Dear Glow & Lovely (formerly Fair & Lovely),

At an Indian houseparty, the conversation doesn’t shy away from latest gossip—who got into medical school, whose son is engaged, which aunty is starting a new diet. Meanwhile, the children are gathered around an iPad, the faint, familiar scent of curry leaves wafting from the kitchen. Then, one aunty turns to me, as if struck by a sudden realization: “I wish I had your fair skin.” It’s a statement I’ve heard countless times before. I nod, thank her, but wonder: Is this admiration for my genetics, or is it the result of something much larger? Something you, Glow & Lovely, have been selling for decades.

Your products have become synonymous with beauty for millions, especially within South Asian communities, where they sit in nearly every household, on every bathroom shelf. The ubiquitous plastic bottles and tubes of your skin-lightening creams are fixtures not just in South Asian homes but also in the wider global beauty market. As part of an industry valued at $11.8 billion, your name—whether as Fair & Lovely or Glow & Lovely—has been tied to the commercialization of an ideal: lighter skin as the standard of beauty. This has had a profound and lasting effect on cultural norms, particularly in India, where fair skin is not merely preferred—it’s an aspiration.

The roots of this colorism, though, extend far beyond your branding or even the skin-deep shifts in nomenclature you’ve made. To understand the scale of your influence, we must first look to the legacy of British colonialism in India. The British Raj not only imposed its racial hierarchy on Indian society but solidified colorism as a social construct, where lighter skin was closely associated with higher status, education, and access to power. This hierarchical division was not an accident; it was deliberate, part of a broader strategy of colonial control. Though the caste system itself was already imbued with colorist undertones, colonial rule entrenched these prejudices, reshaping social stratification along racial and skin-tone lines.

This historical framework cannot be divorced from the modern-day reality of colorism. Media, advertising, and beauty standards continue to uphold the idea that light skin is inherently more desirable, more marketable, more worthy of attention. You, Glow & Lovely, may not have started this narrative, but you’ve certainly capitalized on it. A 2017 study found that over 25% of Indian men still believed fair skin made women more attractive. On dating platforms like Shaadi.com, skin tone filters are commonly applied, reinforcing the idea that only fair-skinned individuals are suitable for marriage or partnership. The fact that nearly half of Indians acknowledge the influence of television and media in their purchasing decisions for skin-lightening products further underscores the pervasive power of these ideals.

Even in the South Asian diaspora, the effects are felt. Bollywood remains dominated by actresses who epitomize fair-skinned beauty, with stars like Alia Bhatt and Katrina Kaif—often held up as icons of the ideal—further solidifying this standard. The cultural scripts are repeated at family gatherings, where praise for someone’s fair skin becomes a backhanded compliment: “You’re so fair,” followed by an inquiry about which whitening product was used. These moments aren’t just personal exchanges—they reflect a broader societal endorsement of colorism that is internalized, normalized, and perpetuated.

Your rebranding, from “Fair & Lovely” to “Glow & Lovely,” might have been a necessary step in the face of mounting pressure, but it remains insufficient. It’s a change that feels more like a corporate maneuver than a true reckoning with the legacy of colorism. A semantic shift, at best, it obscures the deeper issue at play: an industry built on an exclusionary, divisive standard of beauty. You may claim to advocate for “inclusion,” but the proof lies in the products you sell, the advertisements you create, and the models you choose to represent. Until dark-skinned South Asians see themselves reflected in your campaigns—until the colorist underpinnings of your products are confronted head-on—this rebrand rings hollow.

Colorism is a deeply entrenched social issue that requires more than superficial acknowledgment. It demands action, genuine accountability, and a commitment to changing long-held prejudices. You have a responsibility to acknowledge that beauty exists in all shades of brown, to embrace the diversity of South Asian skin tones—not just in words, but in practice. The future of beauty lies not in reinforcing narrow ideals but in dismantling them. Your role in this shift is pivotal.

It’s time to confront this history head-on. Glow & Lovely, if you truly wish to be a force for positive change, you must lead the charge in decolonizing beauty, dismantling colorism, and finally acknowledging that dark is just as beautiful as light.

Sincerely,
A Concerned Desi-American