Salwars and Shame: The Prevalence of South Asian Rebranding
Aparajita Shimpi is an Indian high school student at Western Reserve Academy. She was born and raised in America, where her South Asian parents immigrated before she was born.
As a 7-year-old, it was easy for others to mock me for the coconut oil in my hair, the kurtas I’d wear in the early elementary school days, the side-eyes of my peers — silent reprimands for not adhering to the norm: polka-dot tights, frilly skirts, and jeans, the absence of a bindi — or, as my peers referred to, ‘that weird dot on my forehead.’ It wasn’t confusing to me, however, that my peers mocked me while judgment crept into their inquiries. I looked and felt out of place — alien.
A.B.C.D. was a label I wore with pride: pride in my identity, pride for my South Asian immigrant parents whose heritage made me desi — until I realized that A.B.C.D. was an acronym for American-born Confused Desi — as if I should be unsure about where my identity lies, as if India and America, or ‘Western culture’, were not just continents but worlds apart. Were I not a living example that both cohesively existed? As something tangible and not confusing?
What confuses me, years later, is the rebranding of my culture as a ‘bohemian’ and ‘hippy’ fashion trend. Comment sections filled with heart-eye emojis as blonde influencers flaunt their ‘two-piece prom dresses’ and ‘Scandinavian scarves,’ when all I received were glances and whispers in hallways until I replaced my salwar kameezes with frocks and floral dresses.
In the summer of 2024, an employee from Bipty (an online fashion rental company that held a popular platform on TikTok) took to the app to address a widespread fashion trend in South Asian culture: the use of a dupatta, often paired with saris and lehengas in Indian clothing. The video depicted white women hanging shawls around their necks and pairing these ‘scarves’ with dresses, similar to how dupattas are worn. “The vibe, the aura; what is it?” the creator asked, calling the look “effortless” and “elegant”; however, the company failed to mention that this so-called “European” elegance was quite literally a dupatta.
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In April 2025, Reformation — a brand known for its eco-conscious messaging and fashion-forward designs — released a set of 20 items in collaboration with influencer and entrepreneur Devon Lee Carlson. The fashion designs in the coordinated skirt-and-top collection included “Vintage prints” and “skinny neck scarves.” The set, featuring bold colors and flowing fabrics, mirrored the aesthetic of South Asian weddings and festive attire. Yet, Reformation marketed the ensemble as “resort wear” and “vacation-ready,” omitting any reference to its cultural resemblance.
Upon seeing the uprising of fashion companies miscrediting South Asian clothing, many South Asian creators voiced their opinions over social media. Maryam Siddiqui, a 25-year-old South-Asian content creator, expressed her sentiments on traditional clothing’s cultural weight. She stated, “Our culture means so much to us. It carries so much weight, the jewelry, the dresses, everything we wear… like, it’s just not a dress.” Following a video by a Bipty employee describing dupattas as “very European,” South Asian TikTokers initiated a trend parodying the mislabeling. They showcased their traditional outfits with captions like “Scandinavian shawl chic,” highlighting the misrepresentation and lack of cultural acknowledgment.
Some claim that non-Desi individuals should not wear attire and fashion that originated in South Asia. ‘My culture is not your costume’ declares that ‘only I can wear the outfits from my culture — under every circumstance’ On the other hand, faceless profile pictures flood comment sections of Instagram and TikTok, claiming that ‘this is such a non-issue’, ‘it’s not that deep,’ and that if South Asian fashion companies can create jeans and skirts without having to credit ‘Westerners,’ then the same applies vice versa. While the second sentiment fails, it is not fair to obstruct others from appreciating or indulging in South Asian clothing, especially when culturally appropriate.
People often say that “fashion is cyclical,” and cultures have always borrowed from one another. This is true — fashion evolves through change. But when this exchange becomes one-sided, and profitable only for the dominant group, it is no longer sharing — it’s erasure. In the early 1900s, designer Paul Poiret introduced “exotic” fashion to Parisian high society, using silhouettes like salwars and accessories like turbans, without acknowledging their South Asian or Muslim roots. In the 1960s and 70s, hippie fashion adopted bindis, kurtas, and wrap skirts as “boho”, while actual desi people wearing that same clothing were labeled “foreign” or “weird.” This same issue exists today with influencers receiving praise for wearing “Scandinavian scarves” and “vacation-ready” outfits, while South Asian children face mockery for wearing their culture. So yes, cultural exchange is real — but misrepresentation isn’t a byproduct of cultural sharing; it’s a byproduct of cultural dominance.
To claim that cultural appropriation in fashion “isn’t that deep” is to erase centuries of meaning woven into the fabric — literally — of South Asian clothing. Traditional garments like the sari, lehenga, and salwar kameez are not just decorative aesthetic choices but rather carry religious, regional, and familial significance. The sari, one of the oldest forms of dress in the world, dates back nearly 5,000 years to the Indus Valley Civilization, worn by women across social echelons — from royalty to farmers — as both a symbol of dignity and cultural identity. The dupatta, a long scarf worn with South Asian outfits, is historically associated with modesty and respect in public spaces — in some traditions, even spirituality. When white influencers strip meaningful attire of its origins, the marketing moves beyond harmless borrowing: it is theft. What’s “deep” is not just the visual beauty of the garment, but the legacy and memory it represents for diasporic communities, many of whom were mocked and marginalized for wearing these same clothes. Claims like “it’s not that deep” silence the pain of cultural erasure and dismiss those who dare to remember.
While it may seem reasonable to claim that Westerners should be able to wear bindis and dupattas just as South Asians wear jeans and t-shirts, this comparison oversimplifies a complex issue that critiques cultural power dynamics. Western clothing has become the ‘norm’ primarily due to colonialism and economic dominance, making it the “default” attire worldwide, while South Asian garment carries deep cultural, religious, and historical significance. Moreover, South Asians wearing Western clothes often do so to blend in or avoid discrimination, while Westerners adopting South Asian clothing frequently commodify and exoticize these traditions, detaching them from their meaning. This is not a matter of equal cultural exchange, but one of unequal power, representation, and respect.
I cannot stay silent when clothes that once made me feel ashamed are only praised when worn by others. I cannot stay silent when centuries of meaning are forgotten in the name of marketability. I cannot stay silent when my cultural heritage is flattened into an aesthetic. I have lived that contradiction — mocked for my difference, only for it to reappear on runways and reels without recognition. This is not about fabric and fashion, it’s about power, memory, and visibility. So make noise, break the silence. And maybe one day, a South Asian girl will smile as she scrolls past a glowing comment section under a photo of someone dressed like her with pride. Because she’ll see herself not rebranded, but respected.
