When Kareena Kapoor attained "size sero", there were fears of an apocalypse of suicidal dieting among young Indian women. Instead our level-headed behenji brigade (with the exception of a few airheads) said they-and their gentlemen- preferred breasty and curvy instead. While the ravages of anorexia and heroin chic blitzkrieg through Western womanhood, Kareena Kapoor's dietician, confirmed that her thin-ness had been achieved not by heroin but by eating aloo paratha and paneer. Thin for us desis has never meant self-destruction. Instead, when the Indian woman gets thin, more often than not, she's still managed to sneak in a little bit of paapri chaat. India is never far away from our west-inspired fitness.

At weddings, birthdays, award ceremonies and anniversaries, the sari has never been more chic. The blouses may show off swathes of pretty alabaster backs, necklines may plunge, cutaway sleeves might display newly waxed arms. But the good old nine yards, twisted and pleated to perfection, as sexy and as subtle, as wicked and as pure, as it always has been, is more 'in' than ever. Even Elizabeth Hurley has been conquered by the sari.

The colonial encounter was always more than just dreary exploitation. We learnt the sahibs language and their dining table manners, but we never forgot to put up our Tanjore paintings on the walls or dust out the carved sandalwood ganapati as the best piece of decoration in the room. The art of India's religion was always cool, now even more so: Sufi music and the gayatri mantra are the chosen background melodies of the most fashionable spas.

We may have re-learnt yoga from the hippies and admiringly followed the groovy blonde herd to Goa to imitate the western beach holiday. But now, hey presto, we have even Indianised the beach romp. The yuppie break on Candolim often includes the in-laws and ma and pa. Or the NRI sister from California, her children and the maid. Cool cats in bikinis and boxer shorts recline sipping Belo's beer side by side with their white salwar kameez clad bua. Better still, the trendiest swimsuit is often matched with choora maulis and mehndi. Swimsuits are far hotter when matched with post-wedding henna.

Traditional family is mixed well with our new modernity. Marriage is an aspiration for most, a need for many, combined with a robust new sense of individuality and taking housekeeping skills to the stratosphere of perfection. The Indian housewife has never looked trendier, her house has never been more crammed with as many new objet d'arts, but she remains the dutiful bahu at diwali. Once we taught our daughters how to cook and embroider, now we teach them horse riding and piano. Picasso and Modigliani were never our fancy. The best homes will still display a stylized Balinese saraswati or a Rajasthani Mohini. You can take us out of India, you can never take India out of us!

A new fusion has been created: best described as the ascent of the tropical modern. Sri Lankan architect Geoffrey Bawa designed homes with thin clear lines to merge with bamboo plants, red earth and falling water. We too are designing our modernity to suit our earthiness. We are sari clad but calm in the face of divorce, we wear shiva and Lakshmi on our T shirts. We wear menhndi on our hands and denim shorts on our legs. We are seeking the rhythms of Baul music and the moves of bhangra to rediscover our Indian "hipness". Dam a dam mast qalandar comes bouncing out on our Ipods. We no longer alter our accents when talking to our foreign friends.

We are the tropical modern. The sahibs may have translated our texts into English. Hollywood's celebrities have helped us re-discover yoga and our own godmen. But as the new middle class gets wealthier, as the NRI need for "Indian culture" spurs a return to roots, as the competitive economy sends us scurrying to the Upanishads, we have never been so comforted or so decorated by India. We mix family with fun, god with surround sound and martinis with Mallikarjun Mansoor. Six decades after independence, we are unapologetic about our freedom to choose.

(This article first appeared in Marie Claire Magazine)