It is a hot summer day in Rajasthan; the sun is blazing, and the dust in the streets swirls under your feet. You walk through the bylanes of a small village, where women are clad in beautiful bandhani sarees, their hair slicked back with scented oil, hands stacked with bangles made of glass, ears adorned with exquisite silver jhumkas, and odhanis gently draped over their heads. In a small cluster of houses belonging to a family, you see karigars, both old and young, sitting at hand looms, the older ones teaching the younger ones.

They weave every thread; you see them embroider every design, every stitch, every bead on the garment. A few meters ahead, you see a small shop where a man well in his 60s rolls out a beautiful bangle out of molten glass. His technique is so flawless, you know he has been doing this all his life. This is his heritage.

Intrigued by this craft, you purchase a set of bangles from his shop. Yet when the time comes to show the world the beauty and history, you label it as your "perfect ethnic bracelet stack." You don't credit the artisans whose lives have been intertwined with this very craft. This isn't innocent appreciation—it's cultural amnesia.

The stories and legacies rarely make it outside these villages and towns. The crafts get stripped of context, romance, and credit. Turned into trends, paired perfectly for the aesthetics of a feed, their history lost in bylanes where they were born.

A while ago, I came across a skirt by a well-known European brand. The skirt was being marketed as "boho-chic." While there was no problem with the label itself—as "boho" does in fact originate from "Bohemian," a European subculture—it is the array of Indian crafts and prints that are commonly miscategorized and marketed under this vague umbrella term. They’re then described as "exotic", "nomadic", or even "ethnic", erasing the origins and true history that have always been deeply rooted in South Asian traditions.

As fashion evolves and new trends emerge on our screens in what feels like a matter of seconds, we forget to open a conversation surrounding their origins. How often do we pause and ask, "What is the history behind this?" "Who are the people behind this art?

With the rise of social media and ease of digital accessibility, we have entered a limbo of never-ending content. Influencers are churning out "new" images and videos, dictating trends, and claiming aesthetics on the daily. Brands also hop onto this bandwagon, and everything becomes a "vibe," a "moment," or even a "core." But when these so-called fashion influencers and brands—especially in the West that are predominantly targeted at Eurocentric beauty ideals—start to market and rebrand South Asian clothing, styles, and accessories to fit their narrative of "never-seen-before"—we "enter a form of digital colonization.

Take "The Scandinavian Scarf," which went incredibly viral for being the perfect accessory to a flowy dress. Eerily similar to the concept of a dupatta or an odhani, yet when worn by South Asian women, it was seen as oppressive and regressive. When called out to give credit, the excuse offered was ""modesty"—quite ironic if I say so myself.

Then came the perfect "Euro summer co-ord," a long, flowy top with wide-legged pants. Sound familiar? It's because it's a Westernized version of a Salwar Kameez. Once again, when pressed to acknowledge the origin of the style, the designer had never before seen a salwar suit. A poor excuse in 2025 when all the information in the world lives in the palm of your hand. How convenient.

Not to mention the trend of vague credits through tags like "made with love in India," which is a thinly veiled gesture of recognition. While the garments are indeed made with "love", it isn't enough credit to the karigars and artisans who work tirelessly and whose communities, histories, and heritage are being erased just to fit an aesthetic on someone's social feed.

But this erasure isn't new; it has long prevailed since the British colonial rule. South Asian textiles, fabrics, weaves, patterns, and embroidery were once shipped off to the West to be turned into garments for aristocrats and royalty. Global fashion has long profited from the labor and talent of South Asian artisans. What we are witnessing today is merely a new iteration of the same colonial pattern—this time in the form of digital exploitation, where craftsmanship continues to be exported, stripped of its context, and repackaged to appease Western standards.

More recently, I came across a video of a Caucasian "vintage" reseller marketing a "Y2K beaded maxi skirt"—while in actuality, it was a hand-embroidered lehenga from the early 2000s. It is no longer an option to turn a blind eye to this ignorance, guised as innocence.

This isn't just about the clothes or the textiles or crafts; it is also about ritualistic practices. It's about how, for centuries, brown women have prioritized self-care in the form of oiling their hair, braiding and pinning it into sleek styles, yet we are the ones labeled dirty, and on a white body it is the "clean girl aesthetic" (the irony writes itself).

Our jhumkas—their danglers.

Our bangles—their bracelet stack.

Our lehengas—their two-piece gowns.

For years, it has been dismissed as "too much", "too tacky" on brown bodies, yet it's a refreshing aesthetic when rebranded in beige. Welcome to couture gentrification.

A few weeks ago, Alia Bhatt, a globally well-recognized actress, graced the Cannes carpet. She wore a custom-made Gucci saree, adorned with Swarovski crystals —a stunning fusion of a traditional Indian silhouette with European luxury. A moment that left the world in awe. Yet, Gucci referred to the ensemble as a "gown," subtly stripping it of its identity. Framing it as such gives the illusion that it is a novel creation; it erases the heritage, craft, and cultural weight of the saree, which has been upheld for generations. When even global luxury houses fail to acknowledge the origins of the style and instead cloak them in glamour, it forces us to ask: Is this true inclusivity or just aesthetic colonization labelled as couture?

The truth is, we would love to share. South Asia is a melting pot of cultures, crafts, and traditions. The world deserves to witness the beauty and the richness of our crafts, textiles, jewelry, and rituals --- not when they are repackaged to be palatable to the West, not when double standards are applied to the very people who live and breathe these practices, but when the appreciation is shown with intention, context, and acknowledgment.

Fashion can be global—but only when its histories are celebrated and the labour is rightfully acknowledged.