There’s a strange kind of poetry in watching the symbols of Indian culture wander into foreign lands. A pattern once handwoven in silence, a ritual born under the yellow hush of a village moon, reappears - sometimes on a billboard in New York, or reimagined in a Parisian haute couture showroom. While some may flinch at the transformation, I find in it a quiet kind of pride.

In today’s era of global fashion trends and cultural exchange, where borders have thinned and the sky belongs to satellites, who really owns an idea? The rush to assert creative originality, to stake a claim with hashtags and headlines, often distracts from the older, deeper story — that we, as people, have always absorbed and given back.

We’ve worn Bandhgalas in Manhattan, turbans with denim, and quoted Shakespeare while eating with our hands. Adaptation is not appropriation - it is our ancient gift, our language of survival, and of cultural sustainability.

Yes, there is value in provenance, in anchoring a creation to its soil - the signature of a region, the soul of an artisan. But there is also grace in the drift - in the anonymous journey of a design or motif, unbranded yet profound, carrying the thumbprint of a forgotten craftsman or the echo of a nameless town woven into handcrafted textiles.

If there is no theft of soul, no violation of origin, then maybe sharing - even unknowingly - is the only true act of cultural preservation. Some things are meant to belong to everyone, like wind. Or longing. Or a melody that never quite knew where it began.