Kandi and PLUR

Age: 23

Date Collected: 4/27/2026

Context:

My roommate and good friend of three years is involved in the rave scene here in LA. He does operations for one of the largest hard techno organizations in California. He is mostly involved in the hard techno scene, but occasionally he goes to festivals and dub shows where passing out kandi bracelets (pronounced “candy”) is more popular. He showed me his collection of goodies he’s gotten in his 5 years raving, and these stood out to me.

Text:

Kandi bracelets are a great representation of the exciting and friendly rave scene. Kandi are handmade elastic bands made of colorful plastic pony beads, featuring fun messages, images, or small items tied to them. Some of them are quite complicated, including finger designs, while others are quite large and stretch up the arm. The most common, though, are simple bands with funny messages or jokes. My friend explained that “they’re connected to the dub, trance, and outdoor-festival communities.” You can see kandi passed around at mainstream shows like Tomorrowland, Lollapalooza, or Electric Daisy Carnival. Those festivals are during the day, when you can get away with lighter clothing and show off your kandi. People wear loose clothes with bright clothing to match the fun color of their kandis. My friend has gotten several kandi bands at Outside Lands, smaller Afro house shows, and other events with chill crowds. Its normal to give kandi to people you like or just feel a positive vibe from.

He mentioned that there’s a specific ritual to giving them away. The PLUR (Peace, Love, Unity, Respect) handshake is the way ravers exchange their kandi. He learned it from someone when they came up to him and gave one to him. He showed me holding up a peace sign, and I held up a peace sign to his hand. “To the beat, you dance around. Then you make half a heart shape.” I completed the heart for “love.” Now, you place your palms together his for “unity,” like a high five.” Finally, we interlocked fingers for “respect.” At that point, the initiating raver would pull one of their kandi bracelets from their arm, over their hands to their arm, all while their fingers are still interlaced. All this is done to the beat of the music, or in a fun flow state. Then you should pass one of your kandis over your arm to theirs. Then you can dance around and either part ways or make a new friend. But “you don’t need to actually give any back; people just want to give them out.” For example, my friend never brings kandi to shows; he doesn’t make them either, yet he has gotten around five from his time raving and has built up quite a collection. He doesn’t wear them to shows because, well, mostly they aren’t his style. But also because kandi bracelets are not common or popular at the shows he goes to. They are more associated with the mainstream EDM scene. He goes to underground techno shows, which are typically held at night and where kandi is far less common.

People trade them, give them away, and they are all made by hand independently. He doesn’t really remember who gave them to him; he was just enjoying the music. All the ones he has are very unique, and no two look really all that similar. He told me they’re all usually unique and like a fingerprint. Each artist has their own style. People try not to copy one another, and they all try to have unique ones so that you can remember that show or specific interaction. As you can see from the picture, they’re all made from relatively cheap beads and elastic string from Amazon or a craft store, yet each seems to have a unique bead pattern, color choice, and style. There’s one that says “sploinky” (no real meaning, just fun). Another says “xing”, which probably stands for crossing the threshold or barrier, and tripping. The final one says “cum bucket,” which was given to him by a girl. This highlights the ironic and really funny humor at these shows. There’s even one with a pacifier on it, which you can use if you’re grinding your teeth. Very practical. Another, pictured above, is pink and star-shaped and goes over the back of your palm. That one is great if you are wearing long sleeves or want a full sleeve of kandi.

Analysis:

Out of his collection, these stood out to me. I immediately thought of them as folk art and, more specifically, I think they are a perfect example of bricolage. They are made of mass-produced items recombined to create something new. These items aren’t meant to sell; they have no real monetary value. But, they do have sentimental value. One of their main purposes is to serve as a physical reminder of your great time at a show or of a new friend you made. Each Kandi is given new meaning based on the context in which it is given. They are also deeply rooted in the festival and mainstream EDM scenes, and associated with rave culture at large. To me, they’re instantly recognizable as a great folk element of that scene that was made by the people. A company, the festival organization, for instance, can’t profit from or poach these Kandi. They’re just beads and string. Any unique bead design could be made by a raver using a 3d printer at a public library. I don’t think it could really be commodified easily. There is also a paradox that something sentimental or valuable is made out of such cheap materials. It’s funny because it reminds me of a crappy macaroni plate a kid makes for their parent’s birthday. Each individual piece is worthless; even together, it isn’t that valuable. But to ravers, these are memories. They hold so much individual value because of the context in which they were given. If my friend gave me a Kandi just for fun or sold one to me, I probably wouldn’t care as much as if I had gotten my own at a show. So the context is the value, a company can’t easily replicate that or profit off of it, which ensures it is of the people and for them.

Aside from being a tangible record of interactions, they also serve as a way to build community. I mentioned that these are very common in the mainstream scene. They’re bright, colorful, fun, and inviting. They help create bonds between ravers and give people an opportunity to connect. This is especially important because at these venues, the music is very, very loud. People wear earplugs or AirPods to protect their hearing. That makes casual conversation and small talk really hard. So, the kandi gives you an easy way and a reason to approach a stranger who is part of your community. It is also very helpful in the mainstream scene, since new ravers or shy people might be uncomfortable. But if they’re given a Kandi, that be like inviting them into the fold. They could feel valued and seen and a member of the community which is really cool and helps keep the scene thriving and positive.

Aside from the purity of the folk art, the PLUR handshake is also a great example of how folk gestures are taught and learned in real time. He said he felt a little confused, but he got the idea pretty quickly. I had a similar experience. The PLUR gesture also highlights the friendly vibes that rave scenes go for. The acronym isn’t just for fun, its a code. To be part of that culture, you need to be peaceful, show others love and respect, and be unified. The community really does care about being respectful. To the shows I have personally been to with him, I’d say they were far more respectful than your average line at Walmart or Disneyland. The PLUR is a great acronym that effectively sums up the values and code of the rave scene into one fun gesture. Its a great way to teach new members and remind old ravers what’s important.

Homemade Jams

Age: 62

Collection Date: 4/24/2026

Context:

My dad told me the story of how his mom used to make homemade jams from the fruit trees they had growing around their yard. My dad grew up in Canoga Park, CA, in the 1980s living in a lower-class, community-centered neighborhood. He said that his parents were very self- sufficient almost homesteaders and that my grandma had a way with plants unlike anyone else in the neighborhood. My grandma passed very recently, so this is a good positive memory for my dad, but difficult to ask too many questions on her specifcally. He told me this story while sitting around our kitchen, thinking of folklore and stories from his past.

Text:

My dad is pretty sure my grandma learned how to make jam from her mom, but he isn’t too sure because he never really helped out. He was usually “out in the neighborhood getting into trouble.” My grandma grew up in Orange County Ca in the 40s and 50s, back when they actually had oranges. In her neighborhood at that time, self-sufficiency and homesteading were essential. She lived on a small ranch with chickens, horses, fruit trees, and some vegetables. Essentially, the modern-day homesteader’s dream. She watched as their neighborhood turned more and more suburban. When she moved to the San Fernando Valley, she tried teaching those jam-making, gardening, and other valuable skills to my dad and his siblings so they could be self-sufficient, and because that was the world she knew. But it seems now, skills like jam- making aren’t a necessity, they’re more of a hobby.

My dad remembers that their house in Canoga Park had plenty of fruit trees and berry bushes, all grown and maintained by his mom. The property wasn’t especially large, but it had several plum, apricot, orange, lemon, and peach trees. As well as grape vines, strawberry bushes, and blueberry bushes. He thinks some of the trees came with the house when his parents first bought the place, but the fruit trees were an added plus that my grandma appreciated. They didn’t have any animals besides dogs growing up. so I can imagine that the fruit trees were a great way for her to pass on her upbringing. I always enjoyed talking with her about the fond memories she had of riding her horses and growing up in such a pleasant environment. I can imagine she viewed that as a real positive environment for kids to grow up in and wanted that for her own kids, even if making homemade jams weren’t necessary.

Most of the fruits ripened in different seasons, so there wasn’t a single specific time or season for making jam. But my dad fondly remembers playing under the plum tree and snacking on fresh plums in the summer. The trees were so large and bore so much fruit that the plums, apricots, etc., often spoiled. His family was very conservative with their money because they didn’t have much. So, to avoid wasting good food, my grandma would turn all that extra fruit into homemade jams.

As far as my dad remembers, the process involved cutting the fruits and putting them in pots to boil on the stove. After that, they were sealed in mason jars with some special procedure to keep them from rotting. The mason jars were then left to cool and turn into jams. He never really saw her use a specific recipe, probably from memory. He said that his family “learned to be smart with their money and use everything.” He remembers they would mix flavors, sometimes adding sugar or new fruits. Generally speaking, it was much healthier and cheaper than store-bought options. The original jams were all used by their family in day-to-day cooking or eating. My dad usually snacked on the jams. He doesn’t remember them ever sharing any with their neighbors or using them for special occasions, but they did share fresh fruits with neighbors.

His older and younger sisters did help out a lot, though. My grandma taught them how to properly make the jams so that they were safe to eat. We briefly asked them if they still make any. They still do occasionally, following the general recipes that they remember, but it kind of fell off because it’s easier to just buy jams. They also don’t live in neighborhoods where they can grow their own fruits, so it’s not the same as when they were little.

Analysis:

At the most basic level, my dad and I understand that making food at home was primarily a money thing. They grew up in a relatively low-income household and neighborhood where saving money was important. So, saving money on foods like jams and homegrown fruits wasn’t just for aesthetics; it was primarily a practical necessity. My dad isn’t wasteful, and a large reason why is because of his upbringing. Making jam was first and foremost to prevent food waste.

But, I believe she also taught it to her kids for a more personal reason. It was the life my grandma knew. We don’t know if they picked the house specifically because of the fruit trees or whether that was a coincidence. But regardless of the reason, my dad’s family grew up in a house that had fruit trees. My grandma grew up in a similar environment, back in Orange County. To her, turning excess fruits into jam was just what you do. That’s likely a skill she learned growing up, and bringing it to Canoga Park was just natural. Teaching those skills to my dad’s sisters was probably a fun way to connect, but also to teach them a valuable skill. To her this wasn’t a hobby, it was a way of life. By teaching her kids, she was giving them a glimpse into her upbringing and teaching them to be self sufficient.

This is just speculation, but she saw the urbanization of Orange County. The gradual disappearance of that way of life she grew up with. I didn’t even know Orange County used to have anything besides suburbs and homes. So bringing that practice to Canoga Park could have served as a way to revive that tradition or keep it going. It could also have been a way to remember her past. Whenever I spoke with her about her childhood, she always had very good things to say. So, she probably enjoyed re-living those memories and loved being able to provide that same lifestyle and memories to her kids.

I’d say that worked! My dad and his siblings fondly remember the jams; such a simple food became an important piece of their upbringing. His siblings picked up and carried on the tradition as much as they could. But in a world that was slowly urbanizing, homegrown fruits weren’t as common. That homestead way of life is becoming a rare exception, especially here in California. My aunts all occasionally make jams, but they explained that it’s just too much work to make it, especially when it’s cheaper to just buy. This reflects what we learned. As folklorists, we try to collect these stories and dying ways of life, as we learned it’s salvage ethnography. They feel so different and strange, making them all the most interesting to collect and preserve. But, it’s important to remember that as the ways change, traditions don’t die, they just change.

The jams weren’t just for my grandma to preserve food. Whether this was her intent or not, she was also preserving a way of life. Planting the trees, making jam instead of buying it, was a way to resist urbanization and hold on to how she was raised. Now, some of her daughters make jams without fresh fruits, from memory, without her. The urbanization that changed her way of life is slowly eroding tradition, but that’s part of what makes it so special. If the tradition were timeless or abundant, then maybe my dad wouldn’t think it as special. It’s the fact that it has a lifespan that makes it special.

Bengali New Year – Pohela Boishakh

Age: 25

Date Collected 4/21/2026

Context:

A good friend of mine, who immigrated with his family from Bangladesh for college, told me about the Bengali New Year celebration, “Pohela Boishakh” or পহেলা বৈশাখ. He told me about the general celebration and how his family’s celebrations differed from the norm.

Text:

On April 14th, “my family wakes up, we dress in red or white, and eat this fermented rice, mashed potatoes, and hilsa fish.” He explained to me that he thinks the white represents purity, and red represents joy or energy. But to him, the colors really symbolize the spirit of the new year and the celebration of Bangladesh. He tells me that breakfast typically consists of mashed foods, lots of vegetables, and starches, with a single piece of hilsa fish. He explained that the Hilsa fish is Bangladesh’s national fish and a cultural icon. When he was young, his family taught him that’s the way things are done, but he never really questioned it until he came to America and learned about our traditions. He explained that as he got older, his family stopped making the fermented rice (which would actually get you a bit drunk). For them, it was just a tradition that his parents wanted to pass down to him and his sister, “kind of like hunting for easter eggs.”

After the breakfast, the celebration isn’t over. They move to the streets, painted red and white. Parades go through the streets and people celebrate kind of like a big picnic. He explained it was “similar to the Marty Gras,” but without all the alcohol or debauchery. But a similar level of excitement, fun, celebrations and an almost parade like atmosphere. His celebration was quite different from those in the big cities, where they used parade floats and giant symbolic animal heads. In the countryside, things were simpler, and people would set up around the grass at parks and visit each other’s setups. It was a time for old friends to connect. He mentioned his dad’s old soccer friends had a spot at a local park they would revisit every year. Lunch continued the excitement and festivities with street food or barbecue-style setups. The countryside differed from the city in that the focus was on building community rather than on the nation or on symbolic ideas.

The celebration would continue throughout the day and into the night; families return home and enjoy an intimate family meal with fish, lentils, and, of course, rice. He explained that typically, the women would stay back or leave the celebrations early to cook and prepare the family dinner. Sometimes they would be able to take rotations, but unlikely. He explained that in his family, most of the cooking was done the night before, so there was maybe like an hour of work to do, and he would return home to help his mom and sister cook. To him, the festival was patriotic and a way to unite as a community, to remember his identity and beliefs, and honor his family and traditions.

Analysis:

The story was very interesting to me; it sounds similar to the festivals and events I’m familiar with, but at the same time, so different. The rice and a single slice of fish remind me of an almost religious practice because it is so specific and symbolic. But the practice is regional, not religious; people in India, including West Bengal, also celebrate it. I found it funny because my friend is a devout Muslim who refuses to drink when we go out. So, his telling me that the fermented rice got him buzzed had me feeling betrayed. But, he told me that “it’s nothing and doesn’t count as a sin.” This was very interesting and makes me think that aspects of the celebration, like the fermented rice must predate the country’s Islamic influence.

In addition, the meal seems to be a symbolic fresh start to the year. The rice and slice of fish are humble and could represent a simple style of living, or starting the year humbly. The fish, also the national fish of Bangladesh, suggests that including fish conveys national pride and recognition of the country.

My friend also mentioned a lot of details that he wasn’t sure about some of the traditions. He knew what they were and how to do them, but he never really considered why. They were just his way of life. His normal. It wasn’t until he experienced new cultures in coming to America that he began to think about why.

In addition the traditions aren’t static, they adapt. Fir instance he joined his mom and sister in cooking, and as he’s grown older, they no longer eat the rice. This just goes to show how traditions can change over time. As other cultures and norms change, some traditions might be viewed as less important, childish, or outdated, and may be cut or replaced by new traditions.

The costumes (red and white clothing) serve to show who is participating in the holiday. They serve as a physical representation of membership in the folk group, community, and celebration. They have symbolic significance, but my friend didn’t focus on the colors’ meaning. What mattered to him was that the colors represented Bangladesh and, more specifically, the country’s holiday. The same could be said about the hilsa fish and fermented rice. The meaning of each individual piece might not be significant or known to every participant, but the larger cultural meaning of being Bangladeshi and “in” on the tradition is where the meaning lies.

I also found that Dhaka’s procession, animal floats and general celebration style is protected under UNESCO, but not the holiday itself.

After moving to LA, he and his family had to change their traditions even more. He said that the celebrations are fragmented. Despite the large Bangladeshi population in K-town, it seems most celebrations are held at home and don’t last as long as they do back home. This shows how, as cultures and ideas spread to new communities, they must change and adapt to those communities. It seems the Bengali population in K-town is not unified yet to come together as a community and celebrate. But, it could also be because K-town isn’t “home.” His family just immigrated fairly recently, so they don’t have the same communal bonds they had back home. So that could be a factor as well. In LA, the family becomes the folk group, whereas back home, it was the community or even the nation as a whole.

The Shotgun

Age: 21

Collected 4/22/2026

Context:

My roommate, who is of Irish-American descent, told me the story of when he first went shooting. We met in high school and have been friends for about 8 years now. He told me in our apartment kitchen after asking about his family traditions.

Text:

His family first immigrated to New York in the 1800s. About a century later, he told me that his great-grandpa bought a “classic Baretta double-barreled shotgun like you’d see in Red Dead” for hunting ducks in Maryland. Nowadays, my roommate and his dad often go hunting in the woods in Montana, and he fondly remembers that core memory with his dad of when he first learned to shoot.

My roommate told me that back when he was 15, his dad took him to a gun range in Lake Piru, California, to learn how to shoot. The event wasn’t specifically on his birthday or any particular day, as he can remember. But it was sometime soon after he turned 15. In his family, “each male for the last 3 generations has learned to shoot the same double-barreled shotgun.” The shotgun is a family heirloom that he suspects his Irish immigrant great-great-grandfather bought, for hunting and it’s been passed down steadily from father to son.

While at the range, his dad started with gun safety. Essentially, just the basics, like “don’t aim it at people or things you don’t wanna shoot.” He also learned to respect the weapon, “don’t treat it like a toy,” and not to throw it around or handle it roughly. As far as he knows, the shotgun has been largely kept in good condition, and most, if not all, of the parts are original. The wood stock and grip are lacquered with oils to keep it clean and in good condition. When it finally came time to shoot, his father showed him how to stand and helped him aim. When he pulled the trigger, the gun went off, but he found out that it was loaded with a blank. He told me that he and his dad first shot a blank to get a feel for the recoil.

After handling the recoil, he began to shoot at the clay pigeons launched in the air at the range. He said his dad wanted to teach him how to hunt, so moving targets were a great way to get into it. After shooting, he explained that his dad showed him how to clean and take care of the gun. Later, when he turned 18, he was allowed to have his own gun under different state laws. He hasn’t shot the shotgun since; it serves as a ceremonial piece.

I asked him if there was a specific time or moment when he learned, but he can’t remember. But he did say it was a moment when he started to feel more grown up. He told me that his sister also learned how to shoot. He couldn’t say whether she got the exact same treatment. But their father took her to a local range and taught her to shoot the same shotgun.

I asked if he would continue the tradition. He told me “that he plans to “of- course man.” The shotgun will be passed to him and he plans to pass it to his kids when they’re born and ready. He feels that the passing of the shotgun and the instruction in how to shoot are a metaphor for life. He and his family “value being responsible and self-sufficient.” He said it felt pretty special to be the fifth in his family to hold and shoot the gun. As the sole male child and heir to the family name, he felt it was a really special moment to step into the shoes that his family had left. To fulfill expectations and continue the legacy.

Analysis:

This was a cool story to hear; my roommate hadn’t told me about it before, and I’ve known him for around 8 years now. It was a pretty nice story and makes sense because his family has a strong military background dating back 3 generations. Shooting, hunting, gun safety, and responsibility are all very important to him and to his family.

I think the ritual serves three main functions besides bonding. The first and more obvious is that the ritual serves as a lesson in gun safety. It’s a father teaching his son how to properly hold and shoot a weapon. He learned discipline and responsibility, and it made him interested in the responsible use of weapons at a young age. It teaches real safety skills for young people and taught him the power and potential danger of weapons.

I think an equally important purpose for this event is to serve as a passing of the family legacy. Family is a big thing for him; he cares a lot about that lineage and is proud of where he comes from. The fact that the same gun has been used by all the males in his family says a lot. It is their legacy, their transition into adulthood, and their father passed that legacy to him so he could learn what it means to be a male in their family. His sister also learned and got the same experience. But my roommate said she isn’t as interested in the legacy, shooting, or the shotgun as he is. Also, he will inherit the weapon, not his sister. By learning with that gun, he is an active participant in that tradition and now a part of that shared family history. He remarked that it felt really special to him to be part of that. I asked him, and he explained that he did have a connection to that story. But for him, the most important thing it did for him was teach him responsibility.

The gun itself is also a physical representation of that legacy. It has existed for over a century and serves as a marker of his family. Sure, other guns exist, but this is his family’s gun. He adds meaning to it by using it, continuing that legacy, and being interested in teaching his children how to shoot that gun.

A final, deeper meaning is that the lesson served as a rite of passage for young men in his family. In a way, it created a liminal space to help facilitate the transition of children to young men. The lessons it taught him about weapon safety carry over to real life. Being disciplined, respectful, self-sufficient, and responsible are all qualities that he holds dear. He and I agree that those values probably stem from the family’s deep military history. Those are all imparted to him through that event.

It’s also interesting to me that I just found out about this. I knew he knew how to shoot, but I didn’t know it was such a significant family tradition. I know a lot about him since we’ve known each other for 8 years, but that story seems to be sacred and personal. It’s also funny because at first glance, my friend doesn’t look like someone who would have traditions. He grew up in a suburban neighborhood in what our other roommate would call a “boring” neighborhood. But this just showed me how much folklore and culture are lying just under the surface. I’ve known him for so long, but all I had to do was ask, and it seemed there was more to my friend that I hadn’t learned.

It also challenges my pre-existing notion that folklore is foreign or unique to a specific identity. Folklore is all around us; we just forget to pay attention because it’s “normal” or we’re used to it. I mean, this is a dude who’s got red, white, and blue coursing through his veins, and yet he has some great traditions. This is just a great reminder that folklore is often studied from a distance because the stuff close to us blends so well into our daily lives.

Weaving Air – Muslin

Age: 25

Date Collected: 04/30/2026

Context:

My informant is a good friend of mine who immigrated from Bangladesh for his college education. He was telling me about the story of a legendary fabric from his hometown, Dhaka, Bangladesh. He told me when we were hanging out outside of the USC Fisher Museum of Art.

Text:

Me: Okay. So you were telling me a little bit about back home in Dhaka, that’s where the muslin fabric comes from. Right?

EJ: Yeah, thats where its from. There used to be like this whole area kind of like the Arts District in LA like a municipality where they would make this cotton fabric. It’s unique because it was so thin, they called the skill “weaving air” because it was so light and thin, and that’s like one of the things that we’re very proud of culturally. They used to be able to weave it so tight the thread counts were really high. You could fold it up into a matchbox.

Me: You told me earlier that they don’t make it the same anymore right? Can you talk a little more about that.

EJ: Yeah for sure.. I don’t know the whole story, but I just know that it originates from Bangladesh. Dhaka is exactly where it comes from. Dhaka used to be like a hub of culture and and money and then in about sometime in like whenever, the the English colonized it. They took the fabric for their royalty. The royalty and wealthy used to wear this in Bangladesh. The English took it and brought it back home and they cut off the hands of the weavers who would make this fabric.

Me: Jesus. Why do you think they’d do that?

EJ: I think they just didn’t want people who were wearing the same things as their royalty.

Me: Yeah, that sounds like the English hahaha. So there’s no more muslin makers in Dhaka.

EJ: No, not like that. The old ways were lost. After loosing their hands, they couldn’t make any anymore, so they retired and the art was lost.

Me: But, is it extinct?

EJ: No, there’s new places that make them still by hand. But it can’t fit into a matchbox and isn’t the same. They can’t do the same techniques.

Me: Do you have any in your family, or have you seen it before?

EJ: No, I don’t think we have any. But, I’ve been to weddings and they have it there.

Me: That sounds like a terrible thing to accidentally misplace. Oh also earlier you were also showing me that Instagram reel that was kind of showing appreciation for Bangladeshi culture, right? Like how it’s reflected in modern life and also in the future.

EJ: Yeah, yeah, that reel was kind of just talking about how the muslin was used on the first airplane that the Wright brothers flew, and also on the Artemis II, which is really cool.

Me: How do you feel about seeing part of your culture being used by other people? Is it like something that makes you happy or a little upset?

EJ: You know, it’s really cool to see Bangladeshi culture being represented, especially on huge moments in like this.

Me: Yeah, I can imagine there’s a lot of pride in that, cause I mean, this is essentially the future of humanity, and your culture is playing a huge role in that. Man might not have been able to fly or land on the moon if it weren’t for those weavers and your culture’s history.

EJ: Exactly.

Analysis:

I did a quick search to see what is true, and what might be more folklore from the story. From what I could tell, Dhaka is genuinely one of the most impressive textiles ever made. The Wright brothers did not use any Dhaka Muslin; they used an “Americanized” version that was derived from the impressive tradition. The muslin used on the Wright brothers’ plane was taken to the Moon by Neil Armstrong and later to Mars by the Ingenuity rover.

What might be more folkish is that the Wright brothers did not actually use Dhaka’s muslin. Also, the hand-cutting story is not historically verified, but that doesn’t mean it never happened. What is true is the major damage done to the Bangladeshi people as a result of the English colonists.

The history of muslin reflects the beauty and majesty of old Bangladesh. As my friend mentioned, it thrived culturally and economically. Then the English East India Company came and colonized the country. In the process, many fine folk arts were lost. The story of the cutting of hands might be true, but whether it is literal or not, the imagery is symbolic for what the English colonization of Bangladesh did to the Bengali people. The cutting of their hands represents the stripping of culture, practices, and traditions. The legend of cutting hands doesn’t have to be historically accurate to be insightful and meaningful. It is a way to deal with the loss of identity as well. Hands are essential for making a living; they hold our fingerprints and identity. When the English “cut off” their hands, they were cutting off the ability to live and continue as they had before.

My friend had pride in saying that you could fold a full muslin outfit into a matchbox size. The image is impressive and impossible, showing the value of the golden pre- colonial era. The pride in calling it “woven air” seems to stand in for the old ways as a whole. Traditions were lost; they weren’t all perfect, but they were irreplaceable and, most importantly, they were Bangladesh’s. The fact that no one has ever been able to accurately replicate the hand-woven artistry of Dhaka’s weavers once again communicates that something irreplaceable was lost when Bangladesh was colonized.

It’s an interesting choice in story to tell me. I had been asking him for examples of Bangladeshi culture, foods, festivals, stories, jokes, sayings, and more. From all of them, he told me this one, which is quite interesting. When he first told me, he made sure to mention the impact he learned from the Instagram reel. That THIS is his culture and it had an undeniable impact on human history. He didn’t have to explain what the muslin meant culturally, and I didn’t necessarily even need to understand. The story communicates Bangladeshi pride in a way that anyone can understand and appreciate.

Looking at the full arc is quite interesting too. We saw a folk art that was a people’s pride that got stolen by outsiders and used to dress their royalty. The creators were no longer able to make it, and the tradition seemed lost. But centuries later, it was brought into the limelight as part of humanity’s journey into space. The story reframes the tragedy and pain into a story of how Bangladesh made something that monumentally changed human history forever.