Being a diasporic South Asian has given me a complicated relationship with my Desi wardrobe. While my jhumkas and gold jewellery remain sentimental heirlooms behind closed doors, they are “too much” for public spaces. Over the past year, I have noticed something odd: the same clothes I once felt were excessive are now being worn and rebranded by European and Western fashion media.
Brands such as Massimo Dutti have jumped onto the trend, rebranding clothing worn in South Asia for centuries as rustic, boho-chic “dresses” that feel elegant and special. Massimo Dutti’s “Total Look Flowing Tunic Dress,” which appears to have sold out in Canada, was one of the garments in the brand’s recent seasonal collection to face backlash. Other brands, such as Ralph Lauren, have also faced criticism over designs and “embellishments” that appear heavily influenced by Indian clothing and accessories.
Notably, Ralph Lauren’s “Print Cotton Wrap Skirt” bears similarities to Bandhani, a traditional Indian textile technique dating back thousands of years. Bandhani requires fabric to be carefully tied and dyed by hand, creating its distinctive dotted patterns. Yet when similar designs appear in Western fashion, the cultural history behind them can easily disappear, replaced by descriptions such as “bohemian,” “rustic,” or “exotic.”
What makes this particularly frustrating is not simply that Western brands are inspired by South Asian fashion. Cultures have always influenced one another, and fashion itself is built on borrowing, adaptation, and exchange. The problem emerges when that exchange becomes one-sided: when South Asian communities are overlooked while Western brands profit from aesthetics rooted in our culture.
What was once seen as a stigma and a reason for bullying, microaggressions, and racism has now become fashionable when adorned by Western influencers and models. The jhumkas I once hesitated to wear to university can suddenly become a “statement accessory.” The embroidery that was considered excessive can become “luxury craftsmanship.” The silhouettes that made South Asian women feel self-conscious can be repackaged as the latest Western trend.
There is an uncomfortable irony in this transformation. The clothing itself has not changed. What has changed is who is wearing it, how it is being marketed, and who gets to profit from it.
This raises an important question: when does cultural appreciation become commodification? Appreciation involves recognizing where an aesthetic comes from and respecting the people and communities who have preserved it. Commodification, on the other hand, can strip cultural objects of their history and turn them into products that can be sold without acknowledging their origins.
For diasporic South Asians, this distinction can feel especially personal. Many of us have grown up navigating two worlds, sometimes feeling pressure to minimize the parts of our culture that make us stand out. Watching those same cultural markers become fashionable can therefore feel less like recognition and more like a reminder of who was allowed to make our culture “cool” in the first place.
South Asian fashion does not need Western validation to have cultural or artistic value. Our clothes, jewellery, textiles, and craftsmanship have histories that existed long before they appeared on Western runways or in influencer wardrobes. If Western fashion continues to draw inspiration from them, the least it can do is acknowledge where that inspiration comes from, and recognize the communities that have carried these traditions forward.