echo Ever heard of ‘chai tea latte’? Or colour run? Farah earrings? Christian Yoga? Beaded and embroidered tops? Scandinavian scarves? There’s a high possibility of having heard of at least one of these even in mere passing. Ever truly wondered where all these immensely trending aesthetics of lifestyle originated from?
‘Chai tea latte’, which literally translates to ‘tea tea latte’. Tea means chai in Hindi and was promoted as an exotic drink by making it sound fancy without completely comprehending the meaning of it. Colour run basically means the Holi Festival, celebrated by Hindus in North India. Farah earrings are basically jhumkas or jimikkis – traditional Indian earrings that are being marketed as another urban and trendy item to wear. South Asian clothing has also been the height of fashion recurringly – which we’ll take a deeper dive into later in this article.
The Western narrative on how South Asians are has led to many ridiculous assumptions, most of which have become abundantly clear on social media, such as that every single South Asian knows of each other and how other South Asian countries besides India – Pakistan, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, Bhutan, the Maldives, Nepal – are generally sidelined, when they deserve equal recognition as well. There’s also a widely known misconception that South Asians have low-income jobs, when in reality, there are South Asians from all walks of life, ranging from an astronaut to a farmer, or politicians and CEOs of multinational companies.
As of late, South Asian traditions and culture have been adopted by non-South Asians, particularly in America and Europe, as chic and cool ‘aesthetics’. They are considered an exotic novelty without truly appreciating the culture from which it originated. In simple words, it is cultural appropriation. Concurrently, this has also given rise to an alarming amount of South Asian hate on social media, with social media users disrespecting and degrading the people, culture, traditions, and practices observed for centuries.
Now, take a seat back as we break down the forms of South Asian cultural appropriation and how to genuinely respect and appreciate them instead.
FASHION
South Asian cultural appropriation in fashion is a complex and increasingly eye-opening topic, as traditional clothing, accessories, and beauty practices from the region are being adapted to mainstream Western aesthetics without proper credits, respect, or understanding of the cultural significance. Items such as sharara and lehnga, which hold deep cultural roots and are traditionally worn at weddings, festivals, and religious ceremonies, are often reduced to exotic costumes or trendy party outfits. This has been popularly labelled as a “Scandinavian outfit”, removing any acknowledgement of its South Asian heritage. Big companies such as H&M and Oh Polly have begun marketing these so-called Scandinavian outfits that resemble South Asian cultural outfits such as the Shalwar Kameez.
These garments are rich in symbolism and craftsmanship. They are often passed down through generations and painstakingly hand-embroidered with beads and intricate patterns. A perfect example of the manpower needed for these designs is Alia Bhatt’s 2024 Met Gala outfit, which took approximately 1,965 hours to create and 163 craftsman embroidery workers to make.
When high-fashion designers or influencers replicate these styles for the sake of trendiness, without acknowledging their origins or engaging with the culture, they contribute to the commodification of South Asian identity. Similarly, accessories like the so-called “bohemian” Farah earrings, often marketed as eclectic or free-spirited, are inspired by traditional South Asian jewellery that carries historical and cultural weight. These pieces, once seen as ethnic or even outdated, are suddenly deemed fashionable when worn by Western figures, highlighting a double standard.
Another example is the use of the Scandinavian scarf that is styled in several ways that undoubtedly mimics the dupatta or the hijab – items that are often stigmatised when worn by South Asian or Middle Eastern women, thus rebranded as chic or minimalist when adopted by fashion influencers. This selective appreciation, where aesthetics are celebrated while the people behind it are marginalised or criticised, is a core issue in cultural appropriation. Furthermore, the “clean girl aesthetic”, which has surged in popularity on social media, is another example. This look is defined by glowing skin, sleek hair, subtle make-up and delicate gold jewelry, which undoubtedly overlaps with South Asian beauty traditions that have long emphasised natural skin care, hair oiling, and the use of elegant adornments. These practices that were once considered too ethnic in Western beauty standards, are now praised when rebranded without the acknowledgement of their roots.
Lastly, henna, a form of body art with centuries of cultural and religious significance in South Asian, Middle Eastern, and North African communities, has been widely appropriated in Western contexts, particularly at music festivals and bohemian-themed events. Originally used in weddings and festivals like Diwali and Eid, henna is often treated as a temporary tattoo or exotic decoration, completely detaching it from its spiritual and celebratory meanings. This trivialisation not only disrespects the tradition but also commodifies a deeply meaningful practice to the cultures from which it originates. The widespread use of these culturally rich items in Western fashion without proper credit or cultural sensitivity reinforces colonial patterns of extraction and exploitation, where elements of non-Western cultures are taken and profited from, while the communities themselves continue to face discrimination, stereotyping, or invisibility.
LIFESTYLE
1. Holi Without the Holy
Holi, the Hindu festival of colours, is many things: a vibrant celebration of spring, a victory lap for good over evil, and an open invitation to throw powdered pigment at your cousin without consequence. It’s messy, sacred, mythologically loaded, and extremely not brought to you by Red Bull. As South Asian communities have migrated across the globe, they have brought Holi with them, sharing its beauty and spirit with others through local festivals and cultural gatherings. It carries cultural weight, tied to stories of gods like Krishna, the burning of the demoness Holika, and the renewal of love, life, and extremely stained kurtas.
Then along came the Colour Run™, a 5K marathon where participants pay real money to run through clouds of colour, dressed in all white like the world’s most determined laundry detergent commercial. Despite its visual and experiential similarities, the event rarely, if ever, acknowledges Holi or its cultural origins. The joyful and spiritual rituals of Holi are extracted and used for entertainment and profit, completely stripping them of their sacred context. In simpler terms, Holi got gentrified, and it wasn’t even invited to the board meeting.
And the irony? The communities to whom Holi actually belongs often face noise complaints, zoning restrictions, or cultural scrutiny when they celebrate it authentically. Yet the Colour Run — loud, public, and inexplicably sponsored by yoghurt brands — sails on by, blissfully unbothered by such concerns. Because apparently when powdered pigment is deployed by a multinational events company, it’s “fun”, but when it’s used in a religious context by South Asians, it’s “disruptive”.
When people participate in the Colour Run without understanding or acknowledging its roots, they unknowingly contribute to the erasure of the culture it draws from. Holi is not merely about throwing coloured powder; it is a celebration tied to stories of gods and goddesses, of moral triumphs, and of centuries-old customs that hold deep meaning for millions of people. To separate the colour-throwing from its cultural and religious foundations is to commodify a tradition that was never meant to be consumed in this way. Unfortunately, the communities to whom Holi belongs are often the ones who face stereotyping, misunderstanding, and exclusion while their culture is repackaged and sold back to the public as trendy or exotic.
Some may argue that the Colour Run is simply inspired by Holi and that its goal—to promote health, fun, and charity—spins a positive story. However, inspiration without education or acknowledgement still borders on appropriation. Appreciation would require the Colour Run organisers to honour the origins of the event, perhaps by collaborating with South Asian communities, sharing the history and meaning of Holi, and ensuring that the representation is respectful and accurate. Without these elements, the event remains a shallow imitation, one that prioritises aesthetics over authenticity
2. ‘‘Namast’ay’’ Appropriating
Yoga, an ancient practice deeply rooted in Indian philosophy and spirituality, has in recent years become a global wellness trend. Touted for its benefits on physical and mental health, yoga classes have flourished in studios, gyms, and online platforms across the Western world. While today’s global wellness market cheerfully peddles yoga as a stretchy shortcut to inner peace and outer abs, the practice actually originates from ancient Indian philosophy, where the ultimate goal was moksha —spiritual liberation— not mastering crow pose on a paddleboard.
This modern shift, though perhaps well-intentioned by some Western practitioners, reflects a broader pattern of cultural appropriation dressed in Lululemon. What Indian sages once pursued through years of disciplined meditation and ethical living, Becky from Studio 5 now claims to achieve in 45 minutes — complete with a filtered selfie and a caption saying “vibesss”.
Now yoga has become a 90-billion-dollar industry, featuring everything from chakra-themed smoothies to luxury yoga retreats where enlightenment costs extra for ocean views. The sacred practice that once prioritised detachment from the material world now comes with a five-piece athleisure starter pack and a free trial for a mindfulness app.
The Western appropriation of yoga is perhaps best exemplified by the proliferation of phrases like “Namast’ay in bed” — a pun that arguably offends both Sanskrit scholars and humourists alike. In many modern classes, Sanskrit terms are pronounced with the confidence of someone who once watched Eat Pray Love and decided that was sufficient linguistic training. The deeper philosophical and spiritual dimensions of yoga are often either ignored or reduced to inspirational wall decals (“Breathe deeply”, “Live your truth”) sold at your local wellness boutique for $39.99.
There’s also the small matter of inclusivity. Despite yoga’s universal origins, many Western spaces have unintentionally (or sometimes very intentionally) created environments that cater to a narrow demographic: predominantly white, thin, able-bodied individuals with disposable income. Ironically, the people who could perhaps benefit most from yoga — individuals navigating stress, trauma, disability, or economic hardship — are often priced or pushed out of the practice entirely.
Adding to the problem are crash-course teacher training programmes that produce certified instructors faster than one can say Trikonasana. Some are deeply devoted, well-studied practitioners who honour the traditions they teach. However, these latter-day gurus might know their way around a sun salutation, but less so the Bhagavad Gita. Teaching yoga is more than guiding people into poses—it requires transmitting a mindset of compassion, self-reflection, and connection to something greater than oneself. When instructors lack this depth, the essence of yoga becomes diluted and distorted.
Ironically, this westernised version of yoga has made its way back to India, creating a strange reversal of cultural influence. In some yoga schools in India, the majority of trainees are Westerners, and local participation is sparse. The commercialisation and global popularity of yoga could be seen as a modern form of cultural colonialism, where the practice is taken, rebranded, and profited from, often without acknowledgement of or benefit to the communities it originated from.
3. Apparently ‘Chai’ Alone Wasn’t Pretentious Enough
In the ever-evolving global marketplace of culture, language often becomes the first casualty. Nowhere is this more evident than in the popular yet ill-named beverage: the “chai tea latte”. What appears, on the surface, to be an innocuous menu item is, in fact, a linguistic misfire and a cultural faux pas all in one foamy cup.
To begin with, the phrase “chai tea” is tautological. The word chai (चाय) originates from Hindi and translates quite simply to “tea.” Thus, “chai tea” is the semantic equivalent of saying “tea tea”. The addition of “latte” borrowed from Italian, meaning “milk”, only furthers the confusion. What the term seeks to denote is spiced milk tea, a traditional Indian preparation involving black tea, milk, sugar, and an array of spices such as ginger, cardamom, and cloves. What it delivers, instead, is a redundant and westernised rendering that obscures both meaning and origin.
More than a lexical error, this misnomer reveals a broader tendency within Western consumer culture: the aesthetic borrowing of cultural elements without contextual understanding. Chai, in India, is not a seasonal trend or an exotic novelty. It is a daily routine that anchors mornings, punctuates conversations, and binds generations. It is not uncommon for entire households to revolve briefly around its preparation, each step a quiet act of precision: the simmering of tea dust, the swirl of milk, the careful infusion of spices, all combining in a drink that is far more than the sum of its parts.
This tradition is intimate and intergenerational. For many families, chai is not merely consumed — it is lived. It is present in the quiet moments before work, in the bustling chatter of guests arriving unannounced, and in the hands of elders who have prepared it for decades without ever measuring a single ingredient. To simplify this tradition into a syrup-based, mass-produced drink in a 60-ounce cup is to erase its nuance, flattening a rich cultural practice into something commercially digestible and linguistically disfigured.
Of course, cultural exchange is neither new nor inherently harmful. Cross-cultural appreciation can be profoundly enriching when approached with humility and intent. The issue arises when that appreciation devolves into appropriation, when traditions are cherry-picked, renamed, and rebranded for convenience or novelty. In such instances, cultural elements become disconnected from their roots and reduced to trend-driven commodities.
The “chai tea latte” is emblematic of this phenomenon. It is not offensive in the overt sense, but it is emblematic of a quiet, pervasive carelessness. It is a reminder that language shapes perception, and perception, in turn, shapes respect. When we fail to name things properly, we fail to engage with them authentically.
Correcting this is not an exercise in cultural gatekeeping. It is an invitation to be precise, to be curious, and to acknowledge that behind every tradition repurposed for Western palates lies a history worth understanding. If one wishes to drink chai, then by all means, drink chai. Enjoy its warmth and the comfort, but call it what it is. No unnecessary adornment. No semantic excess.
4. When Curry Gets a Passport and a British Accent
Chicken Tikka Masala: a dish so tangled in identity crises, it should come with a free therapy session. Declared by former British Foreign Secretary Robin Cook as “a true British national dish”, Chicken Tikka Masala is now more British than the Queen’s corgis—though, like most things historically celebrated by the British, it didn’t actually originate there.
Chicken Tikka Masala is, in essence, grilled marinated chicken chunks swimming in a rich, mildly spiced tomato cream sauce. It’s a product of nostalgia, adaptation, and the perpetual hustle of immigrant chefs trying to please foreign palates while holding onto culinary roots. But to call it British is like calling pizza a Texan dish because someone once added barbecue sauce to it in Austin.
The roots of Chicken Tikka Masala, much like the British Empire’s history with the Indian subcontinent, are tangled and contradictory. There are tales of a Pakistani chef in Glasgow improvising with a can of tomato soup to appease a grumpy customer who found his chicken “too dry”. Then there’s the Bangladeshi theory, suggesting that restaurant owners across the UK tweaked traditional recipes to woo local diners unaccustomed to the full-throttle heat of desi cuisine. But one thing’s certain, it didn’t sprout from British soil. No grandmother in Yorkshire was stirring garam masala into her gravy boat during the Blitz.
Ali Ahmed Aslam: One of The Brains behind Chicken Tikka Masala
Let’s also acknowledge the linguistic irony. “Tikka” is Persian via Urdu. “Masala” is pure Hindi. Slap those together, and suddenly the dish is as British as James Bond in a turban. You don’t need a PhD in postcolonial studies to see the absurdity.
What this illustrates, in academic terms, is not so much cultural synthesis as it is culinary performance. To frame Chicken Tikka Masala as British is to ignore the lived experiences of immigrant chefs, the historical weight of empire, and the deeply rooted flavours of Indian cuisine. It’s performative multiculturalism at its most simmered—where inclusion is claimed symbolically but not structurally. Britain may have adopted the dish, but the creators of it were still often relegated to the margins—underpaid, overlooked, and frequently misunderstood.
And yet, the British government proudly declared it their “national dish”. Not tea, which they also didn’t invent. Not fish and chips, which—spoiler alert—came from Portuguese Jews. No, they chose the one thing that reminds everyone of their colonial “summer vacation” in South Asia.
In this light, Chicken Tikka Masala becomes less a dish and more a metaphor: a spoonful of appropriation sugar-coated in curry sauce. Its Britishness is not organic but curated and constructed through decades of imperial entitlement, commercial savvy, and a profound ability to rename other people’s things (see also: “French fries” becoming “chips”). It is, after all, easier to digest a curry if you don’t have to chew on its colonial context.
Declaring it a national dish may be intended as a symbol of inclusivity, but it risks becoming a culinary PR stunt. It allows Britain to pat itself on the back for “embracing diversity” without addressing the systemic racism faced by the very communities that brought this dish to its shores.
Moreover, the performance extends beyond food. One can’t help but note the frequency with which brown-skinned chefs are celebrated on cooking shows, while brown-skinned citizens are scrutinised in immigration queues. You can love our food, but can you love us too? This is not to say that Chicken Tikka Masala is unworthy of celebration. It is delicious. It is comforting. It has helped many a Brit survive winter nights and questionable pub choices. But to slap a Union Jack on it and call it native cuisine is not appreciation—it’s appropriation, served hot with a side of historical amnesia.
The infamous Western Vloggers
One of the key Western narratives that has definitely skewed the perception of South Asian countries is entitled foreign tourists, who truly seem to believe that anything and anyone is completely beneath them. Now, no one is holding them by the throat to go and visit these countries; they simply choose to do so.
Youtuber Benjamin Rich complaining about India in a rural area, as seen in the background
Oddly, they seem to insist on visiting the poorest, dirtiest part of a city or country they visit instead of going to the usual tourist spots. Then, they proceed to insist on trying out street food that is meant for the lower class of people living there. Subsequently, complaining about the hygiene and quality of food, instead of dining at the five-star restaurant or hotel, which they could clearly afford.
Personally, it should be fair knowledge to do one’s research before deciding to travel to a country. And, it needs to be comprehended that not every single place on planet Earth operates the same as one’s own country. Particularly South Asian countries, which are rich with cultures, traditions, and beliefs spanning across generations. However absurd and uncomfortable their practices seem to be, basic human decency requires one to approach them with respect.
Marching through a foreign country and demanding to be treated like royalty while condemning the people who are doing their utmost to make ends meet, just because one is from a supposedly more progressive country, does not give them the right to behave so. For example, the video below shows a man trying to check in to a hotel in India and complaining, ‘I’m so sick of this country, and I’ve got no place to stay,’ when the receptionist clearly states that the hotel does not have a Form C to operate businesses which allow foreign customers.
Link to video with explanation
With all the other available hotels that accept foreigners, why would he not do proper research and simply find a more comfortable hotel? As mentioned earlier, no one is having them by the throat to endure a difficult stay instead of enjoying a true tourist experience that they could clearly afford.
Coming across a foreigner, particularly in rural areas of South Asian countries which foreign vloggers deliberately visit, would probably seem as a novelty for those living there. While the gawking and constant request for pictures would definitely be off-putting, it isn’t a particularly isolated situation for only South Asian countries. In this video, a tourist in China is asked for pictures as well, but why is it treated and publicised in a completely different manner from earlier?
This does not support the illogical argument of wanting to explore the ‘local experience’. In fact, it is deliberately choosing to visit a country not of your own and going to extreme lengths to degrade it. That is not to say that South Asian countries are perfect. Yes, safety is of utmost importance, but that applies anywhere. What needs to be understood is that every part of the world or country has its own set of downsides and upsides. However, the Western narrative has always chosen to portray the most unnecessarily upsetting forms of South Asian society.
With all that said, there are foreign tourists who genuinely know how to appreciate the culture when they visit these countries. These countries are rich and abundant in culture, with the people not shying away from them and staying resolute in their beliefs. It is quite funny when there are endless beautiful attractions in each of these countries, yet they choose to suffer.
Kerala, India
What South Asians find oddly bizarre is that the people who are more often than not extremely disrespectful and racist towards their culture and traditions are the very same ones who choose to enjoy ‘chai tea lattes’ before they head to their ‘yoga’ class and rave about the ‘Scandinavian scarf’ they bought along with the matching ‘bead embroidered top and skirt’.
Conclusion
Ultimately, the uncritical appropriation of cultural practices without acknowledgement or understanding reflects a broader pattern of systemic imbalance—one where dominant cultures extract value while marginalised communities are silenced or excluded. This is not a benign exchange but a replication of historical hierarchies under the guise of celebration. Appreciation doesn’t mean slapping a namaste on a scented candle or rebranding trauma as dinner party chic. It means sitting with the discomfort, acknowledging the roots, and maybe, just maybe, accepting that not everything needs to be rebranded, renamed, or resold. If we keep mistaking appropriation for inclusivity, we’re not evolving—we’re just colonising with better lighting. True appreciation demands accountability, contextual awareness, and a willingness to engage with the origins. Without this, what is framed as inclusion becomes merely a performance—superficial, selective, and comfortably distanced from the structures it claims to challenge.
Written by: Alishbah, Poorani and Ruby
Edited by: Tisyha
