My first trip to India, at 22, was steeped in the backpacker ethos of the late ’90s. With my then-boyfriend, a serious student of the subcontinent, we aimed for authenticity, eschewing the tourist trail for remote villages and a strict budget. Yet, our attempts at cultural immersion were often veiled in a different kind of pretension. He, for instance, strongly disapproved of white women wearing Indian clothing, viewing it as culturally insensitive and unattractive. This posed a problem for me, as my usual wardrobe – shorts and T-shirts – felt too revealing in the ancient temples and historical sites we visited. I opted for long skirts and blouses, a compromise that proved impractical for hiking or overnight train journeys. On one such train journey, rushing to disembark at Agra, I tripped and fell in my ankle-length skirt and platform sandals, landing amidst a crowd of amused onlookers. My attempt at fitting in had inadvertently made me a spectacle.
Years later, I returned to India, this time alone, to write my first book. I found myself immersed in the vibrant city of Mumbai, dating a local playboy from a prominent Hindu family. He, unlike my previous boyfriend, had no qualms about white girls in Indian attire. He preferred the sari to the shalwar kameez, a loose tunic and trousers, for its celebratory display of the female form. During my time in Mumbai, I frequented clubs, racetracks, and even a yacht party. For the wedding of a Bollywood starlet, my date took me to a boutique owned by one of his friends, hoping I’d find a suitable outfit. The suggested ensemble – a magenta blouse and lehenga skirt – was beautiful but entirely impractical. It was clearly made for someone else, and I felt out of place in its flamboyant embrace. Lacking the required curves, I resorted to wearing my own clothes, a plain black dress, feeling entirely out of place in the glittering, extravagant event.
In 2007, I traveled to Bangladesh with a friend, Farah, who had recently moved to the US from Bangladesh to marry her American fiance. This time, I came prepared, having bought several shalwar kameez in New York. In Dhaka, the shalwar kameez was the norm, even for women who were not particularly religious. My favorite was a translucent mint green cotton garment, delicately embroidered with white thread, that felt both stylish and comfortable. It wasn’t a local item; it was made by Tibetan New Yorkers, catering to American sizes and tastes, which made it a perfect fit for me. The color was flattering, the cut was stylish, and it made me feel cool and comfortable. In this attire, I felt myself merge with the landscape, feeling a sense of belonging for the first time in South Asia. It was a far cry from the awkward attempts at fitting in during my earlier trips.
At Farah’s grandmother’s house in the Sundarbans river delta, we took a bath in the village pond, wearing our shalwar kameez. It was a stark contrast to the typical bathing experience, where a swimsuit would be the norm. In the photos taken by Farah’s husband, we are laughing, submerged in the water, our clothes clinging to our bodies. It was a liberating moment, a testament to the cultural fluidity that comes with accepting oneself. In that moment, I realized that my Bombay boyfriend had something to learn from the village boys who were watching us bathe. Perhaps, true cultural immersion lay not in conforming to preconceived notions of what ‘fitting in’ should look like, but in embracing the comfort and individuality that comes with choosing clothes that feel right for you, regardless of external expectations.
