Why I Wear Kurtas

This is the story of how I fell in love with the kurta.

As I type-write this blog, I have 5 kurtas hanging in my closet, nagging me return to the souk.

Okay, maybe not exactly, but a girl can never have too many kurtas.

When I first came to Dubai, I mistakenly thought that all traditional Indian women’s wear were called saris.

In a sincere (though admittedly calculated) effort to befriend my office seatmate, I complimented her on her beautiful sari one day, only to be gently corrected that it was, in fact, a kurta.

I was – much as I hate to admit it – what you might call “culturally-sheltered.” Even as I politely averted my eyes from a much gawked-at foreigner in my home city, I’d be lying if I said any human being who looked different and dressed different did not pique my curiosity. And I’d be an even bigger liar if I said it was largely for reasons not concerning novelty.

So there I was, just a few days old in the office, listening with rapt attention to my Indian officemate as she explained to me the tell-tale difference between a sari and a kurta.

Hint: A kurta does not require you to bare your midriff.

I was pretty much Team Kurta from then on.

Those days, I came home with plenty of culture shock stories to tell, the unlucky recipient of which was my roommate. Thanks to her 8-year head start to living and working in the U.A.E, my stories made a bullet train trip from one ear to the other.

Ironically, said roommate also gifted me with my first ever kurta, a peppermint green finished with elaborate white stitches. It had a pair of wide-cut sleeves (which I would later learn to complicate the feeding process of messy eaters such as myself) and ended just below my knees.

It was love at first sight.

“Take it,” she said. “A Pakistani  officemate gave it to me as a souvenir. I didn’t know what to do with it. I didn’t want to wear it, but I couldn’t exactly throw it away either.”

I got mixed receptions when I first started wearing the kurta to work.

The most outspoken ones were, of course, the Filipinas who thought that it was a “cute” gesture, followed by speculations of my dating life (i.e. Are you dating an Indian and/or Pakistani?)

The office is largely composed of Indians, most of which are males – most of which I don’t really talk to. But I flatter myself into thinking that the one exception, my previously mentioned Indian lady seatmate, was their spokesperson when she complimented me on my kurta.

I responded with a declaration of love.

One week later, she brought me not one, not two, but three kurtas to feed my new obsession. By then, I had an emerald green one with short sleeves and a mandarin collar, a bright red one with fine gold stitching, and a chocolate brown one embellished with colored glass beads.

The best part was, I could pair any of them with jeggings and ballet flats and I was good to go. Who said dressing up for work had to be boring?

My latest addition came out fresh from Bur Dubai’s textile souk. At just 10 dirhams, the maroon-and-silver kurta was practically a steal. I wouldn’t think twice about popping in there again, if not for the deeply-rooted fear of being called fat [Footnote: The shopkeepers cat-call Filipinas maganda (beautiful) or mataba (fat), depending on whether or not they stop by their shops. You can read more about this in No Stone Unturned: Fort Fahidi, Al Bastakiya, and the Textile Souk]

I think what I love most about the kurta is its versatility. You can wear it to the mall; you can wear it to the office; hell, you can even wear it to run in the park – I’ve seen women do this and they look great in sneakers!

Kurtas can be worn all year round. Their lightweight material enables insulation (and easy washing) during the summer months and their wide-cut sleeves keep the cold out in the winter.

I don’t see kurtas as a passing fad, much less wear them to call attention. I respect the kurta for its distinctive beauty: a mix of traditionality, versatility, and modesty.