It’s a strange kind of patriotism that grows stronger only after takeoff.
I’ve often noticed this pattern among people who leave India and settle abroad suddenly, India becomes sacred. Spices, folk art, local fabrics, village wisdom all take on a golden hue, rebranded under the warm lighting of nostalgia. Once ignored, even mocked, these everyday things start to shine in the NRI imagination, often not as memories, but as products.
Take the humble gumcha, for example. A utilitarian cotton cloth found draped over the shoulders of farmers and roadside tea-sellers in Bengal. Absorbent, red-checkered, ordinary. It’s something you find in crowded bazaars, sold by weight, bought by function. But then, an NRI entrepreneur comes along, finds it “rustic chic,” turns it into a line of summer scarves or “boho home linens,” gives it a name, tags it as sustainable, handmade, and deeply rooted in “Indian heritage,” and sells it for $70 a piece on Etsy. With professional models, styled photoshoots, and hashtags like #MindfulLuxury.
And just like that, something local becomes exotic. Something ordinary becomes a lifestyle.
What makes this even more ironic is that the same people who proudly wear khadi abroad once shunned it back home. In many parts of India, especially urban metros, clubs and upscale spaces still don’t let people in if they’re wearing saris, Punjabi suits, or “ethnic wear.” Traditional clothing is seen as regressive. English is aspirational. The sari is for weddings, not for work. Punjabi is for elders, not parties.
You can’t ignore how this internalized colonialism shapes social behavior in India. Fluency in English, western outfits, avocado salads these were all markers of upward mobility. I’ve seen people flaunt their foreign vacations, their Netflix playlists, their accents, almost as a shield against their own culture. It’s only when they land abroad, suddenly feeling disconnected, suddenly becoming a minority, that the “I miss home” love pours in.
And then, something shifts. That same person who wouldn’t speak their native language at a Delhi dinner table now teaches their toddler Bengali in Boston. That same woman who hesitated to wear a bindi in Bangalore proudly dons one at a cultural fair in Chicago. That same gumcha becomes a fashion accessory when viewed through the Western gaze.
Again, I don’t say this to judge. Migration is a difficult process, and identity becomes messy in the in-between. Many of these transformations come from a sincere place of longing. But it’s hard to miss the irony how love for India becomes cool only when filtered through the lens of distance and exclusivity.
I don’t want India to be a branding opportunity. I want it to be lived. I want people to love it not just when it’s aesthetic and profitable, but also when it’s chaotic, flawed, unfiltered.
You don’t need to rebrand a gumcha to prove you love where you’re from. You could just wear it. Even in your own country. Without apology.
