Chandmari in Aizawl is the city’s busiest main road — and that’s where Hannah Khiangte keeps herself busy. Watch her on Fridays as it’s her most hectic day. Office-goers stream into her namesake boutique to place orders, and the store comes alive with fittings, fabric swatches, and the hum of conversation.

Opened in 2013, the Hannah Khiangte boutique has become a go-to destination for women seeking elegant, custom-made tops to pair with the traditional puan. Though the store is always buzzing, Hannah herself is only occasionally seen on the shop floor. Most days, she’s just a few steps away at her workshop in Chandmari, quietly immersed in her craft.

Her design signature is unmistakable: a seamless blend of Mizo touch and contemporary style. It’s this thoughtful fusion—and the personal touch she brings to every piece—that draws loyal customers from across the state. And most recently having designed for Kareena Kapoor.

Hannah’s story begins in Lunglei, Mizoram’s second-largest town, where she was raised in a joint family. With her parents occupied running an eye clinic, her grandmother stepped in as her primary caregiver. It was under her gentle supervision that Hannah first learned to sew and knit, sparking a lifelong passion for craftsmanship.

Even as a child, she approached fashion with instinctive curiosity—cutting and reshaping her mother’s clothes not out of mischief, but fascination. Lace from old dresses would become Barbie outfits, and fabrics were her playground. Rather than being scolded, she was encouraged, allowed to explore freely.

When the family moved to Aizawl, Hannah, naturally introverted, retreated into creative solitude. She filled her days writing song requests to music channels, collecting pen pals, and idolizing pop icons—building imaginary bridges to a wider world.

In boarding school in Darjeeling, under the watchful eyes of strict rules and uniforms, she made subtle yet meaningful alterations to her wardrobe—reworking collars, restyling ties. These small rebellions became her first expressions of identity through clothing.

Determined to pursue fashion despite her father’s reservations—Mizoram then had no visible design icons—Hannah, supported by her mother and aunt, moved to Delhi. Missing deadlines for top institutes, she enrolled in a private fashion school and later transferred to Fashionista at Ansal Plaza. There, she earned dual diplomas, proving that persistence often matters more than pedigree.

But most of her learning happened outside the classroom—binge-watching Project Runway, dissecting global collections, and studying fashion books her father bought from Om Book Store. Internships were hard to come by, but she eventually found one at a fashion house under FDCI, where she gained valuable hands-on experience.

Ironically, it was only after returning home that Hannah truly fell in love with Mizo fashion. The local puan bazaar opened her eyes to the richness of her heritage, which soon became central to her design language. She began merging traditional textiles with modern silhouettes, crafting a distinct aesthetic rooted in identity yet open to reinvention.

In a conversation with The Northeast Stories, Hannah shares how her work extends beyond fashion.

Q: Rahbi Thar” speaks of new beginnings—but what was your personal ‘Rahbi Thar’ moment? Was there a specific time when you knew fashion would be your voice for Mizoram?

For me, Rahbi Thar wasn't a single moment—it was a gradual build-up, a quiet unfolding of seasons in my life. I began my journey in 2013, opening a small boutique in Aizawl with little knowledge of branding or marketing. All I had was a desire to create and a dream of showcasing my own collection. At the time, I envisioned a minimalist approach—my early designs were primarily in black and white. But I quickly learned that the creative world is also a business world. I had to adapt, customise, and engage with clients. That process—though challenging—taught me empathy, resilience, and how to make people feel seen through what they wore.

Fashion has always served as more than clothing; for many, it’s an armour or even a form of self-expression when words fall short. Helping women find confidence through my designs gave me my own sense of confidence, too. It became less about selling clothes and more about building trust, offering joy, and making people feel beautiful.

Things shifted dramatically after I got married in 2018. We faced personal trials, the pandemic disrupted life and business, and then I became a mother. Those years felt like a pruning season—painful, refining, but necessary. I lost a bit of creative focus, but not the desire to design beyond the familiar silhouettes of Sunday tops. By 2023, as the world began to recover, I felt ready to restart. I signed up for Bombay Fashion Week and presented a collection titled The Introduction—an intentional rebirth. Soon after, I launched a new store with clearer branding, a more refined vision, and a growing commitment to exploring our native handloom textiles. That marked the birth of The Rahbi Thar.

Even in the early years of my career, I had a strong sense that my calling was to represent Mizoram through fashion. I didn’t know how or when, but the conviction grew stronger with time. Eventually, I took that leap of faith—and I’m still leaping.

You’ve spoken about growing up in an institutional background—how did that shape your sense of identity, and how does that duality between discipline and rebellion reflect in your design language?

My sense of identity is layered—it comes from culture, emotion, and faith. At the root of it all, I’m deeply Mizo. My work reflects that, but culture, to me, isn’t just heritage or tradition. It’s also the family I grew up in, the schools I went to, and the values shaped by both. Those environments taught me how to see, feel, and create.

Style has always been personal. What I wear affects how I think, behave, and move through the world. It’s never about how others see me—it’s about how I feel. Even while writing this, I had to change out of my pyjamas and into something more intentional, just to find the right headspace. That’s how I design too—through feeling. Each piece I create carries a mood, a moment, something that needs to be felt before it can be worn.

But beyond all that, my spiritual identity anchors me. I believe we each have a divine purpose—one that existed even before we were born. My faith gives me clarity. It shapes how I work, how I live, and how I make decisions, both big and small.

I grew up with structure: boarding school, religious tradition, unspoken household rules. My grandfather was a pastor, my grandparents were missionaries. There wasn’t much room for personal opinion. But I found my voice in clothes. I was quiet, introverted, often invisible—until I learned to speak through what I wore.

That tension between structure and rebellion became my design language. The clothes we had were mostly second-hand or passed down. I rarely wore anything as it came. I had to adapt—crop a hem, shift a sleeve, layer it differently. And when something felt too bold for my environment, I learned to tone it down. I wasn’t trying to break rules—I was learning how to exist fully within them, to negotiate space for expression in a world with boundaries.

The puan is such a powerful cultural symbol—was there ever a moment when you felt the weight of reinterpreting something so sacred? How did you navigate honouring tradition while pushing its boundaries?

I’ve never felt burdened by the responsibility of reinterpreting the puan. Reinvention comes naturally to me—it's something I’ve done instinctively since childhood. What feels sacred to me isn’t just the fabric, but the process of evolving it meaningfully.

Tradition and transformation don’t have to be at odds. In fact, I believe the most authentic way to honour tradition is to keep it alive through growth. The puan in its original form is beautiful, but its applications are limited if we don’t innovate. As creatives, we carry the responsibility to nurture and evolve our heritage. The more we reimagine and reinterpret, the more we preserve. Culture is not static—it must breathe, stretch, and absorb. That’s how we ensure our roots stay alive for the next generation.

You recently designed for Kareena Kapoor. Tell us more…

Designing for Kareena Kapoor was an exciting and deeply personal experience. Her garment was inspired by the classic Mizo puan—a traditional wraparound that's an essential part of women's attire among the Mizo tribes. For us, the deep navy used in the piece symbolizes hope and optimism. It’s a color traditionally worn by women during New Year celebrations or special moments that signify a fresh beginning.

The look features a pinstripe skirt finished with delicate tassels, all handcrafted in raw cotton by an all-women team from the remote corners of Mizoram. This craftsmanship was key—we wanted to celebrate both community and heritage.

Stylistically, the outfit is a juxtaposition of contrasts: modern and cultural, feminine and masculine, ultimately creating an androgynous edge. I spent hours poring over my mother-in-law’s vintage photo albums and uncovered visual treasures from her era. The flow of the puan, the tailoring of men’s blazers, and the way garments were styled during that time had a lasting impression on me and made their way into this look.

As someone who grew up enamoured with the British punk scene, I couldn’t resist weaving in subtle nods to that rebellious spirit—elevated through Victorian-inspired details. It’s a fusion of past and present, tradition and rebellion.

We created this ensemble with Kareena in mind—her ever-evolving style and her status as a cinematic icon. The playful peplums and off-shoulder elements add that bold, fun, and fearless touch that reflects not just Kareena herself, but the unforgettable characters she's brought to life, from Jab We Met to Crew.

Mizo women have historically been central to weaving and craft. What are some untold stories of the artisans behind your collection that you wish the world could hear?

Weaving used to be central to every Mizo household. Women would craft their own mattresses, quilts, garments—everything textile-related. I truly believe this foundational creativity has made Mizos, especially women, inherently artistic and fashion-forward.

However, with modernisation and the availability of other income sources—particularly government jobs—the practice slowly faded. Today, many of the women who still weave are either deeply passionate about the craft or are doing so to support their families, often as widows or single mothers.

This is why it’s so important that we, as designers, uplift these artisans—not just through fair compensation, but by creating a sense of pride in their work. We need to change the perception that handloom is a fallback. It should be seen as a skill, a tradition, and a livelihood that is as dignified and valuable as any profession. These women are cultural custodians, and their stories deserve to be celebrated.

If the world could see Mizoram through the lens of your designs, what truths, emotions, or dreams would you want them to take away?

First, I’d want them to understand that when someone supports our work, they’re not just buying a garment—they’re helping keep an entire craft alive. That appreciation fuels motivation among the artisans and designers involved.

Second, Mizoram’s documented history is still quite young. Our written language only began in the late 19th century, following the arrival of British missionaries in 1894. Prior to that, we were headhunters and practiced indigenous religions. Modernisation came to us relatively late, which means our generation is one of the first to really step into entrepreneurship. Despite that, we’ve adapted quickly—and we’re fast learners. Mizos who venture outside the state often excel, proving we’re more than capable of making our mark globally.

Lastly, I believe textile, fashion, and design are among our greatest collective strengths. I dream of a moment—perhaps not too far in the future—where our culture is recognized internationally not only for its beauty but for its innovation. I hope that any success I have becomes a source of hope for others, showing that tradition and ambition can coexist, and that Mizoram deserves its place on the global stage.