Intro

Many of us grow up feeling like we belong to more than one place, especially if our family story involves moving between countries. My own story began in Punjab, a land rich with vibrant traditions and fields that seemed to stretch forever. But as a child, my family moved to Canada, a cool, green city full of different cultures. This move meant I grew up with two worlds inside me. I carried my Punjabi heritage close, yet it sometimes felt distant, like looking at a beautiful, intricate embroidery through a shop window. I could see its beauty, but I couldn't always touch it or understand all its hidden stitches.

Life in here was wonderful in many ways. Our home was filled with the aroma of Punjabi cooking, we visited the Gurdwara or temple, and joined in community celebrations. These things kept my heritage alive. Still, a part of me sometimes felt disconnected. My school life focused on Canadian and Western history, so understanding the deep reasons behind our traditional rituals, or the full story of our past, wasn't always easy. It was like hearing prayers in a language I knew, but not always grasping their deepest meaning. I adapted to the Western lifestyle around me, sometimes wondering if I was "Punjabi enough."

Though, with this feeling of being pulled between two worlds, there were special practices that always felt like strong, steady connections to my roots. These were the beauty rituals my mother carefully kept alive. They were lessons in natural wisdom, passed down from her mother and grandmothers. These rituals were more than just about looking good, they were moments of quiet connection.

Sundays Steeped in Scent and Tradition

Some of my clearest childhood memories are of our Sunday hair oiling ritual. The warm scent of almond oil still comes back to me easily. Sometimes it was coconut oil, or the unique earthy smell of amla (Indian gooseberry). I would often sit impatiently while my mother carefully massaged the oil into my scalp. Her fingers moved with a gentle, practiced rhythm, a skill she learned from her own mother.

Back then, what I remember most are my complaints. The oil had a strong smell that felt out of place at school, and I hated the greasy feeling. "Be still," my mother would say calmly. "This is for strong, healthy hair. It’s important." At the time, I didn’t appreciate the discipline of this ritual, or the strong belief in its long-term benefits that came from generations before. Today, when people compliment my long, healthy hair, I know it’s largely thanks to those Sunday sessions. My mother also always insisted on braiding my hair carefully afterwards to prevent it from breaking. 

It’s interesting now to see how popular wellness trends have become that highlight these very practices. Amla (Indian gooseberry) oil, for example, was something I felt a bit awkward about as a child if classmates asked about it. Now, it’s praised in the Western beauty world. It feels like a strange kind of acknowledgment, a reminder that this wisdom was always there. It was just waiting for people, including those of us who grew up with it, to rediscover and understand its value. 

My Great-Grandmother's Pantry Pharmacy

Much of this natural wisdom, I learned through my mother’s stories, came from her own grandmother, my great-grandmother. My mother described her as a woman deeply connected to the earth. Her beauty secrets were not found in store-bought jars, but in her pantry and garden.

"She never needed lotions from a store," my mother would explain, perhaps while mixing a simple face mask for herself. "Nature provided everything." I learned how my great-grandmother used fresh buttermilk from the family farm, not just in cooking, but also as a nourishing hair conditioner. Ghee (clarified butter), so important in Punjabi cooking, also served as a rich moisturizer, especially helpful during cold dry winters.

Her facials were made from ingredients I recognized from our own kitchen: besan (chickpea flour), a pinch of vibrant turmeric, and raw honey. These weren't random mixtures, they were thoughtful combinations, improved over generations, using the power of natural skincare ingredients found right in their homes. This simple blend was a form of the traditional Ubtan.

From Resistance to Reverence

For me, these practices often seemed old-fashioned or even a bit bothersome compared to the slickly packaged products available in store. The idea of putting ghee on my skin or dealing with the temporary yellow stain of turmeric sometimes felt slightly embarrassing. But as I grew older, my view started to change. Maybe it was seeing how healthy my mother's hair always looked. Maybe it was comparing the temporary effects of store-bought products to the lasting nourishment I remembered from those homemade remedies. I started to connect the stories with the ingredients. Sandalwood for cooling, Neem for purifying , these weren't just old tales, they were specific solutions. I began to understand that my great-grandmother had an intuitive knowledge of things modern science now confirms. The curcumin in turmeric, the way honey holds moisture, the gentle cleansing of chickpea flour, the wisdom was real.

The Challenge of Weaving Old Ways into New Lives

Despite this growing appreciation, actually making these heritage beauty practices a regular part of my own adult life was a different story. The convenience of buying a product often won out over the time it took to prepare fresh masks or remedies. 

I remembered watching my mother carefully measure a spoonful of chickpea flour, yogurt, and turmeric, mixing them into that perfect, smooth paste. My own attempts often felt messy and time-consuming, leaving behind turmeric-stained countertops that added to the chore. The rhythm of my great-grandmother's life, where time was perhaps measured differently and the connection to the earth was direct, felt worlds away from my fast-paced routine.

The store-bought alternatives often felt like something was missing. They lacked the rich sensory experience and the connection to a meaningful story. This inherited wisdom, these simple kitchen secrets, felt too precious to just let fade away because of the demands of modern life. The question of how to bridge that gap, how to carry forward that simple, effective care, lingered quietly with me.

— Rupali, Founder