When you think of fashion, you might imagine runways, glamorous fabrics, and people obsessed with trends. But Salman Parekh is not your usual fashion entrepreneur. He’s the first to say, “I’m probably the least fashionable among my friends.”

And yet, his brand Manto has quietly grown into one of the most culturally rooted, emotionally resonant labels in Pakistan’s fashion scene, all while telling stories, not just selling clothes.

Salman’s journey didn’t begin in a design studio or a fashion capital. It began in a madrasa (an Islamic school or religious seminary where the Quran and Islamic studies are taught) where his early education took root. Later, he transitioned into formal schooling, but by the time that phase began, much of the foundational learning had already been missed. Jumping straight into higher grades without the basics wasn’t easy. Still, Salman learned how to adapt. “I acted my way through school, ”he says with a laugh. “When teachers asked for notebooks, I’d find a way to disappear. Writing things down felt overwhelming, but I could convince you I had it all figured out.”

College wasn’t much different. He admits that academics weren’t his strong suit, and at times, he relied on shortcuts to get through, not due to a lack of understanding, but because, as he puts it,

“the system had no space for creativity.”

While classes often left him disengaged, his curiosity took him elsewhere. He began writing lyrics, exploring photography, and developing a passion for acting. These weren’t just passing interests; they became his lifelines. “I learn by watching, not reading,” he explains.

From acting came photography. From photography came videography. And then came storytelling, the common thread that ran through all his passions. It was never about fashion. It was always about expression.

So how did a non-fashion guy build a fashion brand? “I never saw myself as a part of the fashion industry,” Salman says.

“But clothes are a form of language. They’re a part of your identity.”

That identity, for him, was deeply tied to Manto, both the name and the idea.

The brand wasn’t supposed to be called Manto. It started as Rang. Cards, brochures, everything was printed. But then came a collarless kurta; loose, unstructured, artistic.

“It felt like something a writer would wear. And that’s when it clicked. This should be called Manto.”

Of course, the name sparked questions. Wasn’t Saadat Hasan Manto a controversial figure? Salman wasn’t afraid.

“Writers like Manto wore their truth, raw and loud. That spirit matched everything I wanted to say.”

Later, he discovered that Manto also meant a piece of cloth in Persian and Spanish. The name was destiny.

But starting the brand wasn’t just poetic. It was practical chaos. Salman had no formal fashion training. He learned about fabrics, printing, shipping, and sizing through trial and very expensive error. His first batch had just 40 dresses. The fabric quality was good, but the sizing was all over the place.

“We made mistakes. We fixed them. We kept moving.”

Before Manto, he had launched three different experimental online stores. He tested courier services, studied delivery failures, and figured out how to build trust in a digital-first market like Pakistan. “It wasn’t just marketing,” he says. “It was about emotion. Trust is an emotion.”

That’s why Manto launched with a no-questions-asked return policy. Customers were treated like collaborators, not just buyers. Every piece was packaged with bookmarks and poetry, tiny touches that made people feel seen. Some, like one of his early customers, still have the original ribbon saved in their drawer.

But Manto isn’t just about clothes. It’s about reclaiming South Asian identity through language, art, and design. Salman and his wife, Bismah Salman, the brand’s creative director, brought Urdu back into the fashion conversation. From kurta pajamas to solid printed shirts, everything at Manto comes with a story.

Offline, the brand grew organically. First a tiny studio, then a space that welcomed not just customers, but artists, actors, teachers, even politicians. People didn’t just shop. They connected.

Salman even told us that whenever someone from Manto’s family makes a purchase from us they say, ” It feels like Manto itself has arrived.  “

And that’s what the Manto brand is really about. Not trends. Not fame. But the connection so real, so human, that it feels like home.

Salman believes that growth comes when you show up, even when you’re not ready. “These days, mistakes have become cheap,” he says.

“You don’t need a million rupees to fail anymore, you just need the courage to start.”

In a world chasing perfection, Salman built a brand on flaws, poetry, and feeling deeply. His clothes may be simple, but the stories they carry have sewn soul into style.