Mindy Kaling initially entered the comedy writing scene as a spunky diversity hire for the beloved 2005 comedy “The Office.” Watch just two minutes of her portrayal of Kelly in any episode, and it’s clear what direction she chose for her career. She aims to wildly negate all the stereotypes South Asians were subjected to in the late ’90s and early 2000s. That, in itself, is a harmless goal that many writers and actors of color aspire to, but what makes it harmful are the extremes she never fails to reach. Over the last few years she’s written countless characters for multiple “Gen-Z” targeted television shows: Devi from “Never Have I Ever,” Bela from “The Sex Lives of College Girls,” and from her “Scooby-Doo” reboot, Velma. They all have substantial traits in common: over-sexualization, whitewashing and a deep discomfort with their own culture.
Kaling’s work clearly reveals her vision of South Asian women. To her, we exist solely within the bounds of insecurity and self-loathing. Her characters are often seen as a step forward in representation — they’re not the nerdy little brother like Ravi in “Jessie.” But the problem is, they’re not authentic progress. Rather than offering nuanced portrayals, Kaling’s characters fall into exaggerated caricatures of insecurity and self-doubt.
If you’re South Asian, you know this is nothing new: the glares at the lunch table, the nose-pinching in the hallway, the incessant rude questions about our families and culture. But we don’t want our struggles to define us. Growing up, I couldn’t see myself anywhere. Watching TV and seeing the celebrities that everyone wanted to be, I felt like a vampire missing their reflection in the mirror. I found myself asking if nobody can see me, and I can’t see myself, do I even exist at all? And then, when you finally do see yourself on TV, you’re almost forced to accept the version of you that they created: the stereotypes, the bad jokes. The token unlovable nerd who reeks of curry has no friends, and works in tech — it almost feels like your destiny was written for you. It takes away everything you feel you know about what your culture means to you. This thing that makes me and my family feel whole is nothing more than a throwaway line they edited in late for diversity points.
“But she has so much working against her; it’s impossible to make everyone happy.” It’s true that no writer will be able to make everyone happy, but no one is asking Mindy Kaling to pander to every audience. What we deserve is simple: complex characters who are real people, who happen to be Indian, instead of this warped idea of Indian characters attempting to be “real people.”
When we look closely at every wrong move she’s made representing the community throughout her career, it’s easy to feel frustrated. Her portrayal has driven me crazy since I’ve been old enough to watch TV. But we didn’t just end up here by accident; the “Mindy Kaling Effect” is a direct consequence of the Western world’s persistent belief that Desi people are revolting and unlovable. Throughout American history, this belief has always been present — while more subtle than other forms of racism experienced here, it remains ever-prominent. My favorite example to bring up to a group of unconvinced optimists is the leaked White House tapes from 1971, where former President Nixon proudly states, “Undoubtedly the most unattractive women in the world are Indian women … The most sexless, nothing, these people.” When someone in a position of power feels justified in thinking this way, it seems reasonable to others. These small, seemingly harmless beliefs don’t feel like a big deal within the individual. But over time, quiet judgment turns to laughter; jokes turn into bullying and violence until the only option we have is to make fun of ourselves before they can hurt us first. For our whole lives, Western society has watered down our representation to make it more digestible for them.
They don’t aim to include us; they aim to create a version of us that’s “normal” enough for them to want to keep around. Even when we do manage to get a love interest, 90% of the time it’s a white person, implying that whiteness is what we aspire to be closest to. The other 10% of the time the brown girl ends up trapped in some horrifying arranged marriage with another brown guy that her parents picked for her. Both ends of the spectrum are insulting and minimize our experiences. Before Kaling, in the early 2000s, if we managed to get a brown person on screen, it was always a guy, and he was always a loser. And if he wasn’t a loser, it’s because he was trying his hardest to separate himself from his culture. The early 2000s loved the plotline of “weird brown guy learns he can do something cool and becomes awesome!” Look at Kevin G from “Mean Girls” and Donald from “Pitch Perfect” — it’s as if we can only be cool if some wild exception gets in the way of who we really are. It’s exhausting.
A great example of what we need more of is the 2021 Hulu original “Plan B,” starring Kuhoo Verma. The story follows her character Sunny as she loses her virginity while her mom is out of town and embarks on a crazy road trip to Planned Parenthood with her best friend Lupe. Though this plot sounds like leftover audition material from a cutout episode of The Mindy Project, it succeeds in doing something that Kaling failed at throughout her entire career: showing us a South Asian character who loves and respects her family and her culture while simultaneously being her own person. In the first chapter of the movie, she goes through the classic “Kaling-coded conflicts”: not feeling attractive, getting no attention from boys and having her strict mom nagging her for not studying enough. But these things don’t make her self-loathe. They might drive her to make changes at first, but throughout the movie, we never see her express any kind of hatred for her community — not even toward her “strict Indian mom.”
The defining factor for me, though, is the way the movie ends (spoilers ahead, of course). After the wild goose chase the pair goes through, they find a tragically closed Planned Parenthood, leaving Sunny with no choice but to go home, confess and beg her mom for help. The scene brought me to tears — not because her mom ties her to a trash can full of fireworks like the Western archetype of Indian parents would have you believe, but because she hugs her daughter, tells her it’s going to be okay, and then stomps to CVS to shamelessly berate the employee who refused to sell her the pill in the first place. Sunny finds refuge in her family, something the Western world deems impossible for us. Seeing that represented moved me to my core.
Amerie Wadia, portrayed by Ayesha Madon in Netflix’s Australian original “Heartbreak High,” is another great example of an independent, self-assured brown character. Throughout the series, we see no mention of her cultural background, as that is not what the show’s about. Her family is represented normally and healthily; her mom cares about her and is there for her even when she makes bad decisions. She’s close with her siblings, and her home is a place of solace.
It is very possible to write women of color accurately; Hollywood just doesn’t care to do so. We need media that separates self-loathing from our identities as women of color because if we don’t, it consumes us entirely. Representation matters — not just bare minimum representation, but good representation.
Mindy Kaling, I don’t hate you. I understand you, and I respect your career, but we all know you can do better.
Graphics by Asha Hubbard