TRADITIONAL DRESS IN MODERN SETTINGS: A VISUAL OBSERVATION

 

On a humid Kathmandu afternoon, a young woman in a flowing red gunyo cholo steps into a coffee shop filled with denim jackets, crop tops, and wireless earbuds. Her long, braided hair swings gently as she orders a cold brew. Around her, conversations continue, and eyes flicker momentarily toward her — curious, admiring, perhaps unsure. This fleeting moment, barely acknowledged and quickly absorbed by the urban rhythm, says something quietly profound: the presence of traditional dress in modern spaces is no longer out of place, but it is not entirely settled either. It carries with it a kind of visual dissonance, like a note just off key — noticeable, intriguing, but not unwelcome.

In cities like Kathmandu, Pokhara, or even smaller towns on festive days, one might spot a man in a daura suruwal stepping out of a luxury car, or a group of young girls in sari and heels posing against concrete walls with graffiti. These are not costume acts nor nostalgic reenactments. They are real choices — sometimes cultural, sometimes ceremonial, sometimes aesthetic. There is something defiant, even poetic, about wearing a piece of history into a space that is persistently modern, globalized, and often forgetful of its roots. Traditional dress in these contexts becomes more than clothing; it becomes commentary.

Yet, this presence is not free of tension. In office buildings and malls, traditional dress can feel like a visual interruption. The streamlined look of modern professionalism—neutrals, pantsuits, polo shirts—rarely makes room for the bright, embroidered textures of traditional wear. Even in places where ethnic pride is marketed, such as cultural expos or heritage restaurants, the display of traditional clothing can slip into performance rather than presence. There is a difference between being looked at and being seen. The former entertains; the latter insists on dignity.

Interestingly, many who wear traditional dress in modern settings do so with a quiet sense of confidence. It is not always about reclaiming heritage in grand, political gestures. Sometimes it is simply comfort, familial habit, or the way certain clothes fall just right. But their presence challenges the dominant aesthetic of modernity that often sidelines ethnic and regional identities in favor of universal, borderless minimalism. In a way, wearing a sari to a job interview, a lungi on a university campus, or a topi to a seminar makes a subtle argument: that tradition and modernity need not be at odds; that one can walk into the future without needing to shed where one comes from.

There is also a generational shift in how traditional dress is viewed. For some younger people, especially those raised in urban centers, such clothing might feel outdated or impractical, worn only on Dashain or during weddings. For others, it's an opportunity to reinterpret — pairing a dhaka skirt with a leather jacket, or wearing a bhoto with sneakers. These fusions tell their own stories, ones not bound by purism but rooted in experimentation. The blend itself becomes a visual language of belonging — one that acknowledges the past without getting stuck in it.

And then there are those whose professions require them to be seen in traditional attire — cultural performers, temple priests, political figures on national holidays. Their visibility is expected, even demanded. But what of the ordinary person on a weekday afternoon, walking through New Road in a full sari, not for a ceremony, not for show, but just because? That quiet choice carries a kind of social resistance. It says: I do not need an occasion to wear who I am.

In these modern spaces — cafes, buses, universities, malls — traditional dress lingers like a soft echo of something older but still beating, still moving. It disrupts the illusion that we are fully global, fully forward, fully new. It reminds us that time does not move in one direction only. That even as we scroll, click, swipe, and move faster, some threads are worth holding onto — threads dyed with memory, ritual, language, and land.

Traditional dress in modern settings is not just a fashion statement. It is a visual story. A fabric folded in generations, now walking alongside glass walls and concrete. And if we pay attention, it’s telling us something — not just about where we’ve been, but who we might still become.