News Desk
On a humid afternoon in 1998, a young professional in Delhi adjusted the pleats of her sari before stepping into a brand‑new hatchback. Unlike the cramped cars of the era, this one welcomed her with space and dignity. The roofline was high, the doors opened wide, and the act of entering felt effortless. That car was the Hyundai Santro, and it marked the beginning of a design revolution in India—one that quietly acknowledged the everyday realities of women.
The sari is not just clothing; it is choreography. It dictates how one sits, bends, and moves. For decades, carmakers ignored this. Hyundai’s engineers, preparing to enter India, did not. They studied how women in saris entered cars, how fabric flowed, how posture shifted. The solution was the “tall‑boy” design: a hatchback with extra headroom and upright seating. It was not a global template forced onto India; it was India shaping global design.
Industrial design often sidelines women’s needs. The Santro flipped that script. By making cars easier to enter and exit, it expanded mobility for women—students, professionals, homemakers—who were beginning to claim urban space in the late 1990s. In family decisions, women’s comfort mattered. In workplaces, women’s commutes mattered. The Santro’s success was not just about technology; it was about listening to women, and in doing so, listening to India.
At the India Economic Conclave 2025, Tarun Garg, Whole Time Director and Chief Operating Officer of Hyundai Motor India, explained the cultural inspiration behind the Santro’s design: “Hyundai decided that we have to give respect to India. What I mean is that, for example, Indian women wear sarees and Hyundai was very sensitive towards that. So, ingress into the car and coming out of the car became very important, and that is when the tall‑boy design Santro came in, and it became an instant hit. So, it was a very local solution, not that we just brought in a global car and tried to push it into India.”
India in the 1990s was still a small‑car market, defined by function and frugality. The Santro changed that. It was stylish, aspirational, and proudly different. Later, the Creta SUV would symbolize India’s leap into global parity, but the DNA of that leap traces back to the sari. Tradition did not hold India back; it propelled it forward. The folds of a sari became the lines of a car, and heritage became innovation.
Cultures everywhere shape design. Japanese tatami mats influenced compact housing. Scandinavian winters birthed minimalist interiors. India’s sari influenced car ergonomics. The lesson is clear: global brands thrive when they listen to local women, local culture, and local realities. In the 21st century, India is not just a consumer market—it is a design laboratory, with women at the centre.
The Santro story is not nostalgia; it is blueprint. It shows that respecting women’s lived experiences can transform industries. It shows that tradition and modernity are not opposites but partners. And it shows that India’s rise is not only about GDP charts or IPOs—it is about everyday grace shaping global design.
Today, as SUVs dominate Indian roads and electric cars beckon, the memory of the Santro endures. It was the car that bent to the sari, the car that listened to women, the car that made India’s mobility aspirational. In its tall frame lies a simple truth: when design respects culture, it does more than sell—it empowers.
