Why Rapunzel should’ve been Indian
As a child, I never quite understood why it mattered that the media I consumed needed to be ‘diverse’. It felt inauthentic and quite frankly, I rarely noticed what skin colour the characters were in the first place. And even when I did see Indian representation, it was a caricature of South-East Asians living in Western communities, stirring up a mixture of emotions that ranged from shame to weirdly disconnected from a piece of art targeted towards me.
Take, Sally Bollywood, for example. The Australian-French TV show was a repeat watch for me on ABC iview, following Sally and her friend Doowee whilst they investigate cases brought to them by their schoolmates in the metropolitan city of Cosmopolis. Unlike her friend Doowee, who wears a lime green shirt and jeans, Sally wears a purple sari exposing her midriff and a blouse adorned with an elephant. I can’t speak for other Indian people, but I myself would struggle trying to run around Town Hall dressed in full Indian garb. Doowee, on the other hand, an Irish boy, is only depicted wearing traditional Irish dress during the episode entitled, “International Day”, with Sally wearing a pink lehenga instead.
I can’t complain. At least her name isn’t something absurdly stereotypical with multiple syllables and at least some of her South Asian friends wear western clothing (said female characters all being depicted as rather fickle and some as antagonists).
That being said, I still religiously watched every single episode of this show, have seen Aladdin more times than I can count, chortled alongside the laugh track at Raj’s expense in The Big Bang Theory.
Maybe I subconsciously craved being seen, taking whatever threads I could find and weaving them together to form a weak self tapestry.
Get Riya Garg’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
In high school, I was one of 10 or so South Asian girls in a cohort of 180. I was a diligent and obedient kid, a teacher’s pet and destined to fulfil the model minority dream of pursuing medicine at a prestigious university. During year 7, adopting this archetype worked in my favour. I learnt that my academic achievements brought me praise and attention from all social circles, the Indian aunties at functions, my parents and my teachers. I adored the satisfaction of knowing and being able to show that I knew, providing me with a valuable social currency that allowed me to fit in within the diaspora. After all, I did not learn traditional dance, did not volunteer at my local temple or have any close Indian friends.
As I reached the end of my schooling, I felt an imperceptible shift. At selective public high schools, so I had heard, there was a large Indian contingent of students vying for a position in the same medical degree and as driven towards a high ATAR as I was. Yet at my private high school, I was typecast as the ‘Smart Indian’ by another Indian peer of mine, suddenly being alienated from the rest of my cohort.
I felt desperately out of place and fundamentally broken. During Year 12, while my peers were getting drunk at after formal events and planning summer holidays in Europe, I was fending off panic attacks and trying to use my ATAR as a one way ticket to the same lives that my peers seemed to easily receive.
It was around this time I tried to rewatch Mindy Kaling’s Never Have I Ever. I had initially attempted to watch it at 15, but stopped after finding Devi’s obsession with losing her virginity wholly unrelatable and boring. This time, however, I was hooked. Yes, I still felt the same dissociation with Indian characters in Western media, being confused by how exactly Devi was able to engage in these extracurricular adventures without having her head chopped off or being viscerally plauged by anxiety at the mere thought. However, instead of taking that as a negative, I saw it as a blueprint. If I could just do these things that Devi was doing, maybe I too would finally become a normal teenager rather than a stereotype.
During 2024, online fan casting for the upcoming live action remake of Disney’s Rapunzel spouted rumours that Avantika Vandanapu, known for her recent role in the Mean Girls remake, was set to star in the titular role. Vitriolic backlashed ensued, with racist comments being peppered across the actor’s instagram page. Ultimately, the rumour was never confirmed and a caucasian actress was cast in the role.
Whilst Indian representation in media made vast jumps and leaps beyond 2000s stereotypes, the casting of an Indian actor in Rapunzel could’ve provided a good foundation for authentic representation in media. Where I felt The Little Mermaid and Snow White lacked any meaningful engagement with the actors’ heritage, incorporating Indian culture into Rapunzel may have prevented allegations of tokenistic representation. We quite literally have a festival of lights and Indians are known for their long and beautiful hair. The immigrant South Asian experience of gaining independence within fluctuating cultural norms could have been portrayed symbolically in Rapunzel’s escape from her tower.
This is the representation I crave. One that incorporates true stories rather than being merely a reductive caricature.
This is the representation that 12 year old me craved too. One that could’ve shown me how to be more than what people expected.
