Everybody knows somebody who has taken Ozempic or Mounjaro. Across Indian cities, GLP-1s have become predictable dinner table conversation. Has Karan Johar taken Ozempic? Has Serena Williams? The former has steadfastly refused to attribute his eye-goggling weight loss to anything but diet and poor health, while the latter has publicly credited Zepbound for her weight loss.
Neither is lying. But they do point to different facets of the GLP-1 discourse: the Western world appears almost to have embraced it as a part of cultural conversation; while in India, there is still a shadow of stigma.
The level of adoption varies sharply. In the US, for example, GLP-1 use sits at 11%, up from just 3% two years ago, and estimates reveal that roughly one in five American households now includes a GLP-1 user. What’s driving this steep growth? Falling prices and simultaneously, a revision of medical insurance. Meanwhile, newly approved oral versions are drawing in customers wary of taking injections.
In India, the market depends more on generics rather than insurance-subsidized originals, and doctors have reported a surge in off label GLP-1 agonists, with unauthorized pharmacies supplying them to customers. (Only endocrinologists, internal medicine specialists, and cardiologists can legally prescribe them in the country). And even while Mounjaro has surged to become the highest-selling GLP-1 drug in the country, the government is encouraging local pharma companies to replicate their own homegrown options, as US patents have recently expired.
And while the world looks upon them as some sort of miracle drug, there are far-reaching consequences that range beyond Ozempic face and Ozempic butt. The drugs not only drop appetite, they may also change the taste of food itself; multiple users have reported gravitating to softer textures and foods that were easier to digest. For a country in which the culture is built around commensality and communal meals, this is a social minefield.
That tension between changing appetites and changing food habits looks very different in India than it does in the US, where the food industry is already adapting to the rise of GLP-1 users.
In the US, companies such as Nestle have found yet another marketing gimmick, creating protein-heavy frozen foods such as pizza and pasta to support GLP-1 users. Similarly, Conagra has stamped their foods with a GLP-1 Friendly badge. “Whether you’re using GLP-1 medications, transitioning off them, working toward natural weight management, or simply focused on maintaining a healthy lifestyle, these products are tailored to meet a variety of needs,” states the press release.
No such support exists in India, a country famously prone to carb-heavy diets that have a close correspondence with medical issues such as diabetes. Perhaps unsurprisingly, adoption has remained tepid, even for a country with high obesity and diabetic rates.
There’s also the risk that in India, the conversation around these chemicals has been disproportionately driven by celebrities and public figures, rather than by health systems. Comedian Aishwarya Mohanraj’s transformation through Mounjaro, Tanmay Bhat’s (also a comedian) being open about his interest in GLP-1 use (while clarifying that much of his dramatic weight loss came the traditional way, via diet and exercise), and creator Shoumik Shetty’s description of the drug quieting “food noise” have done as much to popularize GLP-1s in India as any clinical campaign.
This, in contrast to the U.S., where adoption has been driven more by insurance coverage and primary-care prescribing than by influencer testimony.
Put together, the Indian GLP-1 story so far is one of individual transformation outpacing collective infrastructure: bodies changing quickly, kitchens changing slowly, and a market — from supplements to restaurant menus — scrambling to keep up with a hormone most people had never heard of two years ago.
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