The desi struggle with minimalism
Minimalism—there’s something undeniably cool about that word. It instantly evokes a sense of Scandinavian simplicity, a philosophy defined by clean spaces and intentional living. In Western minimalist interiors, white walls serve as the perfect backdrop for uncluttered rooms, accented by neutral palettes, open floor plans, and functional furniture. These shades go by poetic names—ivory, eggshell, cream, alabaster, snow, sea-shell—any fancy name but plain, dull, or boring white. Jokes aside, it is the influence of Nordic culture that has shaped our understanding that true beauty lies in restraint, utility, and calm, rather than ornamentation.
Through social media, celebrity homes become the benchmark for ordinary families, and Instagram weddings distort what “normal” celebrations should cost. While influencer culture sells abundance as self-worth and designer labels, destination holidays, curated aesthetics have become aspirational necessities, buy less, decluttering movements, tiny homes, capsule wardrobes, rejecting fast fashion, and digital detoxes became buzzwords.
A Western import
We embrace minimalism the moment we shift our focus from accumulating things to prioritising purpose. Rather than waiting for a universal cultural trend to make decluttering feel "right," this shift happens when we actively choose to create physical and digital spaces where you feel focused and calm. Minimalism isn’t an aesthetic or a strict set of rules—it’s a highly individualised lifestyle.
Minimalism is a tool that can assist you in finding freedom. Freedom from fear. Freedom from worry. Freedom from overwhelm. Freedom from guilt. Freedom from depression. Freedom from the trappings of the consumer culture we’ve built our lives around. Real freedom.
Making its way to us from the West, minimalism is not just fashionable; it is a modern necessity to declutter the heavy traffic wrapped around our heads, metaphorically speaking. Western minimalism emerged partly as a reaction against consumer overload. For years and years, retail has ruled with shopping malls offering the perfect day out. Hardly anyone is immune to the siren song of the mall display. You go in to buy a birthday present for someone and you end up buying next-year’s Eid gifts for your entire extended family, some discounted perfumes [they always make a good quick gift for anyone], a third pair of running shoes that were on sale, and some off-season outfits that you simply couldn’t resist but will wear next winter!
But only until online shopping sneaked into our lives. The couch potato acquired a new pastime, almost as addictive, pleasurable and dangerous as browsing forbidden websites.
In art, minimalism strips art down to its fundamental, geometric basics, like Chinese paintings with lots of deliberate empty spaces in contrast to Renaissance art which celebrates elaborate decoration or vast crowds to tell complex biblical, mythological, or historical stories.
The thing is, that the opposite of minimalism isn’t maximalism, but indifference (aka not giving a hoot) about what you own, see, buy, consume and who you meet and spend your free time with. It’s floating passively on the waves of marketing, algorithms, toxic people, bad relationships and useless gadgets. It’s eating what someone else puts on your plate without asking what it even is. While minimalism emphasises restraint, stark functionality, and the "less is more" philosophy, maximalism embraces excess, vibrant self-expression, and the "more is more" approach.
“In fashion maximalism thrives on clashing patterns, bright colours, layered textures, bold accessories, mixed prints and proudly displaying collections or statement furniture,” says Zubair Shah, an upcoming fashion designer. “In contrast, minimalism focuses on staple wardrobes, monochrome colours, and sleek, understated tailoring for instance Calvin Klein. Maximalism encourages eclectic, fearless combinations.”
Opposite to common belief, minimalism isn’t necessarily about numbers and how many things you own or don’t own. It isn’t necessarily a radical act either. It’s more about a general attitude of mindfulness, being in control and making conscious choices about what and whom you surround yourself with, off- and online, people-wise and things-wise.
Western minimalism often connects with tiny houses, downsizing after retirement, sustainable living, living with fewer possessions, and mobility over accumulation.
The 'Marie Kondo effect' suggests that a profound physical, psychological, and behavioral shift occurs when you intensely declutter your space using her famous KonMari method. By keeping only items that 'spark joy,' you transform your environment, effectively reducing mental stress and resetting your relationship with the possessions you choose to keep.
Also, Western minimalism increasingly overlaps with environmental ethics which is about reducing waste, the second-hand culture, repair culture, low-consumption living, and ethical purchasing. Rings a shrill bell right down to my middle-class childhood, “ek he milega,” “ye ghair zaroori hai”, “rakh do kaam ajayega”!
Culturally, minimalism for people in the West marks individual freedom over social obligation. “I choose less because it gives me freedom.” “I don’t want children” and I want a small wedding,” are all Western concepts. Along with studio apartment living and “I don’t care what extended family thinks.” Of course, that doesn’t sit comfortably with the desi idea of “log kya kahenge” (LKK)!
The desi dilemma
What does minimalist mean for us desis? It can sometimes look sterile, emotionally sparse, or impractical for family-heavy cultures. “Daadi and dada will never part with their Partition-time furniture -- the armchair, the clothes-stand and daadi’s takht where she holds court, with her paandan and tattered stack of recipe books, phone diaries, digests and magazines from the past 30 years sitting on the rickety 1950’s side table literally on its last legs. They would happily take it to their graves if they had a choice. And the trunks full of old wedding clothes and linen and what-not!” asks Nabila, discussing refurbishing and decluttering their parent’s house where her two brother’s families also live. This conversation takes place every now and again, when the sisters are inspired by a minimalising idea, but it is shrugged off and postponed after a cup of elaichi walli chai, for some day in future when pigs might fly and the family would warmly welcome decluttering their home.
Desi societies believe that larger homes symbolise security, achievement, and generational success. Owning less can be read not as financial limitation, not enlightened restraint.
Our lives involve constant and continuous negotiation with parents, relatives, community expectations, hospitality norms, and our collective identity. While minimalism in the West can be a personal choice, in the subcontinent it may require social diplomacy.
Didn’t we all grow up with the logic handed down to us over generations – “keep it away somewhere, it might come in use later.” We inherited storage habits that border on hoarding, and we are emotionally attached to objects, and have memories embedded in things. We are genetically scarcity conscious, and subconsciously frugal.
However, our desi households have practiced forms of resourcefulness over generations — though often from necessity rather than philosophy. Though ironically, many traditional desi practices already contained minimalist or sustainable instincts such as reusing bags and containers, repairing shoes, mending clothes and lovingly handing them down to near and dear ones. We are happy and comfortable to share living spaces as well as our possessions, whereas in the West, space and ownership is strongly considered an individual right.
Our grandparents who owned fewer clothes, hosted simply, had unpretentious weddings instead of elaborate ones, and valued durability over novelty, were perhaps minimalist much earlier than the West. Colonial culture was all about decadence, wealth and grandiosity that was mostly confined to the rulers. But as modern desi consumer culture increasingly chases conspicuous abundance, it may actually be moving away from older forms of practical simplicity — under the influence of global capitalism, celebrity culture, and social media. We equate luxury with dignity, as we copy lifestyles designed for audiences and followers. What happened to our own older, quieter versions of enoughness?
Minimalism in desi culture is not simply about owning fewer things — it is about resisting a whole ecosystem of expectation, display, family obligation, insecurity, status anxiety, and inherited ideas of success. This resistance is vital because, in our society, excess is rarely an individual pursuit; it is a communal performance. From weddings and homes to careers and parenting, every aspect of our lives has been transformed into a public stage where minimalism becomes, quite simply, a quiet act of cultural rebellion.
The big-fat-desi wedding
Traditional weddings were once family or at max community affairs — simpler, participatory, homemade. The “big fat wedding” is actually a modern consumer phenomenon, a competitive market and a booming industry.
Few places resist minimalism like the big-fat-desi wedding. We curate themes showcasing debt-financed grandeur. We organise multi-day events nobody remembers clearly, the bride and grooms and their brigades perform choreographed entry and exit. Their families compete through venues, hospitality, décor, jewellery, guest numbers, and vehicles.
On top of the desi consumer cycle is the big-fat-desi wedding. The wedding shopping is led by “one outfit per event” and “I have already worn this once” culture. Never mind the space needed to store so many clothes and the unworn formal wear collecting dust in our closets. Then there is Eid shopping, twice a year. Clothes become disposable after one photograph, outfit repetition in the “what will people say” culture is considered criminal.
Post wedding, as the new couple settles into their new lives, they soon get caught with the all-time desi obsession of a “barra ghar.” We have massive drawing rooms used three times a year, where expensive designer furniture is preserved under plastic. Our homes seem to be designed for impressing guests rather than daily comfort. What if homes reflected how we actually live instead of how we wish to appear?
Hospitality is beautiful in desi culture, but it can become mind-bogglingly performative. “I made no less than 20 dishes for Alizeh’s susral,” says Aasia, a 60-year old house-proud housewife, remembering her daughter’s wedding six years ago. “I remember when they were invited, we cleaned the house for three days. Still have the bone China crockery stored in cartons from that dinner, and people ate so much, they couldn’t move ….”! Was it generosity, overwork, or over-indulgence? Minimalist hospitality would mean simpler meals, presence over perfection, warmth without burnout, but likes of Aasia would not be too pleased about that.
Gen Z
Driven by rising living costs and climate awareness, trends like "underconsumption core" are highly popular among Gen Z. Many actively reject the excessive buying promoted by influencers. “I would rather invest their money and energy into travel, personal development, and relationships rather than material goods,” says Rahema, a graphic designer and a mother of two. “It’s a millennial thing. I don’t need more stuff. I’d rather help fund projects I care about. As it is, living is so much more expensive than previously, so I’d rather spend on things that have more impact on us.”
Gen Alpha
Minimalism challenges the modern desi childhood model. Children today are often overloaded with tutoring, activities, gadgets, achievement pressure, and branded consumption. Everyone wants their kids to learn piano, coding, robotics, classical music, martial arts, singing, soccer, swimming, religion, and a language or two …. phew! Joy? Productivity? Sorry, no one has the time to think about that.
In many cultures across the world, food is the language of love. Likewise, food carries love in desi households. This is where abundance slides into excess. We over-order because what will people think [bas itna sa khana?], since refusing food is considered disrespectful, we overeat and measure affection through quantity. A different perspective, better for our health, minds, and pocket would be to understand that minimalism need not reject hospitality traditions — only waste and obligation.
The psychology behind it
The psychology behind desi excess is possibly rooted in scarcity memories from older generations in wars or in Partition displacement histories, economic insecurity, social comparison, fear of judgment, and proving upward mobility. Sometimes excess is not vanity. It is inherited survival psychology where we hoard, save, and clutter, and then showing off our stability with excess and designer lifestyles.
The LKK culture is the biggest enemy of minimalism. Since decisions in our culture are rarely individual, minimalism often becomes difficult. The solutions to our problems would be simple only if we were to think “minimalist” instead of what others will think? If there are financial issues, go for a small wedding, not an overly-elaborate one. You can repeat outfits, it doesn’t mean you are being “cheap.” Neither are you being rude if you are saying no to a lavish wedding. Instead of an ostentatious show being put up, what is more important is having time, health, emotional peace, financial stability, meaningful relationships, and freedom from debt. That is plenty there to give you a feeling of enoughness.
Minimalism does not require abandoning tradition. Instead of going elaborate, the focus should be on what is beautiful about our cultures — generosity, family connection, celebration, hospitality — while letting go of what exhausts us: performance, comparison, unnecessary consumption, and lives lived for spectators.
The goal is not an empty white Scandinavian apartment. It is a life that belongs to us.