Tamannaah’s Mysore Sandal deal sparks outrage: Does Kannada representation still matter and is backlash justified ?

Dubai: Why is everybody frothing at the mouth over a bar of soap originating from South India, you ask.

Because this isn’t just any soap—it’s Mysore Sandal. A century-old cultural icon born under royal patronage, bathed in Kannada pride, and now scrubbed clean of local representation in favour of a pan-India celebrity endorsement.

The Karnataka government recently signed Bollywood star Tamannaah Bhatia—a glamorous, non-Kannadiga actor—as the face of this heritage state-owned brand in a Dh2.75 million deal, and social media has worked itself into a frenzy.

According to India Today, the move was meant to broaden the soap’s market appeal beyond Karnataka. But what it’s really done is ignite a conversation about regional pride, representation, and whether marketing has become too tone-deaf to read the room—or in this case, the bath.

We’re not talking about a trendy new face cream here. Mysore Sandal Soap was born in 1916, crafted under the patronage of King Krishna Raja Wadiyar IV. It’s heritage in a bar. It smells like childhood baths, grandmother’s saree drawers, and monsoon mornings in a Mysore bungalow. It’s not just a product—it’s a state of nostalgia. So when the government skips over Sandalwood’s own stars to pick someone who, let’s be honest, probably had to Google “Wadiyar dynasty,” eyebrows were bound to rise.

Let’s get one thing clear: this is not about exclusion. It’s about connection. Would Malayalis ever let someone who’s never tasted kappa and meen curry become the face of a coconut oil brand? Or imagine a Punjabi wedding outfit line fronted by someone who’s never danced to Mundian To Bach Ke. Not happening.

This isn’t unfamiliar territory in Indian pop culture. Remember when Priyanka Chopra Jonas was cast as boxing icon Mary Kom in the Bollywood boxing biopic? The movie made money, sure—but many from India’s North East felt it was a missed opportunity to cast a Manipuri actor and give authentic representation to a community often erased from Bollywood narratives. Cultural context isn’t a costume—it can’t be slipped on for the camera and shrugged off after the shoot wraps.

Interestingly, Mysore Sandal once had another non-Kannadiga face: Former Indian cricket captain MS Dhoni. But the reaction back then was—well, muted. Why? For starters, Dhoni wasn’t the phenomenon he is today when the deal was struck. He was “simple and determined,” a phrase used to describe his appeal at the time. Also, what's it with his hair. People may be up in arms about that now, but let's save that debate for another day.

Also, 2013 wasn’t exactly the golden age of wokeness. We were still learning how to question casting choices and brand messaging.

Plus, Dhoni’s obscure charm kind of did match the bar’s down-to-earth vibe. He was a young, rising star, not an established star who commands millions for songs alone.

Let's also play fair. If you dive into the heart of the backlash, it’s not about Tamannaah—it’s about who got sidelined. Kannada cinema has plenty of worthy stars—Rachita Ram, Ashika Ranganath, even younger actors with genuine grassroots fan bases. This was a golden chance to turn a beauty campaign into a love letter to Kannada pride.

Instead, it feels like Karnataka borrowed a prom queen to walk its heritage carpet. Pretty, yes. But personal? Not quite.

In chasing mass appeal, brands often forget that cultural resonance is not a liability—it’s an asset.

Mysore Sandal isn’t some struggling startup trying to make it in Mumbai. It’s a 100-year-old classic that smells like pride, legacy, and royalty. You don’t need a Bollywood shine when the soul already glows.

The message here is simple: representation matters. Not because it ticks diversity boxes, but because it adds depth, authenticity, and a sense of belonging. A legacy brand deserves a voice that speaks its language—not just its slogans.

Tamannaah may look flawless in the campaign, and sure, her followers might buy a few extra bars. But somewhere, you can hear Karnataka’s collective cultural conscience muttering, “Could’ve been one of ours.”

Next time a century-old icon needs a spokesperson, maybe start by checking who’s already in the room—speaking the language, living the culture, and carrying the scent of that legacy with pride.

Until then, we’ll be here, scrubbing away the sting with a little extra sandalwood.