Growing up, I was constantly made fun of for the parts of my culture I attempted to embrace. Wearing mehendi, bringing homemade paratha and aloo sabzi to school, oiling my hair, or even simply not understanding popular American references—I was always met with snide remarks disguised as jokes.
“We’re just kidding.”
“Don’t take it too seriously.”
I heard those phrases far too often. The older I get, the more obvious it becomes that none of it was funny. Those “jokes” were microaggressions perpetuating the stereotypes that we, South Asians, are often boxed into.
I still remember being in seventh grade when bindis and mehendi suddenly became the trend at Coachella. At that time I felt so… validated. For once, my culture was being appreciated. I thought, if these popular influencers are embracing South Asian pieces, then surely I won’t be made fun of anymore.
At that time, I didn’t understand what was really happening. These influencers and celebrities weren’t appreciating South Asian culture—they were appropriating it. They never once acknowledged the South Asian roots that inspired their festival looks. For them, mehendi and bindis were just ‘exotic’ ways to make bold fashion statements.
The brief moment of validation that I once felt has turned into a deep anger. Especially since the appropriation of South Asian culture hasn’t stopped—it’s only gotten worse. In recent years, as the hate towards South Asians has increased, western society has continued to blatantly steal our very popular and traditional pieces without ever admitting where the inspiration came from.
Take the ‘Scandinavian Scarf’ controversy from last year.
For those who aren’t chronically online: a fashion rental company named Bipty posted a TikTok that included pictures of women wearing pastel sundresses with matching dupattas—a long, rectangular scarf worn by South Asian women, often paired with kurtas or lehengas. In the video, the creator describes the vibe of the outfit as, “Very European, effortlessly chic.” The video went viral as thousands of South Asians flooded the comments with rightful anger, correcting the creator. The vibe of the outfit wasn’t European, it was South Asian.
Yet again, a similar controversy has surfaced this past month. This time, it’s Oh Polly and Reformation in the hot seat. A few weeks ago, Oh Polly posted a TikTok featuring a model wearing what they labeled as a “Gaila Convertible Gown,” a two piece set that is clearly inspired by the Sahara suits popular amongst Desi women. Similarly, Reformation did a collaboration with Devon Lee and one of the sets looks like it walked straight off a 90’s Bollywood film.
For weeks, these brands have been called out for stealing South Asian designs, yet just like Bipty, they have remained silent. No apology. Not even any form of acknowledgement. Their silence speaks volumes. It reaffirms that a large part of the western world does not care about South Asians. The message is clear: they don’t care that we feel offended, they don’t care about our opinions, they don’t care about our history—our voice holds no value to them.
The same pastel dupatta look has taken over the current spring fashion. Yet, none of the influencers calling it a “spring 2025 must-have” specify that the scarf they are referring to is actually a dupatta.
Let’s give them the benefit of the doubt. Maybe they genuinely didn’t know. But if that’s the case, why are they deleting comments that try to educate them? Why are they ignoring the hundreds of people telling them the proper term and history behind the clothes they are wearing?
The answer is pretty straightforward: racism.
It’s almost as if admitting that their so-called “European aesthetic” is actually South Asian cheapens the outfit, and ruins the Eurocentric gaze they have curated for themselves.
They want our style, our jewelry, our long, thick hair, and even our golden skin tone. But don’t be mistaken: they don’t want to be us. They don’t even want to be affiliated with us.
A lot of South Asian women say they’re okay with non-South Asians wearing our clothes, as long as it’s done respectfully. That’s fair!
But my hot take is that I’m not okay with it.
Maybe it’s selfish, maybe it’s unpopular, but I do want to gatekeep our culture. Obviously, there’s exceptions like if you’re visiting a South Asian country, or attending your South Asian friend’s wedding. But, if you’re casually wearing our traditional pieces just for the aesthetic, even if you have good intentions, it still bothers me.
I love that others find my cultural clothes to be beautiful, but you can appreciate it without participating. I think hanboks are beautiful, but I’ve never thought to wear one myself. Why? Because it’s not mine to wear! It’s that simple.
Why is this sentiment so hard for others, especially white women, to understand when it comes to South Asian fashion?
Us brown girls are far too used to our culture being mocked and stereotyped. We’re used to hearing racist comments about our food smelling, our traditions being weird, that we’re are unhygienic, and so much more. But, now, the same people who once said these things (and let’s be honest, most of them probably still do) are the ones appropriating our culture.
The same clothes that they once teased us for are now suddenly deemed ‘cool,’ as long as we’re not the ones wearing them. It’s trendy when they do it, but tacky when we do.
And that’s what hurts the most.