Watchmakers’ Raj: The Unknown History Of Watches In India

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The sun is low over the dusty plains outside Calcutta, and the air is thick with the scent of sweat and freshly cut grass. It’s 1931, and the British Raj is at its peak. For the upper class, it’s a world of white linen, gin and tonics, and the thundering hooves of polo ponies. On this particular afternoon, a crowd of officers and Indian nobility has gathered at the Calcutta Polo Club, the oldest in the world. The game is fast and brutal. And dangerous. Much more than one would expect. Sure, being around a dozen galloping horses is dangerous, but add to that swinging mallets and flying balls, and things will not end well.

At the very peak of the game, a British officer—his name lost to history, but his problem immortalized—raises his mallet for a backhand shot. The ball connects, but so does another mallet, and in the chaos there is a sharp, unmistakable crack. The mallets are whole, as are all the bones. What cracked was a piece of glass. “Third one this season,” the officer muttered, as he looked down at his watch, shattered on his wrist. After the match, in the cool shade of the club’s veranda, the officer nurses a drink and his wounded pride. He’s not alone. Around him, other players commiserate, rolling up their sleeves to reveal battered timepieces, some with cracked faces, others with hands frozen in place. Watches, it seems, are no match for polo.

Sitting nearby is César de Trey, a Swiss businessman with a keen eye for opportunity. He listens as the officers grumble about their broken watches. “If only someone could make a watch tough enough for polo,” one says, half in jest. But de Trey doesn’t think this is a joke. Within months, he is back in Switzerland, sharing his idea with Jacques-David LeCoultre, the technical genius behind Jaeger-LeCoultre. Together, they turned to Parisian designer René-Alfred Chauvot for help. LeCoultre’s engineers, led by the inventive Chavot, conceive of a bold idea. What if the entire case could flip over, revealing a solid back to protect the fragile face? Rather than reinforcing the crystal or simply making the case thicker, the watch itself could become a protector.

In 1931, the Reverso is born. In the early years of the Reverso, its success is swift and unmistakable. Polo players begin wearing the new design, but it quickly spreads far beyond the polo fields. It is worn by the rich and famous, by the intellectuals, and by those who demand not just practicality, but style in everything they do. It also keeps its deep ties to India. Early models are engraved with the crests of regiments stationed in the subcontinent, or with the initials of Maharajas who take up the sport. Some dials are even enameled with Hindu deities, a nod to the land that inspired its creation.

The Maharajas’ Obsession

If you want to understand the Indian love affair with watches, you have to start in a palace. Because this is where it all began. Time has always been important, and there are many ways to tell it. In Europe, cities lived by the tower clocks that could be seen by hundreds at a time. But while tower clocks were good for the masses, they weren’t enough for the upper classes. The invention of the mainspring in the early 15th century made it possible to create portable watches, which led to the invention of the pocket watch and, ultimately, to the creation of the wristwatch. All of these time telling devices were made for European royalty and nobility.

And it was no different in India. In the late 19th and early 20th century, wealth in India was concentrated mostly among the maharajas. The history of the maharaja is a complex one, far too complex to address here, but under British rule, a maharaja was the ruler of a princely state, a semi-autonomous territory governed by an Indian monarch under the suzerainty of the British Crown. While they retained control over internal matters, their foreign policy and defense were dictated by the British. The British often elevated rulers to the title of maharaja for their loyalty or contributions to colonial efforts, even if their states were modest in size or influence. And with the status of maharaja came wealth. Many maharajas adopted Western customs and education while maintaining traditional royal practices.

And one of these blends, fueled by newly discovered funds, came in the form of custom-ordered Swiss watches. These orders were the stuff of legends, the most impressive of which was perhaps the exploits of Bhupinder Singh, the Maharaja of Patiala. He was already known as a collector of lavish objects, having once commissioned a necklace containing nearly 3,000 diamonds. In 1921, he commissioned a special pocket watch from Vacheron Constantin. Made out of 18-carat gold, the Maharaja wanted it to feature a chronograph, an astronomical calendar, a moonphase, an alarm, and a minute repeater. Vacheron obliged and sold him the watch for a jaw-dropping sum of 150,000 Swiss francs. And that’s 150k in 1921 money, not in todays money. I tried doing an easy inflation calculation, but none of the calculators for Swiss francs calculate to prior than 1956. But I didn’t let that stop me. I found what the price of gold was in Swiss francs in 1921, converted that to U.S. dollars, did the inflation calculation and brought it back to modern Swiss francs — the Maharaja paid about CHF 700.000 for the watch.

But it wasn’t just about putting together crazy complications. There was a lot of style involved in these commissions, and they were mostly inspired by Indian culture. Dials were enameled with peacocks, lotuses, or scenes from Hindu mythology. Cases were engraved with royal crests or set with rubies and emeralds. Watches became diplomatic gifts, tokens of favor, and, sometimes, subtle acts of rebellion. When the British introduced standardized railway time, some Maharajas insisted on keeping their own “palace time,” set by the sun or the stars. Swiss brands sent their designers to India to study local tastes. They learned to incorporate Indian numerals, to use colors and motifs that resonated with the subcontinent’s aesthetic, as Maharaja’s watch collections became part of their identity.

Favre Leuba: The Swiss Conquest of the Subcontinent

If you strolled through the bustling lanes of Bombay’s Fort district in the early 20th century, you’d find a city in the throes of transformation. The city was embracing international commerce, construction was bustling and among the Indian shops, a strange name stood on the premier watch shop in the city: Favre Leuba. And it’s this Swiss watchmakers presence in India that tells a very interesting story of Indian watchmaking.

The story, like so many stories do, starts with a journey. In 1865, Fritz Favre, a descendant of the brand’s founder, arrived in Bombay with a trunk full of watches and a head full of ideas. He saw what others didn’t: that India, with its patchwork of princely states and its growing class of professionals, was hungry for European watches. Fritz learned what made India tick, which made him uniquely positioned to address this huge market much better than any other Swiss brand.

Favre Leuba’s watches were robust enough for the monsoon, elegant enough for the durbar, and accurate enough for the railway timetable. They were, in a word, adaptable. By the turn of the century, Favre Leuba had become the watchmaker of choice for both the British establishment and the Indian elite. The company’s pocket watches, with their enamel dials and intricate engravings, were as likely to be found in the waistcoat of a Calcutta laywers as in the hands of a Maharaja. The brand’s Bombay office became a hub not just for sales, but for service and repair—a crucial advantage in a country where a watch was often a once-in-a-lifetime purchase.

But Favre Leuba was at capacity. But there was one other chance to make a profit from their unique position in India. The company became the gateway through which other Swiss brands—Zenith, Jaeger-LeCoultre, IWC, Bovet, and even Patek Philippe—entered the Indian market. Favre Leuba was the authorized dealer that instilled trust in Indian buyers. They became synonymous with Swiss watches. The brand’s success was built on more than just business acumen. Favre Leuba paid attention to the details that mattered. They offered watches with dials in Bengali or Urdu numerals, cases engraved with local motifs, and even models designed to withstand the rigors of the Indian climate. During the World Wars, Favre Leuba supplied military-grade watches to the British Indian Army. By the 1930s and 1940s, Favre Leuba was woven into the fabric of Indian life. And it incentivized Indian companies to set up their own watch production, which was given a boost with Indian independence in 1947.

The Indian Watchmaking Dream

It’s 1961, and the air in Bangalore is thick with optimism. India is barely fourteen years into its independence, and Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru is determined to build a self-reliant nation. Factories are springing up across the country, producing everything from steel to textiles. But in a modest industrial complex in Bangalore, something more delicate is taking shape: India’s first homegrown wristwatch.

Inside the Hindustan Machine Tools (HMT) factory, workers in crisp uniforms huddle around assembly lines, their hands steady as they fit tiny gears and springs into place. The first watch to emerge from these assembly lines is called the Janata, which means “the people” in Hindi. It’s a simple, hand-wound mechanical watch with an understated design—no frills, no extravagance. When Nehru himself unveils it at a public ceremony later that year, he calls it “a timekeeper for every Indian.” The crowd cheers, and for a moment, it feels like anything is possible.

Through the 1960s and 1970s, HMT became synonymous with Indian watches. Its models were utilitarian but dependable. The Pilot, with its black dial and luminous hands, became a favorite among professionals. The Sona, with its gold-plated case, was reserved for special occasions. And then there was the Kohinoor, named after India’s most famous diamond—a watch that symbolized both aspiration and tradition. By 1991, HMT had sold over 100 million watches across India, controlling nearly 80% of the market. Its advertising slogan—“Timekeepers to the Nation”—wasn’t just marketing; it was reality.

While HMT dominated the market, smaller players tried to carve out their own niches. Founded in Bangalore in 1965 as a collaboration between Swiss entrepreneur Bernard Golay and Indian businessman B.T. Shankar Hegde, Hegde & Golay aimed to bring Swiss craftsmanship to Indian consumers at affordable prices. Their flagship model was called Shreeshyla, a mechanical watch featuring modified Roskopf movements which featured a pin-pallet escapement, a cheaper alternative to traditional Swiss lever escapements. These watches were marketed as “Swiss precision made in India,” but Hegde & Golay struggled against HMT’s overwhelming dominance.

Allwyn, based in Hyderabad, took a different approach by targeting rural markets with low-cost quartz watches during the late 1970s. Allwyn succeeded in reaching consumers who had never owned a watch before. For many farmers and laborers across southern India, an Allwyn quartz watch was their first introduction to modern timekeeping. Despite their efforts, neither Hegde & Golay nor Allwyn could match HMT’s scale or government backing. By the early 1980s, both companies had faded into obscurity.

While Indian manufacturers focused on mechanical watches through much of the 20th century, seismic changes were happening elsewhere in the world. In December 1969, Japan’s Seiko introduced the Astron, the world’s first quartz wristwatch—a technological marvel that was more accurate than any mechanical watch ever produced and significantly cheaper to manufacture.

The quartz revolution hit Switzerland hard; hundreds of traditional watchmakers went bankrupt as consumers flocked to affordable quartz models from Japan and Hong Kong. But its impact on India was slower—partly because import restrictions shielded domestic manufacturers like HMT from foreign competition. Still, by the late 1970s and early 1980s, quartz technology began trickling into India through smuggled Seiko watches or cheap knockoffs sold in street markets. Indian consumers were captivated by their accuracy and convenience—no winding required—and soon began demanding similar products from local manufacturers.

HMT, to its credit, saw the writing on the wall. The company launched its own line of quartz watches in the late 1970s and early 1980s, hoping to ride the new wave rather than be swept away by it. Models like the Sona Quartz and Vijay Quartz appeared in shop windows, their dials promising a new era of Indian precision. But the transition was not easy. HMT’s identity was built on the romance of mechanics, on the pride of Indian engineering. Quartz felt, to many, like a betrayal of that legacy.

Meanwhile, the global watch market was transforming at breakneck speed. Japanese brands like Seiko and Citizen, and later Hong Kong’s mass producers, flooded the world with affordable, stylish quartz watches. Swiss brands that survived the crisis did so by embracing quartz themselves or by doubling down on luxury and heritage. The very idea of what a watch could be—tool, jewel, status symbol, disposable accessory—was up for grabs.

Titan’s Rises: The New Face of Indian Time

In the mid 1980s, India was changing radically, once again. State monopolies were breaking up, bureaucracy was beginning to fray at the edges. A new generation of business leaders were gearing up to position Indian brands as global leaders. In a modest office in Bangalore, a handful of engineers and designers were working late into the night, sketching dials and tinkering with prototypes, trying to stand toe-to-toe with the best in the world. And to do big things, you have to have a big name — Titan.

Titan is born from a partnership between the Tata Group, India’s largest company, and the Tamil Nadu Industrial Development Corporation. The timing is perfect. The Indian consumer is changing—growing younger, more urban. The old HMTs, with their utilitarian designs and government-issue aura, suddenly seem like relics of a different era.

And just like the consumer has changed, so has Titan tried with the watch business. They focused heavily on design, hiring young talent from art schools and sending them to Switzerland and Japan to study the industry. They build a state-of-the-art factory in Hosur, on the border of Tamil Nadu and Karnataka, and equipped it with the best manufacturing machinery they could purchase.

The first Titan watches, launched in 1987, are slim, stylish, and unmistakably modern. They come in gold and steel, with elegant dials and comfortable straps. And they are quartz-powered.

But the biggest Titan revolution comes in the way they sell their watches. They opened their own showrooms instead of going through resellers, allowing them to control how the brand is perceived. The advertising is fresh and aspirational, featuring young couples, professionals, and families. The response is electric. Within a few years, Titan is everywhere. The brand becomes synonymous with a new kind of Indian ambition: confident, forward-looking, and unafraid to dream big.

For HMT, the writing is on the wall. The old state giant, once the undisputed “Timekeeper to the Nation,” finds itself outpaced and outclassed.

The Fall of HMT

It’s a gray morning in Bangalore, sometime in the early 2000s. The sprawling HMT factory complex, once alive with the rhythmic hum of machinery and the chatter of workers, feels eerily quiet. Rows of assembly lines sit idle, their conveyor belts gathering dust. Outside, a handful of workers linger near the gates, smoking cigarettes and talking in hushed tones. They’ve seen the writing on the wall for years now, but today it feels more real than ever. The “Timekeeper to the Nation” is running out of time.

The quartz crisis and Titan crippled the state-owned watchmaker, but another blow came in 1991 with the economic liberalization of India. As import tariffs fell and foreign brands flooded into India, consumers were suddenly spoiled for choice. Japanese giants like Seiko and Citizen brought affordable quartz watches, while Swiss luxury brands like Omega and Rolex targeted India’s growing affluent class.

HMT’s bureaucratic structure didn’t help. As a state-owned enterprise, it was weighed down by inefficiencies. For many Indians who grew up with HMT watches on their wrists or tucked into their pockets, the brand’s decline felt personal. By the early 2000s, HMT was hemorrhaging money. Its losses far outstripped its revenue; in one particularly grim year (2012–2013), the company posted losses twenty times greater than its earnings. The government tried to keep it afloat with subsidies and restructuring efforts, but nothing seemed to work.

In 2014, after years of financial struggle and dwindling demand, the Indian government made the painful decision to shut down HMT Watches entirely. Ironically, news of the closure sparked a brief surge in demand for its watches as collectors rushed to buy them before they disappeared forever. Models that once sold for €5-10 began fetching several times their original price on eBay. But by then it was too late.

-Vuk

This post was produced in partnership with Bangalore Watch Company and is part 1 in a three part series on the history and present of Indian watchmaking. Part two is coming on Friday, April 25.