Desi Designs, Western Labels

Kolhapuri chappals, salwar-kameez, dupattas, and Patiala pants all have one thing in common - beyond being classic ‘desi’ fashion staples - they’ve each been appropriated, rebranded, and sold as bespoke pieces in Western fashion under entirely different names and contexts.

The Kolhapuri chappal, a heritage leather craft dating back to the 12th century, was thrust into the global spotlight in June 2025 when Prada showcased sandals strikingly similar to these traditional shoes at Milan Fashion Week. Priced at Rs 1.2 lakh ($ 2,300 NZD approx), the designs were presented without acknowledging their Indian origin, the artisans behind them, or their cultural significance. The chappals, which originate from Maharashtra and Karnataka and hold a GI (Geographical Indication) tag since 2019, are handmade and deeply rooted in local identity. In India, they are priced at anything from as low at $ 10 NZD (Rs 500 approx.)

In response to Prada’s presentation, a group of lawyers filed a Public Interest Litigation (PIL) in the Bombay High Court, arguing that Prada’s use of a GI-protected design constituted a violation of intellectual property rights. As the controversy gained momentum, Prada issued a statement acknowledging the sandals’ origins and expressing willingness for a “meaningful dialogue” with Indian artisans. Subsequently, their team visited Kolhapur to meet the craftspeople and learn about the production process.

In India, the Kolhapuri Chappals are priced at anything from as low at $ 10 NZD (Rs 500 approx.)

This incident was thoroughly documented by the Indian media. One report that stood out was by journalists Devina Sengupta and Soumya Gupta in their piece for Mint, “Before Prada Wore Kolhapuris…”. In a follow-up to the report, Soumya wrote a behind-the-scenes account for Mint’s newsletter. In it, she described how Devina traversed Maharashtra’s winding ghats to reach Kolhapur and speak with artisans and their families.

Their deeply reported story stands out as one of the comprehensive journalistic accounts following the controversy.

But not all instances of fashion appropriation receive this level of attention. Many surface briefly in online discourse, then fade away. Take, for instance, when the South Asian social media space was abuzz with women styling the humble dupatta as a “Scandinavian scarf.” This everyday garment, commonly worn across South Asia, was suddenly presented as a chic European fashion discovery. Worn at weddings and styled as a novel accessory, it was the fashion trend of the season—yet entirely divorced from its origins.

A dupatta is a long piece of cloth worn with salwar-kameez or lehenga-choli—traditional attire for women across South Asia. It holds cultural, religious, and even institutional significance, often worn over the head during rituals or as part of uniforms. But the 'Scandinavian Scarf' missed mentioning that and the social media took notice.

Like this one in the image is a screenshot of a meme by a Instagram handle @hashtagconnectindia - it takes a dig on the trend by showing a Bollywood actress donning the attire that was dubbed as Scandinavian. The twist is that the clip is from an old Bollywood movie, way before the attire was discovered by the Western Fashion gurus. Many reels similar to this went viral on TikTok and Instagram that spoke out about the appropriation.

In an essay for Elle, Anamm Inamdar described this trend as more than just fabric — it reflects fashion’s ongoing pattern of rebranding brown and Black aesthetics through a whitewashed lens. She adds that when a garment rooted in South Asian identity is relabelled as ‘Scandinavian’ and modelled solely on white bodies, the underlying message seems to be: it becomes desirable only when removed from brown skin.

Beyond Kolhapuris and dupattas, many other traditional garments and accessories have been lifted from their cultural contexts. The sari is rebranded as a “wrap gown,” while Patiala pants and dhotis are turned into “harem pants” or “drop-crotch couture.” Maang tikkas become “festival forehead chains,” and naths are marketed as septum piercings. Gajras—once symbols of festivity and devotion—are worn as “floral hair halos” at weddings and music festivals. Even the bindi, a deeply symbolic mark, is used as decorative face gems by influencers without a second thought.

Textile arts are equally vulnerable. Mirrorwork from Gujarat, kantha from Bengal, bandhani from Rajasthan, phulkari from Punjab, and chikankari from Lucknow often feature in fast fashion under generic labels like “tribal embroidery” or “ethnic threadwork.” Silhouettes of lehengas, angrakhas, and anarkalis are transformed into “maxi skirts,” “empire dresses,” or “asymmetric drapes”—praised for their innovation only after being stripped of identity.

Beyond Kolhapuris and dupattas, many other traditional garments and accessories have been lifted from their cultural contexts. image sourced/amc

Does this mean these garments must be gatekept or that people from other cultures shouldn’t wear them? Not quite. The issue, as Khairiah A. Rahman, Senior Lecturer at the School of Communication Studies, Auckland University of Technology, explains, lies in the intention. She quotes Malaysian designer Shao Fen: “The bottom line is whether a garment can still be recognised as traditional wear by the audience. There are boundaries that shouldn’t be crossed.”

She elaborates, “The difference between appreciation and appropriation lies in why and how something is used. Is the intention to honour the cultural origins, craftsmanship, and meaning of the garment? Or simply to lend exotic flair to a fashion brand? The latter often results in misrepresentation, especially when traditional designs are altered without input from those who inherit and understand these cultural practices or are used to enhance a brand’s image without including or crediting the communities they come from.”

Khairiah Rahman is Senior Lecturer at the School of Communication Studies at AUT where she lectures in intercultural communication and public relations.

Similarly, Inamdar explains in her essay that There’s no suggestion that white women shouldn’t wear dupattas, or that cultures must stay fixed and closed off. The issue lies in the difference between appreciating something cross-culturally and commercially co-opting it. “Wear it, love it, make it your own—but don’t pretend it was born in a Swedish design studio. Don’t erase the hands that passed it down,” she writes.

This is not a uniquely South Asian issue. Indigenous designs and garments across the world have been lifted from their roots and recast for global fashion, often without proper acknowledgment. Many of these communities' aesthetics are adopted, sanitised, and sold, without credit.

This is not a uniquely South Asian issue. Indigenous designs and garments across the world have been lifted from their roots and recast for global fashion, often without proper acknowledgment

From the intricately woven batik of Indonesia and Malaysia - often reduced to "tribal prints" - to Vietnam’s elegant ao dai, reimagined as high-slit gowns, Southeast Asian fashion continues to be borrowed without context. Everyday garments like the sarong, sampot, and lungi, worn across Cambodia, Thailand, Indonesia, and Sri Lanka, frequently feature in resort collections as “wrap skirts.” The kebaya, a traditional lace blouse-dress from Malaysia and Indonesia, is recast as a “vintage top,” and the Barong Tagalog of the Philippines, once a symbol of national pride, appears in formalwear stripped of its meaning.

Further east, the kimono - arguably one of the most widely appropriated garments - is now found in everything, devoid of its ceremonial significance. The Chinese cheongsam/qipao is often sexualised and labelled as a bodycon dress, while elements of the hanbok from Korea are used in K-pop styling with little cultural explanation. Even traditional beauty practices, like thanaka from Myanmar or Kabuki-style makeup from Japan, have been borrowed for editorials without understanding their roots.

Rahman references Debra Hunt’s article in E-Tangata, “Hey, white women: Māori culture is not your birthright,” to ground this conversation in a Kiwi context. Hunt explains that cultural appropriation often occurs when elements of another culture are adopted by dominant groups in ways that dilute or disrespect their meaning and origin. In Aotearoa, she writes, this happens when Pākehā use Māori traditions or language for personal gain, without making the effort to understand or engage with the communities who hold that knowledge.

Rahman concludes, “It comes down to acknowledging the whakapapa, the lineage, of what you're using, and why. Ethical cultural borrowing is possible. It starts with good intentions, inclusive actions, and co-creation with people who carry the knowledge and history of that tradition. Without that, fashion becomes a tool of erasure rather than expression.”

Asia Media Centre