Dress Code & Sexualisation of Women's Bodies in Public Workplaces

Actress and Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) MP Kangana Ranaut recently commented that the nursing profession is "highly sexualised." While calling for respect for nurses and noting their heavy workload, Ranaut described the profession as “highly sexualised” and argued that nurses’ uniforms bear the imprint of British colonial influence, suggesting they should be redesigned to reflect “Indian” cultural aesthetics. The video of her speech went viral online, drawing criticism on social media platforms. While some BJP leaders defended her statements, others noted the timing of the controversy, as Ranaut’s film Bharat Bhagya Vidhata, in which she portrays a nurse, has just released.

Kangana’s remarks on nursing uniforms reignite a long-standing debate over clothing, identity, and power.

Ranaut’s claim addresses a valid post-colonial critique that dress codes often carry a historical burden. Historian Richard Thompson Ford examines the intricate relationship between fashion, dress codes, politics, and social change in his book Dress Code: How the Laws of Fashion Made History. He observes that uniforms have historically defined hierarchy and social roles, from the opulence of aristocratic attire to the simple suits of Enlightenment Europe. For instance, the standardisation of the modern nurse’s white dress and cap occurred during the Victorian era. However, viewing this uniform solely as a colonial relic ignores its evolution over time. Around the world, nursing attire has shifted to practical scrubs, adopted for hygiene, mobility, and gender neutrality rather than as a form of cultural imposition.

Many Indian hospitals have moved away from traditional uniforms. Framing this issue as a “British vs Indian” conflict oversimplifies a functional garment and reduces it to a cultural battleground. Ford illustrates how clothing can assert dignity, citing 1960s Civil Rights activists who wore their “Sunday Best” to protests. If uniform reform is intended to increase respect for nurses, it must prioritise their input.

Nurses’ Associations have consistently highlighted low pay, unsafe staffing ratios, and workplace harassment as fundamental threats to their professional dignity. Aesthetic redesigns that do not involve consultation with nurses, risk becoming symbolic gestures that overlook these important material concerns.

The most controversial part of Ranaut’s statement was her characterisation of nursing as “highly sexualised.” This description contradicts her initial call for respect and shifts the focus from structural issues to perceptions of the body—a dynamic that Ford identifies when discussing how dress codes can be used to police rather than empower individuals. Nurses have long battled popular media tropes that sexualise their profession. Even unintentional reinforcement of this stereotype can undermine efforts to create safe and professional work environments.

The controversy was raised ahead of the June release of  Bharat Bhagya Vidhata, in which Ranaut portrays a nurse. While the timing may be coincidental, it complicates public reception and raises questions about whether the remarks contribute to policy discussion or serve as publicity. Uniforms are more than fabric; they embody complex negotiations of power, identity, and equality. If India aims to reimagine nurses' attire, the conversation should begin in staff rooms and focus on evidence on safety and functionality—not on viral soundbites. The dignity of nurses will be better measured by their salaries, staffing levels, and workplace protections than by hemlines.

Uniform dress codes have often been promoted for their ability to minimise status and sexuality. In professions like nursing, standardised attire, such as scrubs, was intended to signal clinical detachment, hygiene, and equal service, rather than invite a sexualised gaze.

The global shift from white dresses and caps to scrubs was driven by functionality and gender neutrality, rather than any sense of "colonial nostalgia." Labelling the nursing profession as "highly sexualized" while focusing on the uniform reverses this history and assigns meanings to the garment that the profession has actively sought to neutralise.

Ford’s second point concerns self-fashioning as a form of resistance, in which individuals reject imposed dress codes and adopt new aesthetics, as with the Black Panthers. Ranaut advances a parallel argument for cultural reclamation, advocating replacing "British" uniforms with "Indian" ones.

There’s a critical difference between the two approaches. The Panthers' aesthetic emerged from the community, driven by a desire for dignity and empowerment. In contrast, Ranaut’s proposal is imposed top-down, dictating what nurses should wear without any indication of demand from nurses themselves.

When dress reform is enforced rather than chosen, it risks becoming another form of control rather than an act of liberation. Rather than labelling nurses as objects of sexuality, public campaigns should address issues such as staffing ratios, violence against healthcare workers, contractual employment, and pay disparity. Focusing on the uniform as the primary issue shifts the conversation away from these more pressing material concerns.

The language of decolonisation is often invoked, yet the labour conditions essential to professional dignity are overlooked. Dress codes have historically served as tools of political control. Governments impose them to assert authority, suppress dissent, and enforce visible conformity. In authoritarian systems, uniforms not only standardise appearance but also symbolise loyalty, erase individuality, and project power. This mechanism has reinforced divisions among social classes, castes, occupations, and genders. By dictating who can wear what, dress codes perpetuate inequalities under the guise of order, discipline, or tradition. This historical context is important when evaluating recent calls to redesign nurses’ uniforms in the name of “decolonisation.” Without a clear understanding of what decolonisation truly means, such proposals risk repeating the very patterns they aim to challenge. Simply swapping one mandated aesthetic for another—especially when imposed top-down—can recreate the same politics of control, albeit with different symbols.

True decolonisation of professional attire should focus on practitioners themselves, prioritising their safety, functionality, and agency. Otherwise, the debate over uniforms becomes a political project that uses clothing to signal ideology rather than facilitating a genuine shift in power dynamics.

The history of clothing shows that it is never merely a personal choice; it is also a site of power. For instance, egalitarian ideals in Europe did not prevent trousers from being illegal for women until the 1900s. Similarly, in Kerala, the caste hierarchy was enforced by regulating who could cover their chest. In both cases, political systems dictated what attire was appropriate for whom and when. Kangana Ranaut's call to "decolonise" nurses' uniforms by making them "more Indian" follows this pattern. It treats the uniform as a political symbol to be redefined from above, rather than as practical workwear defined by hygiene, function, and the needs of the nurses who wear it. Labelling the profession as "highly sexualized" while proposing a new dress code reflects the double standard described by Ford: women's clothing is often policed in the name of morality, culture, or respectability, while men's uniforms rarely face the same scrutiny.

Therefore, the central question isn’t whether the uniform is “British” or “Indian.” It’s about who gets to decide. When dress reform is imposed without consulting the wearers, it risks reinforcing the very hierarchies of gender and power that egalitarianism seeks to dismantle.

Conflicts over workplace dress codes remain intense today, particularly for women. Historically, women who challenged restrictive policies often faced severe personal consequences, risking their careers, reputations, and livelihoods. Employers often chose to lose skilled, dedicated employees rather than modify dress codes, underscoring how deeply entrenched these norms are. The intensity of these disputes shows that dress codes are not merely about clothing or professionalism; they are intertwined with fundamental issues of gender equality. These codes perpetuate sexist stereotypes and reinforce patriarchal control over women's bodies and appearance.

In "Discipline and Punish," Foucault explains how modern institutions mould individuals into self-regulating subjects. People internalise the authority's gaze, leading to self-policing. The debate over dress codes highlights the hypervisibility of the body and promotes self-regulation. Ranaut’s public comments further extend this scrutiny to issues of "national culture" and "sexual propriety."

Ranaut’s intervention exemplifies Foucault’s concepts of disciplinary power and bio-power by reframing a labour conflict as an issue of sexuality and tradition. This shifts the focus to women's bodies as sites of control and compels workers to defend themselves within that narrative. The true conflict is not a matter of “Indian vs. Western” uniforms. Rather, it lies in who has the authority to produce 'truth' about women’s bodies in public service–politicians or the women performing the work. This is why nurses’ associations consistently redirect the conversation to material conditions such as pay, safety, and staffing. They refuse to allow the debate to remain centred on sexuality and appearance, precisely the arena where disciplinary power seeks to dominate.

Many educational institutions in India enforce the sari as the approved dress code for women. Through rules, routines, and surveillance, they create “docile bodies” that compel individuals to self-regulate, as Foucault discusses in Discipline and Punish. The objective is not simply the sari itself; it serves as a regulatory mechanism that trains women staff and students to internalise societal expectations about how a “proper” female academic or professional should appear. As with the nurses’ situation, the administration never frames this as a personal choice. The rationale is always based on decorum, the need to avoid distractions for male students and staff, or the preservation of cultural norms. Foucault would describe this as bio-power managing sexuality. The woman’s body is portrayed as inherently sexual or disruptive, necessitating that it be covered in a state-sanctioned manner.

The sari mandate creates a “problem”—female sexuality in the workplace—and then presents itself as the solution. If the sari is deemed “de-sexualising,” why is it policed so rigorously? The power dynamic is not about eliminating sexuality; it’s about the institution’s authority to define when, where, and how a woman’s body is sexualised. This same logic applies when Ranaut claims that nurses’ uniforms are “highly sexualised.”

The debate over uniforms, whether for nurses or teachers, extends beyond mere fabric. It reflects an ongoing struggle over who has the authority to define, evaluate, and control women's bodies in public workplaces. The dress code functions as a tool of power, making aspects of gender, culture, and sexuality visible so they can be regulated and controlled. When women challenge these dress codes, they are not merely opposing a specific type of clothing; they are rejecting the institution's authority to define and govern their bodies.

Dr. Kumari Sunitha V is an Assistant Professor & Head, Department of Philosophy, Madras Christian College & Dr. P.K. Abdul Rahiman heads the JBAS Centre for Islamic Studies at the University of Madras. The views are personal.