I’m an international student from India, and I love pop culture, writing, and overanalyzing the media I consume. But sometimes, the media I love doesn’t love me or my culture back in the same way. Growing up in India, fashion wasn’t something I intellectualized. It just was.
It was the dupatta my mom would drape over her shoulders before leaving the house, the same one I would steal as a kid to wrap around myself while dancing to Bollywood songs in my living room. It was the soft jingle of ghungroos tied around my ankles during Kathak classes, each bell marking rhythm, discipline, and tradition. It was the Kolhapuri chappals my grandfather wore daily; simple, durable, and deeply tied to where he’s from. None of it felt like “fashion.” It felt like home. So imagine my confusion when I started seeing these same pieces, my pieces, rebranded on global stages.
It’s not just about the outfit itself, it’s about the complete lack of understanding of what they’re actually wearing. Recently, Kendall Jenner, Hailey Bieber and Gracie Abrams were styled in looks that were, quite literally, variations of a salwar kameez paired with a dupatta. But instead of being recognized for what it is, it was framed as some kind of new, high-fashion silhouette. What gets lost in that rebrand is how deeply rooted and versatile this style already is. Across India, the salwar kameez is worn and styled in countless ways depending on region, culture, and occasion.
Whether it’s a simple cotton suit for everyday wear, a heavily embroidered set for weddings, or a fusion style that blends modern and traditional elements. It’s not a singular “look,” it’s a living, evolving part of everyday life. And for so many of us, this isn’t something we discovered on a runway, it’s something we grew up seeing everywhere, especially in Bollywood. From the chiffon dupattas flowing in the wind in Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge to the vibrant, playful suits in Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham, this silhouette has been iconic for generations, shaped by actresses who defined style long before it was ever labeled as “trendy” in Western fashion spaces.
That’s the part that stings the most. Not just the borrowing, but the erasure that comes with it. In recent years, South Asian creators, especially on platforms like TikTok have been increasingly vocal about this frustration. Watching elements of our culture go viral, only to be stripped of context and credit, feels like déjà vu. Major fashion houses, from Prada to Dior, have faced criticism for incorporating Indian textiles, silhouettes, and craftsmanship into their collections without meaningful recognition or collaboration.
But what makes this even more frustrating is that South Asian designers have already been doing this work and doing it brilliantly. Designers like Manish Malhotra have spent decades shaping how Indian fashion is seen globally, blending traditional craftsmanship with modern silhouettes in a way that still feels rooted in culture. Gaurav Gupta’s sculptural, avant-garde designs have pushed Indian couture onto international runways in ways that feel innovative without losing their cultural DNA. These designers aren’t “discovering” Indian fashion, they are the ones who have been building, preserving, and evolving it all along.
So when Western brands replicate similar aesthetics without credit, it doesn’t feel like inspiration, it feels like skipping over the very people who paved the way. At the same time, I’ve also seen a completely different, much more empowering side of this conversation, especially in spaces like Coachella.
Seeing South Asian women go all out at festivals, embracing lehengas, dupattas, bindis, bangles, and intricate jewelry in bold, creative ways feels incredibly powerful. It’s not about dilution or rebranding, it’s about ownership. It’s about wearing our culture loudly, unapologetically, and on our own terms. There’s something so special about watching girls who grew up like me turn pieces of their heritage into expressions of confidence and individuality.
That feels like reclamation, not appropriation. Because let’s be honest, this conversation isn’t about gatekeeping culture. It’s about who gets to wear it freely, who gets credited for it, and who gets celebrated for it. For years, wearing traditional South Asian clothing in Western spaces has been met with questions, stares, or subtle ridicule. It’s been seen as “too much,” “too ethnic,” or “costumey.” But the moment it’s worn by someone with the “right” kind of influence or aesthetic, it becomes aspirational.
That shift isn’t appreciation, it’s selective validation.
The dupatta is not just a styling accessory. It carries cultural, historical, and emotional weight. The ghungroos I wore weren’t just decorative, they are tied to an entire art form. Kolhapuri chappals aren’t just “minimalist sandals”, they represent generations of craftsmanship. These pieces are not trends. They are lived experiences. And that’s why it feels personal. Because when I see these items stripped of their meaning and rebranded for mass consumption, I don’t just see cultural exchange, I see a version of my identity being repackaged in a way that excludes the people it belongs to. Culture isn’t an aesthetic you can borrow for a weekend and mine was never up for rebranding.
