When Diljit Dosanjh made his Met Gala debut in 2025, draped in a regal Prabal Gurung ensemble paying tribute to Maharaja Bhupinder Singh of Patiala, the Internet lit up with applause. Here was a global icon walking the blue carpet, turban in place, sword at his side, and Punjabi pride stitched into every thread. But beneath the shimmer of sequins and praise lies a deeper story—one not just of fashion, but of power, privilege, and historical ownership.
A Tribute Denied
Diljit’s look was more than a style statement—it was an act of cultural homage. The ensemble, complete with traditional Punjabi attire and Gurumukhi-scripted cape, was designed to honor the legacy of the Maharaja of Patiala, an early 20th-century ruler known for his flamboyant taste and political influence. To complete the tribute, Diljit’s stylist Abhilasha Devnani tried to procure the iconic Patiala Necklace, once commissioned by the Maharaja himself in 1928 from Cartier. Weighing 1,000 carats and studded with 2,930 diamonds, it is arguably one of the grandest pieces of jewellery ever made.
But Cartier declined. According to The New York Times, the French luxury house told Diljit’s team that the necklace is sealed in a museum and unavailable for loan. Instead, Devnani turned to Indian jeweller Golecha to create a piece inspired by the original—an admirable effort, but a far cry from the real thing.
Then Why Was Emma Chamberlain Allowed?
The denial becomes even more curious when we recall that in 2022, American influencer and YouTube star Emma Chamberlain wore part of the same necklace to the Met Gala. At the time, she was Cartier’s brand ambassador, and the gesture was framed as a resurrection of a lost jewel by a prestigious European house.
So, what changed between 2022 and 2025? Why was a white woman from the West permitted to wear a colonial heirloom, while a brown Punjabi man paying homage to his ancestral legacy was refused?
The answer, as some cultural commentators argue, lies not in logistics but in narratives.
A Necklace, A Nation, and a Narrative
When Emma Chamberlain donned the diamond choker, it was seen as Cartier “restoring” a jewel from history, showcasing their craftsmanship and curatorial power. It wasn’t about India; it was about the brand. The story told was one of Western guardianship—a jewel from a looted past now safely nestled in the arms of European elegance.
But had Diljit worn it, the story would have shifted from curatorship to reclamation. His presence, wrapped in symbolism and heritage, would have sparked uncomfortable questions: Why was this necklace lost? Who looted it? What does it mean for an Indian artist to wear it now, not as an accessory but as a revival?
For luxury brands, image is everything. And the shift from aesthetics to politics—from style to historical accountability—was perhaps a leap Cartier wasn’t ready to take.
What Lies Beneath the Sparkle
The Patiala Necklace isn’t just a glamorous object; it’s a material memory of colonial entanglement. Originally crafted with the De Beers yellow diamond—one of the largest in the world—and gems from the Maharaja’s private collection, the necklace was last seen in full in 1946. After India’s independence, it mysteriously disappeared from the royal treasury. Decades later, fragments resurfaced in London, auctioned off in parts, and eventually acquired by Cartier. It was “restored,” albeit incompletely, and used sporadically for PR purposes.
But its roots remain Indian, its story—deeply entwined with colonial extraction and erasure.
Cultural Capital vs Corporate Custodianship
Diljit’s attempt to wear the necklace wasn’t just about fashion; it was about accessing cultural capital that has long been fenced off. In denying him that access, Cartier wasn’t simply refusing a loan—it was choosing to preserve a particular narrative. One where luxury is curated, not reclaimed; where history is aestheticized, not interrogated.
For a global Punjabi icon like Diljit, the necklace was a missing piece of a larger story—one about identity, memory, and justice. For Cartier, it was perhaps a symbol too powerful to be wielded by someone who might ask the wrong questions.
So, Who Really Owns the Past?
In 2025, the necklace may remain behind glass. But the questions it raises have broken through: Who gets to wear history? Who decides what’s sacred and what’s stylish? And why does ownership still seem to depend on which side of the colonial line you stand?
Diljit may have walked the Met Gala without the Patiala Necklace, but in doing so, he brought the weight of its absence into the spotlight—and that might be the most powerful accessory of all.
A Tribute Denied
Diljit’s look was more than a style statement—it was an act of cultural homage. The ensemble, complete with traditional Punjabi attire and Gurumukhi-scripted cape, was designed to honor the legacy of the Maharaja of Patiala, an early 20th-century ruler known for his flamboyant taste and political influence. To complete the tribute, Diljit’s stylist Abhilasha Devnani tried to procure the iconic Patiala Necklace, once commissioned by the Maharaja himself in 1928 from Cartier. Weighing 1,000 carats and studded with 2,930 diamonds, it is arguably one of the grandest pieces of jewellery ever made.
But Cartier declined. According to The New York Times, the French luxury house told Diljit’s team that the necklace is sealed in a museum and unavailable for loan. Instead, Devnani turned to Indian jeweller Golecha to create a piece inspired by the original—an admirable effort, but a far cry from the real thing.
Then Why Was Emma Chamberlain Allowed?
The denial becomes even more curious when we recall that in 2022, American influencer and YouTube star Emma Chamberlain wore part of the same necklace to the Met Gala. At the time, she was Cartier’s brand ambassador, and the gesture was framed as a resurrection of a lost jewel by a prestigious European house.
So, what changed between 2022 and 2025? Why was a white woman from the West permitted to wear a colonial heirloom, while a brown Punjabi man paying homage to his ancestral legacy was refused?
The answer, as some cultural commentators argue, lies not in logistics but in narratives.
A Necklace, A Nation, and a Narrative
When Emma Chamberlain donned the diamond choker, it was seen as Cartier “restoring” a jewel from history, showcasing their craftsmanship and curatorial power. It wasn’t about India; it was about the brand. The story told was one of Western guardianship—a jewel from a looted past now safely nestled in the arms of European elegance.
But had Diljit worn it, the story would have shifted from curatorship to reclamation. His presence, wrapped in symbolism and heritage, would have sparked uncomfortable questions: Why was this necklace lost? Who looted it? What does it mean for an Indian artist to wear it now, not as an accessory but as a revival?
For luxury brands, image is everything. And the shift from aesthetics to politics—from style to historical accountability—was perhaps a leap Cartier wasn’t ready to take.
What Lies Beneath the Sparkle
The Patiala Necklace isn’t just a glamorous object; it’s a material memory of colonial entanglement. Originally crafted with the De Beers yellow diamond—one of the largest in the world—and gems from the Maharaja’s private collection, the necklace was last seen in full in 1946. After India’s independence, it mysteriously disappeared from the royal treasury. Decades later, fragments resurfaced in London, auctioned off in parts, and eventually acquired by Cartier. It was “restored,” albeit incompletely, and used sporadically for PR purposes.
But its roots remain Indian, its story—deeply entwined with colonial extraction and erasure.
Cultural Capital vs Corporate Custodianship
Diljit’s attempt to wear the necklace wasn’t just about fashion; it was about accessing cultural capital that has long been fenced off. In denying him that access, Cartier wasn’t simply refusing a loan—it was choosing to preserve a particular narrative. One where luxury is curated, not reclaimed; where history is aestheticized, not interrogated.
For a global Punjabi icon like Diljit, the necklace was a missing piece of a larger story—one about identity, memory, and justice. For Cartier, it was perhaps a symbol too powerful to be wielded by someone who might ask the wrong questions.
So, Who Really Owns the Past?
In 2025, the necklace may remain behind glass. But the questions it raises have broken through: Who gets to wear history? Who decides what’s sacred and what’s stylish? And why does ownership still seem to depend on which side of the colonial line you stand?
Diljit may have walked the Met Gala without the Patiala Necklace, but in doing so, he brought the weight of its absence into the spotlight—and that might be the most powerful accessory of all.
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