When A Dupatta Becomes A Scandinavian Scarf — A Case Of Fashion Appropriation, Again?

A few weeks ago, I stumbled across a reel on Instagram that stopped me mid-scroll. A group of women were shown delicately draping colourful shawls over their shoulders — but there was only one problem — the caption declared this was the rise of the ‘Scandinavian scarf’. 

Women attending a friend's wedding in beautiful dresses and a scarf in a picturesque European countryside elegance. 

Except, I wasn’t thinking of Scandinavia and I’m sure so were my fellow brown peeps. I was thinking of my mother, standing in front of the mirror, adjusting the edge of her dupatta before heading to work. I was thinking of Diwali evenings and wedding mornings, hot summer afternoons, and prayer evenings  — moments where the dupatta, in all its printed, embroidered, sequined glory, made its quiet appearance. Because that’s what this so-called ‘Scandinavian scarf’ was. A dupatta. Rebranded, renamed, and stripped of all its roots.

It turned out the video came from Bipty, a fashion rental brand. The backlash was swift and sharp, especially from South Asian women who immediately recognised what had been glossed over: a cultural garment had just been whitewashed in plain sight. The TikTok was eventually deleted, and Bipty’s founder issued an apology admitting that the aesthetic wasn’t European after all, and the naming had been a mistake. But the incident had already struck a nerve.

Because this wasn’t about one scarf. It was about what keeps happening to us, not just around us.

The dupatta is more than a piece of cloth — ask anyone who grew up folding it into school uniforms, borrowing their mother’s silk ones for college farewells, or pinning it just right for religious ceremonies. It’s a garment that carries history, symbolism, and deep cultural memory. But when something so integral to South Asian identity is suddenly called 'Scandinavian'  and showcased exclusively on white bodies,  the message is clear: it’s beautiful when it isn’t brown.

This isn’t the first time that fashion is being whitewashed — not even close. Henna has been rebranded as ‘white ink tattoos,’ bindis have appeared on Coachella runways divorced from their spiritual and cultural meaning, and the kurti has shown up in Western lookbooks as a ‘boho tunic.’ Black culture, too, has seen relentless appropriation: durags have been repackaged as luxury ‘silk hair wraps,’ cornrows turned into ‘boxer braids,’ and hip-hop streetwear aesthetics mined for cool without credit. Entire fashion empires have been built on silhouettes and styles birthed by communities that were once excluded from the industry altogether. It’s a pattern, and it tells us whose culture is allowed to be beautiful, and when.

This just doesn’t fit right!. Not because we’re trying to police who wears what, but because we’ve lived the flip side. Many of us remember being mocked for ‘dressing too Indian,’ or being told to tone it down for job interviews, for airports, for daily life. Brown skin wrapped in cultural fabric was often seen as too much — too colourful, too loud, too foreign. But once that same fabric is decontextualized, flattened, and aestheticized for a Western audience, it’s suddenly minimalist and elegant. Trend-worthy. Scandinavian, even.

And yes, fashion is fluid. It borrows, remixes, evolves — no culture exists in isolation, and no one’s saying it should. But fashion also has a long, well-documented habit of borrowing from brown and Black communities without acknowledgment, without credit, and definitely without inclusion. When a Western brand profits off garments like the dupatta while failing to feature brown models, or even mention the garment’s origin, that’s not appreciation. That’s erasure with good lighting.

In response to the controversy, South Asian creators turned the moment on its head. Videos appeared of women dramatically draping their dupattas and calling them ‘Nordic couture’ or ‘Scandinavian wedding vibes.’ It was funny, yes, but pointed. The sarcasm stung because it spoke to a deeper truth — that our culture becomes fashionable only when it’s removed from us.

Here’s the thing: no one’s saying white women can’t wear dupattas. I don’t believe that culture must be gated or kept rigid. But there’s a difference between cross-cultural admiration and commercial appropriation. Wear it, love it, even 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.

The Bipty scarf story might seem trivial, even accidental. But it’s a reminder of the wider pattern. South Asian aesthetics are often borrowed without credit, monetised without inclusion, and sanitised until they no longer resemble their roots. And if we don’t keep pointing it out, it’ll happen again — not just with dupattas, but with jewellery, patterns, silhouettes, languages.

This isn’t about gatekeeping. It’s about remembering. Because if we forget where things come from, someone else will always rename them, and claim them as their own.