Somewhere in an alternate life, I’m a barrister in a horsehair wig, cross-examining a witness in a Hong Kong courtroom.

That’s the story I had built in my mind. And looking at me, you’d think I had it all figured out — born into a prominent HK family, check, shipped off to an English boarding school, check, did well at school, check, law degree, check, passed the Bar first time, a big bright green check. Sounds easy, right? It wasn’t. And reality is never what it seems.

I chose law and I loved it — I’m a Libra, all balance and logic, and, frankly, a nerd. A nerd who then spent almost three decades as a fashion designer (more on that later). Go figure.

So there I was, following the path I’d drawn in my head to the letter: work my butt off (because I’m a hard worker, which is NOT the same as naturally super smart), do my pupillage — the one-year apprenticeship where you shadow a barrister until you’re finally the real thing — and then glide into glory. Wig, gown, cash, a QC one day, and the beautiful house on the Peak, the crème de la crème of Hong Kong addresses. That was the plan.

The universe had other ideas

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Enter the girl who “ruined” everything.

Then fate intervened, in the form of another Indian girl with the exact same QC dreams. I assumed we’d swap fantasies about wowing the courtroom. Instead, in a nano-second, she put me in my place: “But Tania, how do you think you’re going to be a successful barrister in HK? It’s 1996 — after handover, all cases will be tried in Cantonese.”

I was stunned. I hadn’t thought about this at all. (As it turned out, she was completely wrong — many English-speaking barristers went on to have incredibly successful legal careers in post-handover Hong Kong.) But for me, somehow, she’d hit a nerve.

Because I’m quite pleased with my self-taught, picked-up Cantonese — but let’s be honest, it’s a 4/10. Nowhere near enough to argue a case. Nowhere near enough to even understand my own client. And just like that, in a puff, my horsehair wig came tumbling off.

Sliding doors or WHAT. I wish I’d taken the later train. But I hadn’t — and suddenly my whole plan fell apart.

There was no trust fund, no savings to swan off and “find myself” for a year. I needed to work — but do what? All my training since I was 16 had been in law. So I did the only sensible thing: I ditched pupillage and started a two-year training contract — the route that qualifies you as a… solicitor. A perfectly good career — just not the courtroom drama I’d fallen in love with. Hardly the dream I’d drawn. But needs must.

Come eight snooze-inducing months in, I was bored to tears. I just couldn’t do this a minute longer. I knew I had to pivot. What on earth was I going to do?

And this is precisely when Hong Kong decided to become impossibly glamorous.

I was in my mid-twenties and something of a social butterfly, forever invited to fashion events. So I’d creep out of my boring cage — sorry, my law firm — and spend the evening among the feathers and boas and the sparkling life of fashion. Anyone who lived in Hong Kong in the mid-90s will tell you the same: it was beyond glamorous, buzzing, vibrant, and enormous fun. Maybe it was youth, maybe it was just that moment in time. But I knew one thing for certain. I could not stay in that cubicle until 8pm, photocopying and looking busy, timing my exit around a docket the bosses would never even notice.

I had to bust out.

Never say no to a party.

At a barbecue one weekend, I got talking to the editor of a Hong Kong newspaper. And it dawned on me — a proper flashbulb moment — his paper had no dedicated fashion editor, just fashion tucked between music and art. The rival paper did. So I told him he needed one.

“A what?” he said.

A fashion editor, I said. Because with one, all the big fashion houses would want to advertise — which in commercial terms meant big bucks for the paper. He looked puzzled, and I couldn’t quite determine whether he was sold on the idea. “Write me the history of the cheongsam,” he said. “Oh, and a photo shoot to go with it. Then I may consider your proposal.” And off I went.

He was humouring me. I knew it. But I was a headstrong 24-year-old with a Rolodex and nothing to lose, so I put it to work. I called my beautiful friends. I called in every favour I had. David Tang had just started Shanghai Tang, and I sweet-talked the brand’s head of marketing into lending me the clothes. Then over to the Grand Hyatt — home to One Harbour Road, one of my family’s favourite restaurants — where I asked if I might shoot in its exquisite Chinese dining room.

Back to the cheongsam. I disappeared into the world of Suzie Wong and then some, found myself a photographer, and sent the whole package — story and shoot — to the editor in chief.

Bingo. I didn’t just get the job. I got the cover.

Hello, fashion. Goodbye, law

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I adored being a fashion editor. London, Paris, New York — a dream job, all gifts and travel and front-row glamour. But here’s the thing nobody tells you: once you’re a fashion editor at 27, where exactly do you go? Let’s face it — I was no Anna Wintour, and my publication was certainly no Vogue. The budgets were fixed, the pay couldn’t climb, and I found myself at a crossroads yet again

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This time, I didn’t go looking for my next chapter. It came looking for me. I was, quite literally, picked to start my own brand — Tabla chose me, not the other way round.

Looking back, I owe that whole detour more than I can say. Without it — without that one blunt sentence — there’d be no Tabla, no brand I’d pour my heart into. The plans we grieve are so often the ones we’re luckiest to lose.

So here I am today.

Twenty-six years on, I have Tabla — my beautiful brand that celebrates the crafts of India. And I’m nowhere near where I want us to be. Exhausting? Some days, yes. But the climb is thrilling too.

We’ve been in Harrods — the first Asian brand in the swim room, I believe. There was the Scoop NYC moment in the early 2000s, a designer’s dream that actually happened to me: a Hong Kong girl standing on Madison Avenue, staring at the Goddess dress in a shop window — a dress I’d draped from a plain white sheet, sipping masala chai in my manufacturer’s studio in Delhi. We opened a shop on Walton Street in London, then closed it. Kate Moss and even Mick Jagger have shopped in my tiny Hong Kong store.

So why, you might ask, is Tabla mine and not yet a household name? Because — as any founder will tell you — it’s a life of dizzying highs and brutal lows.

Today I have blind faith in the Asian invasion of fashion and luxury — and that is exactly what this Substack is about. Twenty-six years in, and I still intend to build a world-recognised Asian luxury brand that celebrates the crafts of India. One thread at a time.

When the dragon and the elephant dance, the whole world watches.

Join me, and I’ll share the grit, the glory, and everything beautiful in between — the essence of old-school Eastern glamour.

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