When a Kurta Connects—or Crosses a Line

I bought a traditional kurta in Old Dhaka and wore it to dinner, feeling connected to something ancient. The waiter smiled approvingly. The experience felt authentic.

Then I wore it to a wedding in London, and the stares were different. Suddenly I understood: context changes everything. Appreciation in one setting becomes appropriation in another, and the line between them is invisible until you cross it.

This confusion lives in every cultural exchange, every souvenir purchase, every attempt to bring home experiences that don’t belong to us. When does learning become taking? When does honoring become performing?

I watch tourists in our markets, bargaining for handwoven scarves they’ll wear once at dinner parties, collecting pieces of our culture like trophies. But then I remember buying that leather jacket in Bangkok, wearing it for months afterward, telling people about its “authentic” origins. Was I different from them?

The difference might be in the depth of engagement. The tourist who buys a sari for Instagram is consuming culture. The visitor who learns about textile traditions, understands the symbolism, respects the craftsmanship—maybe they’re participating in culture.

But who decides which is which?

Happy and I discussed this after watching a documentary about yoga’s commercialization in the West. “It’s complicated,” she said. “When something beautiful spreads, it changes. Sometimes it becomes diluted. But sometimes it finds new life.”

The elderly craftsman who made my kurta didn’t seem concerned about appropriation. He was proud to share his skill, happy to see his work travel beyond its original context. His priority was keeping the tradition alive, not keeping it pure.

Maybe the real question isn’t whether cultural exchange is right or wrong, but how we engage with it. Are we approaching other cultures with humility or entitlement? Are we learning or just consuming? Are we giving credit or claiming discovery?

I think about food—how curry houses in London serve dishes my grandmother would never recognize, but these adaptations employ thousands of immigrants and introduce millions to flavors they’d never otherwise taste. Is this betrayal or evolution?

The answer might be in intention. When we engage with other cultures to genuinely understand, to build bridges, to expand our capacity for beauty and meaning—that feels like appreciation. When we do it for novelty, for status, for the appearance of worldliness—that leans toward appropriation.

But intentions aren’t always pure, and impact matters more than intent. The same action can honor and harm simultaneously. The yoga class that transforms someone’s spiritual practice while stripping away its cultural context. The music festival that celebrates world traditions while profiting off them without giving back.

What if the line between appropriation and appreciation isn’t fixed but depends on relationship—how we connect with the people whose culture we’re encountering, whether we see them as sources of wisdom or suppliers of exotic experiences?