Mehndi (also known as a henna) is a fundamental aspect of culture woven into the aesthetic fabric of every South Asian girl’s life. From an early age, we are dressed with the brown paste across our hands (and occasionally feet) anytime there is an event of cultural significance. Whether we are celebrating Eid, Holli, or Navaratri, it is an integral part of our traditional wardrobe. 

In recent years, the discussions surrounding cultural appropriation have become louder and more nuanced. Although the conversation is crucial for many cultures when considering systems of oppression, I can’t help but wonder if some of the anger may be displaced.

Back in 2019, I had an art portfolio due where 10-12 pieces of various media had to be included. For the sake of representing my culture in a creative light, my request to include mehndi in a piece was approved. I chose to feature the hands of my best friend, who happens to be of Chinese descent. When I asked her to model, she responded with a mix of excitement and uncertainty as she admired the art but feared culturally appropriating. Confused but understanding, I accepted her concern and began searching for a South Asian model instead to avoid the ordeal. Later that night, I shared the situation with my mom, assuming she could help me with my model search. To my surprise, she was confused. My mother is an ethics researcher who specialises in studying the cultural reasons as to why systems of oppression exist. Naturally, I thought she’d understand my concern, but she didn’t; she actually strongly disagreed.

“Women are already so divided,” she told me. “Why would you want to divide them further?”

Now, there are many ways to interpret the art, from signs of fertility to measures of love. For my mother, mehndi wasn’t just art; it was a form of connection between women. A way to exist in and embrace the shared experience of femininity. The same way girls get together to paint their nails and braid their hair, it's a simple yet precious journey.

Her perspective resonated with me deeply. I look up to my mother for her love and respect for our culture; if she doesn’t have this liming mindset, then why should I? As I reflected on my own experiences, it all began to click. Mehndi was first introduced into my life through moments I shared exclusively with my mom, not my brothers or dad. At family weddings, during the Mehndi ceremony—a South Asian equivalent of a bridal shower—it was the women, often from various backgrounds, who gathered to celebrate, their hands and feet decorated with intricate designs. At my city’s heritage festival, I saw long lines of women waiting outside the Pakistani pavilion waiting to have their hands adorned with beautiful henna. These women weren’t all from the same race or culture, but they all participated in the art. Our mothers made the effort to pass down the art to us daughters, knowing that it could be so easily lost growing up in a western country. They want us to spread the tradition and keep it alive, not hide it just for ourselves.

Of course, this point of view on this very specific aspect of a single culture does not mean the anger infused into the discourse around cultural appropriation is invalid. Many traditions have been trivialised, reduced from symbols of identity to fleeting trends, dismissing the historical oppression tied to them. Even when it comes to henna, the line between cultural appropriation and appreciation can be blurry depending on the facts and opinions you consider. For example, a non-South Asian person selling the art without acknowledging its origins or including the traditional patterns in their design may face harsher judgement. But then again, are the infinity signs and angel numbers okay as long as she puts up a sign that says “Desi Tattoos” above her stand? The answer is rarely clear.

What I do know is this: we live in a world where many of the beauty regimens we have internalised often involve conformity to the male gaze in one way or another. Whether it's shaving our legs or painting our nails, the desire to perform most of these tasks do not exist in a vacuum. But mehndi is different. We play with different twirls and twists. We admire the hands beside us while we know there's a pair of eyes doing the same to ours. We take photos holding hands with each other to post so other girls can see. This is meant to be shared, not hidden. This art is something we do with girls, for girls. It's not a “brown girl” thing– it's a girl thing.