I have been thinking about the recent visit of BAPS Swaminarayan monks to the Eiffel Tower, and it brought back an experience of my own that I have never quite known how to articulate. Some time ago, I was staying at an accommodation where Swaminarayan monks were also living next door. They followed a practice of not “seeing” women, which meant that, at certain hours, I could not access some common areas. My first reaction was indignation. I remember thinking: Is this not exactly why women have to try twice as hard to be considered half as good? As someone who has always been outward-looking and travelled extensively, I was even tempted to write an X thread about how such seemingly regressive practices could thrive in the 21st century. And then something unexpected happened. The monks cooked their own food — simple, beautiful sattvic meals. Their sahayaks began leaving breakfast, lunch and dinner for me too, checking whether I needed more or less. Once, in passing, I mentioned that I particularly liked one of the desserts. Somehow, that comment reached the monks, and they began making extra desserts because they had heard that I loved them. The day I left, they even packed me a meal for the road. The care was difficult to explain. It was quiet and completely unselfconscious — simply an attentiveness to whether I had eaten, whether I needed something, whether I was comfortable. My initial irritation slowly transformed into a feeling I have experienced very few places outside my own home: the feeling of being cared for almost as one is cared for by one's parents. It made me question my own assumptions. Sometimes, a practice that appears exclusionary to us may have a very different meaning within the spiritual framework of those who follow it. That does not mean every practice is beyond scrutiny. If women are asked to temporarily leave a space when Swamis visit, it is entirely legitimate to ask why, whether they have a choice, whether they feel humiliated, and whether anyone is actually being harmed. But perhaps we should investigate such questions without deciding the answer beforehand. There is, however, another responsibility — particularly when such traditions travel abroad. Practices that have evolved within a specific cultural and spiritual context can lose not merely perspective, but context itself, when transplanted into another society. In Bharat, someone may understand a monk's practice through familiarity with its traditions, vocabulary, discipline and philosophy of renunciation. In Paris, London or New York, someone encountering it for the first time may have none of that context. What is understood internally as spiritual discipline can therefore appear externally as discrimination or humiliation. This is something BAPS must be conscious of. When traditions enter public spaces abroad, intentions alone are not enough. The host society encounters the action, not the internal reasoning behind it. There is therefore a responsibility to explain, contextualise and, where appropriate, adapt how such practices are conducted in shared public spaces. That does not mean abandoning religious beliefs. It means recognising that religious freedom and cultural sensitivity must travel together. My experience taught me not to judge unfamiliar traditions solely by their outward appearance. But it also taught me that those who carry traditions across cultures have an equal responsibility to ensure that unfamiliarity does not become needless offence. We should be able to hold both truths at once: traditions deserve scrutiny, women deserve dignity, and unfamiliar practices deserve understanding before condemnation.