Through this article, we will discover how the recurring motif of a tie in Imtiaz Ali’s films serves as a powerful symbol, encapsulating the theme of being tied down in various aspects of life; to untie the tie is to untangle the self. Ali, known for his nuanced exploration of relationships and self-discovery, utilizes the tie as a visual metaphor to convey the constraints and responsibilities that individuals often find themselves entangled in. The tie, typically associated with formal attire, represents societal norms, expectations, and the conventional roles that people are expected to adhere to. Imtiaz Ali cleverly uses this phallic symbol to depict the characters’ struggles against societal pressures and the conventions that threaten to confine their true selves. Furthermore, the tie in Ali’s films can also symbolize emotional entanglements and the complexities of relationships. It becomes a visual cue for the emotional bonds that characters forge, which may simultaneously provide comfort and become restrictive. Imtiaz Ali consistently weaves a narrative that associates the mundane aspects of life with a sense of entrapment.
A prime example is the portrayal of a monotonous 9-to-5 job, symbolized by the restrictive nature of wearing a suit and tie. In his films, characters often find themselves ensnared in the routine, a feeling that lingers until they eventually break free, symbolized by the act of unfastening their ties. In Jab We Met (2007), there's an unobtrusive, almost blink-and-you'll-miss-it scene where Aditya removes his tie. On the surface, it's a minor gesture, a guy unbuttoning his collar. But under it is a tide-turning shift. That tie is not only a part of his office attire; it's a noose of expectation, sewn together over years of inherited duty, emotional containment, and the burden of being the 'serious' son, the CEO, the man who never smiles. By taking it off, Aditya isn't just easing himself; he liberates himself. It's the first time we witness him begin to breathe differently, not as a company man or a jilted fiancé, but just as Aditya, not knowing where he is headed but at last willing to put the breeze in his face.The tie itself is an effective visual metaphor for all that he's been instructed to be, managed, refined, and streamlined. And by discarding it, he decides to disentangle all that. This is the beginning of something raw and delicate: a reckoning of sorts. He's not pursuing a plan anymore; he's on the trail of an instinct. And that impulse takes him into the mayhem, elation, and insanity of Geet's life, a life where feelings don't require clipping and love doesn't have an instruction manual. So when that tie is shed, it's not only an accessory that he removes; it's a part of himself that he's done pretending to be. It's the initial unwritten declaration that he's willing to live life not according to the rule book, but according to sensation.
In Tamasha (2015), Imtiaz Ali not only reuses the tie motif but also recharges it with greater existential significance. Ved's morning routine of tying a tie is shot with clinical detachment: the same ritual, the same rigidity in his shoulders, the same dead eyes in the mirror. Day after day, the routine becomes a form of silent surrender. The tie is no longer an accessory; it's a chokehold. It is a silk leash, purchased at the cost of success. He is tied to a script that he has never penned, a part in the corporate machine where insurrection is buried in performance reporting, and hopes are commuted into deliverables. The sterile office worlds he lives in, the greys and blues, the subdued lighting, are as unfeeling as his nine-to-five self. His manager's smile, his family's satisfaction, society's accolades – they all ring as empty as applause for a play the lead actor has forgotten his name in. His private turmoil seethes beneath this gloss until it erupts in one of the most devastating destructions in recent Hindi cinema. And that line, "Kyuki sab bhaag rahe hain, isliye main bhi bhaag raha hoon", isn't a confession. It's a scream. A cry for permission to stop running. When finally Ved cracks, when he drops the act, the tie is missing. He's untidy, emotional, disheveled and alive. The tie's absence is not an accident. It's a rebellious visual statement. It's his coming back to storytelling, to theatre, to passion, to the boy who used to sit wide-eyed hearing fables beneath a tree. That boy was never cut out to work in cubicles and measure things in KPIs. So the instant that tie unravels, it's as if Ved is finally peeling off the mask. The carefully constructed self dies so that the true one can live. In Tamasha, the tie doesn't only represent capitalism's clutches but also how conformity murders the artist within. The action of untying it isn't only freedom. It's a rebirth.
In Jab Harry Met Sejal (2017), the erstwhile simple tie evolves from "corporate stranglehold" to a full-fledged identity crisis. Harry, Shah Rukh Khan in a tour guide badge and clocking overtime with a grin, makes his first appearance in a well-tailored blazer, tie tied tightly, leading tourists around Europe like a human TripAdvisor. That knot in his neck is office cosplay: customer-service charm, cultural interpretation, and emotional labour all packaged in one thin piece of cloth. It's LinkedIn, but as a wearable. Look how Ali sets it up. Prolonged opening scenes envelop Harry in chrome and glass, airport terminals, hotel reception areas, tour buses, and areas that ring with transactional greetings and pre‑scripted traveller facts. The tie rides rigid against Adam's Adam's apple, reminding him to swallow his own needs. With every pull to tighten it, it seems more re‑loading of the character he's paid to do rather than grooming. Then Sejal's lost engagement ring sweeps him off‑script. Cue the slow unbuttoning, both literal and figurative. In Amsterdam's back alleys, Berlin's underground clubs, and Lisbon's wind‑slapped cliffs, the tie comes undone, and the camera relaxes right with him: handheld shots, warmer colour grading, and greater apertures that at last allow the guy some oxygen. Harry's collar comes aflutter, his laughter catches him mid‑run, and now the man who "sells romance for a living" is stumbling into the real thing with no surcharge needed. The turning point is when he finally returns home. Barefoot in mud up to his ankles, kurta flying, no necktie in sight, Harry is half feral and fully free. Here, the title's absence isn't simply visual respite; it's an ontological mic drop. He's out of the global hospitality business's costume shop and back into a world where love is cultivated, not commodified, where fields go horizon‑wide and nobody pays you for being authentic. Across these three films, Imtiaz Ali threads the tie as a recurring motif, first as a burden shed (Jab We Met), then as a shackle broken (Tamasha), and finally as a false identity discarded (Jab Harry Met Sejal).
The tie is never just an accessory.
It’s a metaphorical noose that tightens with societal pressure and loosens with self-discovery. And in each narrative, freedom lies not in the grand gestures but in that quiet, almost unnoticeable moment when the character chooses to let go. These visual representations serve as powerful cues, compelling viewers to reflect on the delicate balance between conformity and individuality. Imtiaz Ali’s films, through the symbolism of ties, become a canvas for exploring the complex interplay between societal expectations and the pursuit of personal authenticity, thereby defining the central themes that permeate his cinematic narratives.