings, logistics.

Garg has never approached international fashion in a hurry. For nearly two decades, he resisted showing outside India, convinced that design, like infrastructure, needed to grow locally before travelling outward. “Design is almost like nation-building,” he tells me later. “I wanted to do it at home first.”

Now, seated across from me, with coffee growing cold between questions, he seems both calm and intensely alert—observing everything, adjusting details unconsciously, already editing tomorrow in his head.

Halfway through our conversation, he suggests we walk. There are vegetables to buy before his team—“the kids”—arrive in London the next day. As we move through Kensington streets, I think about the contrast between the man in front of me and the clothes he makes: his personal uniform pared back, almost ascetic; his collections expansive, emotional, saturated with history and colour.

The distance between the two, it turns out, is exactly where Raw Mango lives.

So, why London—and why now?

“I never tried to go outside India before,” Garg says. “I always felt design is like nation-building. I wanted to do it in the country first.” For years, Raw Mango resisted international expansion. Garg believed Indian textiles needed to exist within everyday life rather than as export fantasy. “The world sees us only through embroidery,” he says. “They ask how many hours were spent. One designer says 3,000, then someone says 8,000, and it becomes a competition. But they are not looking at the bigger picture. The West still sees you as a producer country, as labour producing something. No one really wants to know the design. No one asks [Jonathan] Anderson or anyone else how many hours were spent on it, right? Do they really respect design because of how many hours went into it—or because of how intelligent it is?”

London entered his story early. In 2011, after receiving the British Council’s Young Entrepreneurship Award, he staged a performance on the South Bank. “It was very early. All bangles and saris,” he recalls. “But I knew one more story had to happen.” This show, he says, is that continuation. “This is part two.”

He loves British weather

“I think you get everything here,” Garg says about the choice of London as the venue. “Any food, any culture, any object.” When he isn’t preparing for a show, Garg spends his London days wandering museums, markets, and design spaces. Dover Street Market remains one of his strongest memories. “I loved the displays, the idea that you could think of fashion like a toolbox,” he says. “The objects impressed me.” Even the weather appeals. “I come from a desert. So, I actually like this.”

A London day

“Right now it’s only the show,” he admits. “Otherwise, I go to markets, museums, design shows. I could shop only here.” Dinner plans are secondary; Hyde Park walks and quick stops near the Serpentine feel more grounding. London, he says, feels like a second home in Europe because of its diversity. “A major city has to be versatile.”

These flowers are black and white

Flowers have followed Raw Mango from the beginning, but this collection approaches them differently. “I realised we don’t notice how important flowers are,” Garg says. “Birth, death, shaadi, a car, a house—garlands are everywhere. They became invisible because they are so everyday.”

The collection grew from research for a forthcoming book, titled Garland, tracing how floral traditions travelled across Asia, from India to the east, evolving into ikebana and other practices. Garg began asking a simple question: what happens when a garland moves from ritual into clothing?

In the studio, jasmine blossoms appear as painstakingly constructed textiles. Each petal is cut from silk and assembled by hand. Jackets open into scarf-like lapels inspired by floral strings; brocades resemble ceremonial torans; silhouettes wrap and fold like offerings carried across the body. “It’s not about one flower,” he says. “It’s about arrangement.”

The palette leans unexpectedly restrained, with blacks and whites dominating, a decision he reached instinctively. “The minute I added colour, it felt synthetic. The purity of the flower needed something quieter.” He adds quickly, with a laugh. “Give me time. You know how much I love colour.”

The Raw Mango woman

“She is not extra femme,” he says firmly. “Not a mermaid. Very sharp.” He describes women who wear saris like tailored garments, pairing them with strong accessories rather than nostalgia. “They know the borderline. They just know when to say no.”

The silhouettes reflect that clarity. “I’m not a drape person. The two-dimensional garment is very chic to me. It’s like origami for the body.” And yes, saris will appear, though reframed within modern tailoring.

Pre-show prep

“I’m an over-critical person,” he admits. “I know exactly what I want. I drive everyone around me mad.” Timing matters intensely to him. “If guests come at 11, the house must be ready at 10. I need half an hour just to look again.” He arrives early everywhere.

When dance is like meditation

“I cannot meditate,” he laughs. “I tried yoga. I failed.” Instead, he dances. “I have too much energy. Dancing is how I calm down.” His choice of music shifts constantly, though disco returns often. “I can dance to anything,” he says. 

Post-show downtime

“I am very shy,” he says quietly. “There are photographs, meetings… Honestly, I want to hide.” Freedom comes later, once the work belongs to others. “That is when I feel relaxed.”

It takes a village

“Ten people,” he says proudly when asked who’s arriving to support him. “My kids are coming.”

They will live together during the show period, rehearsing and adjusting until the last moment. Despite growing global attention, including nearly 800 enquiries on a Diet Paratha Instagram post about community tickets to the show, Raw Mango still operates largely independently.

“We don’t really have PR,” he shrugs. “We just do things.” Support has come organically, through friends and community. A recent Instagram post shared by Akshata Murty ahead of the show added unexpected visibility. “People here just ask, ‘How can we help?’ That means a lot,” he says.

Grounding influence

Back home, his dog, a mischievous companion named Natkhat, provides respite. “He is very sweet,” Garg says, smiling suddenly, the intensity softening.

For now, London replaces routine with anticipation. The fittings begin tomorrow. The venue waits. Silk jasmine garments hang somewhere between ritual and modernity. And before everything accelerates, Sanjay Garg still intends to buy vegetables, one small act of normalcy before Raw Mango steps onto a global stage.