"Me no meat" & other South Asian American narratives

“ME NO MEAT” & Other South Asian American Narratives

“ME NO MEAT”& other South Asian American narratives

Compiled and Edited by Charu Sharma

Copyright © 2014 by Charu Sharma. All rights reserved

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Index

Chapter 1. Me no meat ………………………………………………………………………..3

Chapter 2. Tangled Threads …………………………………………………………………11

Chapter 3. A HinJew explores her roots ………………………………………………18

Chapter 4. From Berkeley to Bangladesh ……………………………………………..25

Chapter 5. Tanglish: Struggles of a Split Personality …………………………..29

Chapter 6. Someday Starts Today…………………………………………………….…….38

Chapter 7. A Journey of Dharma …………………………………………………………..44

Chapter 8. Becoming a modern Indian woman ……………………………………..51

Chapter 9. Owning my Indian identity …………………………………………………..57

Chapter 10. Sex and All the Questions ………………………………………………….63

Chapter 11. What’s in a name? ………………………………………………………………77

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Chapter 12. The American Dream ………………………………………………………….80

Chapter 13. Say ……………………………………………………………………………………….87

Chapter 1

ME NO MEAT

- Hetal Jannu

"Me no meat." This was the first broken English sentence spoken by a

terrified 5 year old on her first day of school in America, after having stepped

off the proverbial "boat." Reflecting on these three simple words, I realize

that sometimes, knowing what you don't want in life is equally as important

as knowing what you want. As an Indian who was raised in America, I knew

that I did not want to be an "ABCD" or "American Born Confused Desi," a

derogatory label for those Indians who didn't have a clue about the Indian

culture. This conscious, yet sometimes subconscious, thought guided me

through my adolescence.

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I immigrated to the US under unusual circumstances. I would be

meeting my father for the first time at the age of five and my mother after

several years, an unfathomable notion for most children. My mother was

pregnant with me in India when my father travelled to the US to further his

education. With tight financial resources and strict immigration laws, my

father was never able to return to India to meet me. My mother soon

followed my father to the US, leaving me and my brother in the care of my

grandparents. Living in a joint family, I was oblivious to the norm where

children had a mother and a father. I never really knew what parents were

or missed having them. When my dad picked me up from the airport and

took me home for the very first time, someone asked me what I thought of

him and I remember saying, "I thought he was the driver." Children are as

resilient as they are adaptable and I quickly found my place in a nuclear

family, quickly accepted my two parents and quickly mastered the English

language - "I am a vegetarian."

Like many immigrants in the 1970s , my parents carried with them the

culture, the mannerisms and the sense of what it meant to be Indian. And

like many immigrants, they passed those 1970s values on to their children.

Even as India modernized over the years, mimicking western trends and

values, the children of these immigrants continued to hold on to the original

set of values.

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As first generation immigrants, my parents tried their best to keep the

Indian culture at the forefront. They insisted that my brother and I speak our

native language, Gujarati, at home and English was reserved for school. In a

very short time, I was fluent in both languages. Though my parents were not

overly religious, our family visited the Hindu temple and I learned about all of

the gods and goddesses. Every friend of the family was either my "aunty" or

"uncle" and I was expected to treat them with the utmost respect. My

parents also shielded me from what they thought were "unacceptable"

western behaviors. I was not allowed to wear miniskirts, not allowed to

disrespect my elders and not allowed to date.

Children who grow up in an ethnic household in America have two

choices: embrace their ethnicity and allow others to accept the cultural

differences or try so hard to hide the differences that it becomes almost

impossible to find their own identity. United States in the 1970s was quite

different from today. When I looked around my classroom of 25 students, I

was the only Indian. My parents got excited when they spotted another

Indian family shopping at our local grocery store, sometimes even stopping

to chat. Yoga, meditation and Chicken Tikka Masala had not hit mainstream

yet. And without fail, when I told my classmates that I was Indian, the

question back was almost always, "Which tribe?"

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Armed with my 1970s Indian values and my parents' constant

guidance, I decided early on to accept my differences. After all, though not

American born, I knew I was not going to be labeled an "ABCD." Knowing

what you don't want can free up precious time in deciding what you do want.

For me, as for many young people, my parents' approval and acceptance

meant everything. I was certainly going to embrace my culture and make

them proud, but I was going to do so on my own terms. I wanted to fit into

western society but at the same time, I needed to be accepted as is. I tried

my best to expose my non-Indian friends to Indian food, Indian festivals and

even taught them a few Indian words. They were more understanding of my

differences and even intrigued once they were familiar with my culture.

Over the years, it became increasingly easier to be an Indian in

America's melting pot, though I'm sure the youngsters of today are facing

their own set of issues. More and more immigrants from all over the world

brought over their own culture, food and customs, allowing everyone to

become familiar with once foreign concepts. From being the only Indian in

my classroom in elementary school, I was part of a rather large Indian

Students Association in college.

If I think about one activity that shaped me and my future, it was

eating dinner together with my family every evening. Everyone waited to

eat until we were all present, even if it meant that we waited well past

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normal time. Most parents ask their kids the obligatory question, "How was

school?" Most kids answer with an equally obligatory, "Fine." Sitting around

the table while enjoying a delicious meal gave each of us an opportunity to

elaborate on our day and share our thoughts. It was the time for us kids to

talk about our friends, upcoming tests or other interesting happenings of the

day. It was my parents' time to instill upon us our customs and stories from

their past.

Preparing dinner was also equally important. My mom and dad were

both fantastic cooks and made sure that I knew the basics of Indian cooking

from a very early age. Since I was naturally interested in food, I started to

experiment with different cuisines. I would try to replicate the recipe of an

item we ate at a restaurant or being a vegetarian, I would make traditionally

non-vegetarian food with my own vegetarian or Indian twist. I made my

share of mistakes, but thankfully, my parents always reacted to my creations

with great enthusiasm. Without the fear of failure, I was able to learn from

my mistakes and continually improve my cooking skills.

When it was time for me to think about marriage, things got somewhat

complicated.

From my upbringing and personal experience, I knew I would marry an

Indian. Though I had many non-Indian friends, I always felt that I had less

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explaining to do with my Indian friends and that they understood me. I met

my future husband in college and we were friends for a few years before I

knew that I wanted to marry him. Even though he was Indian, he was not

from the same part of India as me. My parents approved of him as a friend,

but they were still holding on to their 1970s Indian values and would not

accept me marrying him. "He's great, but he is not Gujarati. You don't speak

the same language. What will our family think?" After many arguments and

tears, they finally agreed to the marriage. Surprisingly, once the decision

was made, it was full force ahead with joyous and endless wedding

preparations. I will forever hold dear my dad's words a few years before he

passed away. "I could not have found a better person for you to marry."

Now with a family of my own, I often look back on how my parents

raised me and I can understand the frustrations they must have faced being

adult first generation immigrants. The food, the culture, the education -

everything was foreign to them. They successfully imparted on me the

wisdom of what they knew, however, I was left to find my own way for

everything else. I learned to be "Indian" when the situation required it and

equally "American" when it was appropriate. This dual-faceted ability has

been a boon in raising my own children.

Like my parents, I find myself imparting on my children the values and

culture of 1970s India. Sometimes, it makes sense to them, sometimes, they

don't have a clue what I'm saying. Unlike my parents, I am able to relate to

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my kids' school system, their friends, wardrobe choices, homecoming dates,

etc. I find myself being strict on issues such as grades and good manners,

but more lenient on those things I thought my parents were unreasonable.

Many of the children I knew growing up refused to acknowledge that

they were Indian. They did their best to avoid Indian social gatherings or

associate with Indian friends. Instead, making the decision to accept and

embrace my cultural differences from the beginning allowed me to be

successful in my career as an entrepreneur and the host of the online

cooking show "Show Me The Curry."

I had taken a few years off from my career as a financial analyst to

care for my young children, but when the youngest started full time school, I

dreamed of doing something challenging. Knowing my passion for cooking,

my husband offered a simple yet monumental suggestion. "Why don't you

make a video that teaches people how to cook Indian food? We can upload it

on YouTube." At the time, YouTube was just starting to gain momentum and

though there were countless websites for written Indian recipes, there were

no videos.

Coincidentally, my ShowMeTheCurry partner Anuja Balasubramanian

had recently moved nearby and shared my passion for cooking and

entertaining. One weekend, we rented a movie to keep our children

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occupied, handed our husbands a home video camera and some shop lights

that we purchased from our local hardware store and set out to film our first

cooking video. Though neither of us had any prior experience being in front

of a camera or teaching anyone to cook, our first video was well received --

well enough for us to continue making more videos.

In a short time, we realized that our children were severely neglected

on the weekends and we were forced to fire our husbands because they

couldn't stop laughing in the middle of our shoots. We decided that if we

wanted to pursue this line of work full time, we had to learn to do everything

ourselves and treat it like any other job where we would be off on the

weekends.

Once again, we both knew what we didn't want. We did not want to

make home videos hovering over our stove with a video camera in one hand

and a spatula in the other, while haphazardly throwing together a recipe.

From the start, we wanted our show to be professional in every sense,

something that could be on TV. Our recipes were well thought out,

researched and perfected before we filmed them. Over time, we acquired

better equipment and improved our skills both in front of the camera as well

as in post-production and our viewers have come to appreciate our efforts.

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Some of my viewers find it funny or unrealistic that I have an American

accent. "How can someone who sounds like that know anything about Indian

cuisine? She is putting on a fake accent and trying to sound like an

American. She must be an 'ABCD'." Though it bothered me at first, I look at

those comments now and smile. I am proud to have taken two very different

cultures and integrated them within myself. There will always be the few

naysayers but I am humbled to know that so many people around the world,

especially in India, watch me, accept me and allow me to teach them Indian

cuisine.

Sometimes knowing what you want is difficult. Allowing yourself to

think about what you don't want can open up alternative avenues and

perspectives. By not becoming the so-called "ABCD," I managed to learn

valuable lessons from my parents, things that I will pass on to my children.

Rather than discounting them, I learned about Indian culture, food, music

and cinema. I learned to balance traditional values in a modern world. Most

importantly, I learned that I could be as Indian or as American as I needed to

be.

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Chapter 2

TANGLED THREADS

-Shivani Srivastav

My mother always brought me fat books from the library; she knew I

would read them. But the July before fifth grade, two years after we had

moved to America, she got me the fattest book of all. Using both hands, she

pulled the large hardcover out of the blue book bag and said, “Read this

before you go back to school.”

I took it and looked at the cover. “This is the Bible.”

“Yes.”

“Why do I have to read the Bible? We’re Hindu,”

“Your dad is Hindu. You are half Hindu, half Sikh.”

“So we’re not Christian.”

“It doesn’t matter, everyone should read the Bible. And the Qur’an.”

So, I read the Bible before fifth grade. A year or so later, I followed up

with the Qur’an. The Bhagavad Gita, the Ramayana, the Guru Granth Sahib –

those were the everyday, the stuff of my grandmothers’ and mother’s

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stories. As we had in Bombay, in Boston we celebrated Lodi in the spring,

Diwali in the fall, and Christmas in the winter. The only difference was that

we replaced firecrackers on Diwali with a Christmas tree for the holidays.

Because my brother joined a Jewish pre-school, we also practiced Passover

one year. After all, if everyone else was celebrating, it was only fair that he

should too. We listened to shabads every morning in the car, sang bhajans

with my Baba and Dadi when we got home, and lip-synced qawwalis with the

movies. Because that was just the way it was.

That this was an exceptional way of life in America was a fact it took

me some time to grasp. I loved showing Bollywood movies to my friends, but

a pattern began to repeat itself. Whenever Shah Rukh Khan or Kajol or Rani

Mukherjee went to a church to pray, my friends would give me a weird look.

“What?” I would ask.

“Aren’t they supposed to be Hindu?”

I would shrug, unclear as to the importance of this distinction. “She’s just

praying….” and the question would drop.

After 9/11, these questions and the explanations I wanted to offer

became even more awkward. Even as a middle school student, I could tell

from watching the news that informing people that God is only Allah in

English to me might strike them the wrong way. Allah tero naam, Ishwar tero

naam (Allah is your name, Ishwar is your name) is a concept much easier to

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explain when you can sing the song, but there were no Indians at my school

to understand the reference. I realized that I knew more about other people’s

beliefs than they knew about mine, but no one seemed eager to ask

questions. So, in a land where people referred to the Qur’an as though it had

nothing to do with the Bible, I learned to hold my tongue.

In my home-life, things stayed the same. God was a constant,

appearing in many different languages and usually in song. My Dadi and

Baba, my father’s parents, have always lived with me. Some of my earliest

childhood memories are of sitting on their bed and learning the bhajans,

Hindu hymns, that my Baba composed himself. On special days, days I

dreaded in my petulant adolescence, my whole family would gather and sing

these bhajans. My grandparents’ room downstairs in our Boston house and

their small Ram-Sita shrine was the setting for such events. Family being a

necessarily fluid notion, we could often gather at least twenty people –

aunts, uncles, cousins of all ages – for our singing sessions. Of course,

numbers increased vastly during holidays like Holi, Diwali, and the new big

holiday Thanksgiving, where going around the table and saying what we

were thankful for replaced singing as the key ritual.

Leaving home for college, I realized I missed these routines. My best

friend freshman year was Bahai, and I began attending Devotionals with her.

Sitting in an apartment and eating real food, true luxuries for the dorm

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resident, I learned how to pray the Bahai way. There would be books

scattered on the coffee table, and everyone sitting around would read

silently. When moved, someone would read out a bit from one of the books.

The Qur’an, the Gita, Rumi, Kabir, the teachings of Baha’u’llah: a universe of

books lay on those tables. I relaxed in the presence of this open mixing, this

declaration that reading any of these books could give me peace. I would

often read aloud, and never from the same text twice. When people sang

Bahai songs, I mouthed along till I learned the words. Once in a while,

someone would ask me if I was Bahai or planning to convert. Unable to offer

the explanations I had long suppressed about the many threads of my

spirituality, i stopped going to the Devotionals altogether.

The next year, I made friends with a girl involved with the Christian

Intervarsity group on campus. Noticing my interest in Christianity, she

invited me to lecture after lecture put on by her group. At the end of my

Junior year, this led to my acceptance of an invite to the end-of-the-year

retreat for her group. Anticipating a relaxing post-exam camp in upstate New

York with kayaking and zip-lining, I didn’t realize I was the only non-Christian

attending the five-day retreat which consisted of six hours of Bible study

each day. On the first day, walking into a room full of Bibles with strangers

whose opinions on my outsider status I didn’t know, I felt like slinking back

out. But, other than the praying, Bible study was a lot like English class. It

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was only on the third day when I noticed the theme for the passages we

were studying: conversion.

I had a nervous breakdown on the fourth day. I sat in the bedroom

while everyone was out kayaking and cried. Ellen, the leader of Bible study

back at Penn, noticed.

“Are you alright?” she said, coming in and sitting down on the floor next to

me.

I snuffled.

“I have been meaning to talk to you, ask you if you are alright. I know this

must be a lot.” When I didn’t answer, she kept going. “I am really glad you

came, you know. It is wonderful to hear your perspective on things.”

I wanted to tell her that all the texts were about conversion. That it

would be easier to talk if I was 100% sure that she didn’t want me baptized

tomorrow. I blurted out, “I feel like everyone wants me to become Christian.”

Ellen cocked her head to the side. “I think people are interested in your point

of view. I know I am. No one needs you to convert.”

I looked down, trying not to read too much into her words.

“Are you having a good time at all?” Ellen asked.

I nodded, but stayed silent. There was a long pause during which I dried my

tears.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Ellen said, “why did you decide to come?”

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“I’ve read the Bible and the Qur’an and a ton of stuff like that,” I said,

“growing up in India we practiced a lot more of everybody’s religions. I

mean, we did that once we came here too. Religions are like languages for

me. Everyone is in different places, they made up different languages – they

made up different stories, different religions. I just see more of the

similarities between religions than the differences.” I said this almost in one

breath, expelling with force thoughts I had kept nebulous for years.

“So you never picked one?”

“No…. I’ve learned so many different things from all of them about

spirituality and God and everything. I can’t pick one, it wouldn’t feel right.” I

stopped. “Sorry, I hope I didn’t offend you…”

Ellen shook her head and shrugged. “I grew up with Christianity.” She

paused. “But I also grew up in one place. I guess it’s just very different for

us.” As a couple of people began walking into the room, she leaned over and

gave me a quick hug. “Let me know if you want to talk more about this.”

When I got back to Philadelphia, my parents were already in my

apartment packing up. We were planning to leave later that night to drive

back to Boston.

“So, how was Bible camp?” my dad asked.

“It was really great. We studied all these passages in Luke and did a ton of

stuff.”

“So, you’re not Christian now are you?” my mom asked.

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“No.”

“Good.”

“You know you’re the one who made me read the Bible in the first place.”

“To read it. I didn’t know you would go to Bible camp.”

“It was just fun, mom. We did a lot of outdoors stuff; I kayaked every day.

We didn’t spend that much time on the Bible.”

“Well that’s fine then. I’m glad you had a good time. You should do more

outdoors things. You aren’t going to Muslim camp next are you?”

“No mom.”

I am mixed more than was intended. I am in India right now. One

morning, my Chacha, Chachi, and Bua took me to the Hanuman Mandir, and

we sang the Hanuman Chalisa together. And then we went to Bangla Sahib

and ate prashad. It is comforting to know I am not an anomaly. And yet, here

too, everyone seems to spin one thread, to know either mandir or gurudwara

better. Somewhere in America, all my threads grew entangled. To this day,

every morning, my Dadi wakes up around 6 am to begin her prayers. My

mom opens the Guru Granth Sahib to a random page and learns from it her

lesson for the day. And I – when I am sad I sing the bhajans my Baba taught

me and read Sufi poetry. When I return to Philadelphia, I will go to church on

some Sundays. And if someone asks me my religion I will smile because I

have only one response: “Do you have time to talk?”

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Chapter 3

A HinJew Explores Her Roots

-Kesha Ram

I found myself shifting nervously in the sprawling lobby of a compound-

like hostel in Jerusalem, just a stone’s throw from the Mount Herzl Military

Cemetery and Yad Vashem Holocaust Memorial, where I had just spent a

profound and moving afternoon. The day before, I had done my best to pray

at the Wailing Wall and became teary thinking about my mother’s sacrifices

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during my makeshift Bat Mitzvah. I had come on Birthright, a free first-time

trip to Israel for Jewish young adults to foster a connection to Israel and

Judaism, so I could better understand and appreciate the moral and spiritual

foundation of “half” of my cultural identity. As my journey was coming to a

close, leaving me a lot to process, I was asked to try and articulate this mix

of thoughts and emotions to The Jerusalem Post.

The Birthright organizers had picked my story out to share with the

Israeli press and I was waiting to speak with Israel’s most widely circulated

English daily, auspiciously separated from the rest of the young people on

my trip, mentally preparing to answer questions about what it was like to be

a 25-year-old state legislator and how to account for having a long-term

boyfriend who was a nice boy, but not a nice Jewish boy – a source of

continual disappointment and explanation in Israel. The journalist sat down,

smiling as he pulled out a small notepad, and – swiftly setting aside the small

matter of being a state legislator in the United States young enough to be on

a Birthright trip – asked the question that interested Israelis far more: “So

what does it mean to be a HinJew?”

That is the question I have been asking myself for most of my life,

confronted by puzzled looks and ‘pick one’ boxes since childhood. Put

simply, I was raised by a Hindu father who immigrated to the United States

from India to access a world-class education and a Jewish mother whose

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great-grandparents came through Ellis Island to seek economic opportunity

in Chicago. I am part of a multiracial and multicultural generation made

possible by legal and cultural barriers being broken in America, and yet I still

struggled to define myself and tell my story. Which is why I found myself in

Israel, the subject of an article that would come to be titled “A ‘HinJew’

explores her roots.”

My roots have never run deep, but have stretched outward. They have

taken me from Illinois to Israel to India and back, searching for wholeness. At

the same time, I have much to be proud of from this global heritage. I am the

great great granddaughter of Sir Ganga Ram, who was said to have read in

the street lamps of Lahore to educate himself, knowing no other way out of

poverty. He went on to become one of the most revered engineers of late

colonial India and helped pave the way for its independence by investing his

wealth in schools, especially for women and girls. My father’s cousin,

Baroness Shreela Flater, started her career as a counselor for refugee

women outside of London and now serves in the House of Lords as the first

woman of South Asian descent appointed to the British Parliament. She was

once accosted on London public transit by a white war veteran who claimed

immigrants like her had no place in a country for which he had fought. Fed

up with the lack of recognition or reverence for men like her father, who

fought alongside the British with countless other Indians and citizens of

Commonwealth countries in World War II, she enlisted the help of Prince

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Charles and created a monument dedicated to those forgotten soldiers in

front of Buckingham Palace.

Then there is my grandmother, my Dadiji, moved to the United States

from India the day before I was born. “You waited for me,” she liked to say.

Whatever she lacked in her own upbringing as an Indian woman at the turn

of the century, she heaped upon me in scores. As a squirmy toddler on her

warm verandah in Los Angeles, I sat for hours taking dictation and learning

to read under her tutelage. To her, if I was not two grades ahead in my

subjects, I was falling behind. Even up until her recent passing, when she

would ask what I was busy with and I would say I was still in elected office,

she would inevitably stop me with a placating "That's nice, Kesha,” and then

move rather impatiently to, “But what are you studying?"

She had survived the Partition of India with very little but the clothes

on her back. She fled the region of India that became Pakistan with my

grandfather and her two young children - my aunt and father. They lost a life

of relative comfort and wealth, but persevered. She lived out her final years

in our guest house and carried herself with pride and dignity, but I don’t

think I fully appreciated the beauty of her life until after she passed away

and we took her ashes to the Holy River to lay her to rest. I had the

opportunity to visit her last home in Punjab where they had made one last

attempt to rebuild their lives across the newly cut Pakistani border. It was in

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Hoshiarpur, a very modest and dust-choked town, nothing much to speak of,

and I felt I might be searching for healing and closure in vain.

When we finally arrived at the house after getting lost a few times as

my aunt and father tried to trace the way back from decades-old memories,

we were standing in front of a lavender, one-story cement structure. It had

clearly gone through many layers of paint and been abandoned for quite

some time, so there was no one to inquire with about past occupants or

future plans. We had all but given up, when we met a woman who was the

caretaker of the grade school next door and her five-year-old daughter. They

told us through my father’s interpretation about the tenants who had cycled

in and out of the home, and then led us to the backyard.

My eyes were instantly drawn to the massive, glossy, broad-leaved

mango trees towering over us. My aunt recalled, with some jest, how Dadiji

would travel all over Punjab on the bus to find the best mango saplings. It

almost seemed like a way to cope with settling in this new, unfamiliar place

but it drew the ire of my grandfather, who chided her for wasting time and

money. By the time my grandparents left, the trees were still young and did

not bear much fruit. When that story was told to the caretaker, she laughed

and began talking excitedly. As my father interpreted to me, in season, the

mango trees now bear more fruit than any for miles around, and all the

children at the school come to the yard to have their fill of juicy mangoes.

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This was my Dadiji, my life story, in these mango trees. Not knowing

what the future would hold, she still traveled great distances to choose the

best saplings. Without much power to change her circumstances and without

knowing what impact she would have, her seemingly inconsequential efforts

are now providing a modicum of nourishment and joy to hundreds of

schoolchildren.

As an elected official, I have my share of political struggles that do not

seem to be leading to visible outcomes, times when compromise and

claiming small victories keep me from seeing the bigger picture of my

efforts, moments where my hopes and dreams feel presumptuous and

distant. In those moments, I think of standing under a street lamp to make

out my lessons, turning a rude encounter into a national monument, or

traveling long hours by bus for mango saplings, and I know I come from a

long line of independence-seekers, refugees, and immigrants who didn’t just

accept what was there, but saw what could be. Whether it was the Partition

of India or the religious persecution of Jews in Europe, I was wrought out of a

long legacy of upheaval in which my ancestors found a path forward where

none seemed apparent.

The thread that runs through these stories is not just about reaching out, but

reaching back and leaving no one behind. It is a common bond between

Hindus and Jews, and something that helps me feel more universality than

duality in my identity.

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My parents both taught me the importance of giving back to my

community and standing up for what I believe in, no matter how difficult. As

the great Mahatma Ghandi states in his Principles of Nonviolence, “All life is

one. We are called to celebrate both our differences and our fundamental

unity with others. Our oneness calls us to want, and to work for, the well-

being of all.” Similarly, Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, who hosted Rev. Dr.

Martin Luther King, Jr. for Shabbat dinner the Friday before his assassination,

had this to say about the need for religious unity: “No religion is an island.

We are all involved with one another. Spiritual betrayal on the part of one of

us affects the faith of all of us. Should we refuse to be on speaking terms

with one another and hope for each other’s failure? Or should we pray for

each other’s health, and help one another in preserving a common legacy?”

I heard echoes of these sentiments when I introduced the junior

Senator from Illinois in my sophomore year at the University of Vermont.

Others clearly knew a lot more about this growing political rockstar in 2006

and were clamoring to get an autograph or handshake. I was nobody special,

but had gained a reputation as being unafraid to speak out on campus about

my beliefs. I suppose the logic, however faulty, might follow that I would be

able to handle speaking in front of a crowd of thousands with the nation’s

most popular orator at my back. Anxious as I was, I managed to get through

my brief speech with force and conviction, arguing that young people

25


needed to get involved in the political process and make their voices heard

or we were going to continue to feel the consequences of decisions made

without us. When this rockstar Senator got up to speak, he began to invoke

the cadence and spirit of the Civil Rights movement, began to talk about the

arc of the moral universe bending toward justice. He talked about his own

complicated past, with a mother from Kansas and a father from Kenya, and a

funny name that no one could pronounce. With a mother from Illinois and a

father from India, not to mention a similarly mispronounced name, all of a

sudden I was hearing my version of the American story being told. At that

moment, I thought to myself, if there is a place for him in politics, maybe

there is a place for me. Turns out we would both end up on the ballot

together, me in my first race for Vermont State Representative, and he as

the 44th President of the United States.

So where does all of this lead? How can I anchor myself as I forge my

own path? There is a lesson that nature can teach us about roots. I spent

more than one childhood camping trip staring up into the heavens at the

Giant Sequoias of California. These trees are the largest living things on

earth by volume. They can grow over 300 feet in height and over 50 feet in

diameter. The oldest known Sequoia is over 3,500 years old. How do these

majestic giants survive and thrive? One may think it to be counterintuitive,

but you will never see one alone and their roots are very shallow. That does

not mean their roots are not strong, however. Sequoias grow by spreading

26


their roots out and intertwining with the roots of other Sequoias – they grow

together in community. My roots stretch halfway across the globe, and they

may be shallow because of it, but they are strong. In this way, I can feel the

common striving of those who came before me, those who stand beside me,

and those I can help raise up.

Chapter 4

From Berkeley to Bangladesh

-Akile Kabir

I was born in Berkeley, California, a progressive college town, which in

the early 90s, was already home to immigrants of various back grounds. My

parents had a diverse group of friends and at the age of five, so did I. I guess

the fact of being South Asian American was not something that I gave much

thought to, possibly as a function of age or simply because it didn’t present

any problems or predicaments. We occasionally visited Bangladesh over the

summer and I was aware of the fact that this was where my parents came

from and as a result, I had a connection to it. I adored my relatives in

Bangladesh just as I adored my friends back in California. It was easy for me

to integrate and separate these aspects of my cultural background. Though I

27


felt that I fit in as an American kid, I was still aware and proud of my

Bangladeshi background. I attended an elementary school that encouraged

us to learn more about different cultures. Parents would come and give

presentations on Jewish holidays and Chinese New Year, often bringing in

tasty dishes related to the holiday. And so we kindergarteners came to

associate our respective cultural backgrounds with multiple snack treats and

no one was ever bullied or teased for being different.

I am sad to say that this lack of identity crisis did not last forever.

When I was seven years old, my family packed up and moved to Bangladesh

and suddenly, I was no longer Bangladeshi American. I was an Americanized

kid who had moved to Bangladesh, could not speak the language properly,

didn’t understand the metric system and was too sensitive to handle the

disciplinary style of Bangladeshi teachers. Suddenly, I was no longer a flower

child in tie dye t-shirts and leggings, I was an awkward misfit in a grey and

white uniform. McDonald’s was suddenly the holy grail that I no longer had

access too. I became a fan of WWF (as this was the only English speaking

show that aired on our television) and Bollywood movies. Thanks to family

support, and a couple of amazing best friends, I adjusted to this new identity

and my new home. Though to this day my conversational Bengali is

atrocious, I am glad that I learned to read, write and understand it. This

came in handy when my classmates, unaware of the fact that I understood

much more than they thought, would “secretly” talk about me in Bengali.

28


Alas, the period of identity crisis was not over for me. At age 15, once

again we packed up and moved, this time back to the Bay Area. As a

teenager, I was prone to delusion and so I believed that this transition would

be easy for me. After all, I still spoke English, I watched American TV shows

and I had visited every now and then. Why would it be difficult? There were

many reasons why. On the one hand, I was a pretty shy and reserved kid.

But in Bangladesh, I had friends that I had grown up with and who knew me.

We were all comfortable around each other and the concept of “making

friends” was something I didn’t need to think about. It just sort of happened.

I enrolled in a small American high school and pretty soon, people were

pretty comfortable with each other. I was too shy to include myself and once

again, felt like an awkward alien. This was exacerbated by the fact that after

dressing in a uniform every day, I now had to choose my own clothes and

chose poorly, and that I felt tiny compared to everyone. As a teenager, those

superficial problems were paramount to me. Not everything was a problem,

though. Having come from a school where we were prepping hard for the

O’levels, I was able to easily grasp the coursework at this new school. The

transition between the British and American school systems seemed to have

its benefits and I am thankful to have experienced both.

A year later, I transferred to a bigger school where it was easier for me

to make friends. I had friends who had spent their whole lives in the states

29


and those who had emigrated from other countries. Suddenly, that feeling

that I had in kindergarten returned—that it is possible to find common

ground with someone, no matter what their background is. Even during my

semester abroad in Greece, a country I had never been to, that sense of

being an alien did not return. I can go abroad and accept that I am different

but essentially the same as those around me. And after a while you realize

that part of the similarity is that everyone has something that sets them

apart.

That’s how I feel living in New York city. There are so many things to

do and so many types of people, that it’s hard not to find a niche. Then

again, is it even necessary to find one? Because of my varied experiences,

and the different people I have encountered over the years, my identity has

transformed and made me open to new experiences. Now I don’t see any

reason why identity needs to be a rigid entity, or something that we need to

fret about. I can be that same progressive Bay Area kid who attends

Bollywood dance class and will sometimes enjoy a Mango bar in Jackson

Heights. It’s a wonderful feeling and I hope it sticks.

30


Chapter 5

Tanglish: Struggles of a Split Personality

-Varun Chandramouli

Vigorously jerked out of my slumber, my eye lids were not very keen

on cooperating with me; the turbulence was rude and jarring to the torpor of

my tired body. As I lay lost in my thoughts, with my stomach grumbling and

31


the familiar uneasy ache of my legs I sincerely hoped we were almost there.

Although I am an avid flyer who loves nothing more than to rush beneath the

stars in a five hundred mile per hour Boeing 747, the fatigue and duration of

the almost twenty hour journey had caught up to me. My placid stream of

thoughts was rudely interrupted yet again with the unpleasantly accustomed

lurch in my stomach; the plane was on the descent. Minutes away from

touching down in the mother land, I exploded out of my seat with child-like

exuberance and looked to my right see my father fondly watching the

Chennai skyline from his window with a sincere, yearning expression

stretched across his face. Within a few moments, the dirty-yellowish lights of

Chennai International illuminated the runway as the pilot brought down the

Boeing gracefully from flight with the tires screeching and the flaps

extended. Eight thousand one hundred and ninety-two miles later, we were

home.

It did not take us too long to get through customs and security on our

way to the baggage area. My once stiff, lethargic and exhausted body was

suddenly charged and teeming with positivity, enthusiasm, and energy. I had

previously promised myself to enjoy and savor this trip more than on my

previous excursions. With two proud degrees from UConn, increased

maturity (highly questionable now that I mention it), and an increased grasp

on my mother-tongue, Tamil, I hoped to connect better with my family, the

situation, and internalize the various nuances of India. For as long as I could

32


remember coming to India was a highly conflicting process; a land where I

have had an abundance of joys, experiences and memories, but a place

where I was always in a state of both mental and physical discomfort.

An awkwardness that only occurs when one feels like a foreigner in

their own home country. A foreigner no more I exclaimed! This will be the

trip where I distance myself from the label and affectionately interact with

my uncles, aunts, cousins and strangers with the zeal and authenticity of a

true Indian. I really did not wish to come off like an unaffected, head above

the clouds kind of tourist (as my dear twin sister fondly describes my

persona during previous vacations to India) who reveled in the fact that he

was not from this country. In analysis, I realized that much of my behavior in

India was not intentional, or malicious, I simply was not as comfortable as

she was in accepting and adjusting to the vibe, rhythm, and norms of

socialization in India. With confidence and renewed vigor in my goal, I broke

my train of thought as Appa and I had reached the last security checkpoint in

the airport. I handed my passport to the guard as I prepared to exit the

airport, a joyful bounce in my step.

With a grand smile, I walked out of Chennai International and took my

first step onto the soil of my motherland in over fifteen months. Instantly I

felt the familiar sights, sounds, and smells of my mother country. An intense

wave of humidity engulfed me within seconds as the blare of horns, the buzz

33


of people conversing, and the sight of folks patiently waiting to receive their

loved ones from the airport. Craning my neck left and right, I finally located

my Mama, my mom’s eldest brother, who had tactfully located us moments

before. With a warm wave and a tender hug he embraced us and led us

towards the waiting taxis as he inquired about our journey.

Upon a few seconds many prospective drivers came up to my Mama

and Appa and asked if we needed their services. Immediately two of the

drivers were out of the race due to their exorbitant price tag and inability to

negotiate a fair deal; seeing this my Mama finally hired a more reasonable

fellow and instructed him to put our luggage in the back. Without any

hesitation, the drivers who were not hired by my Mama rushed to help as

well. Such kindred and supportive actions always seem to amaze me on

every trip. Even though there are 4.7 million people in the city of Chennai,

they all seem to embrace each other and form an interwoven, unbreakable

bond. Always willing to help and give genuine advice and assistance even

though they are not related by blood. This heightened level of camaraderie

and conviviality demonstrated at every juncture genuinely puts a smile on

my face as it demonstrates the love and inherent belief that life is only

better if everyone helps each other as much as possible, without selfishness,

and holding back.

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The immediate overwhelming positive snapshot of Chennai was jarred

within moments. After entering the vehicle, and exiting the airport parking

lot, we were driving back to Mama’s house when we were stopped by

Chennai police at a main intersection. Confused, I wondered why, seeing as

we were not speeding, and we were following all the rules of the road. Mama

by this time was deep in conversation with the officer. Within a few

moments, the driver calmly took two crisp hundred rupee notes and handed

it to the officer without another word. The car roared away instantly, with the

driver and Mama in complete harmony with what had just occurred.

That was quite a stark contrast to my emotions at that moment. Upon

demanding an explanation for what just occurred, Mama replied that the car

had been pulled over for a “routine safety check” as it was known. Safety

checks were pretty common in the city as some of Chennai’s drivers were

known to drive around in a state of inebriation especially late in the night

without seat belts or documents. The driver provided the needed documents

without haste to the officer but was not wearing his seat belt. As per the

rules, the officer takes down the driver’s information and fines him for

violating the safety regulation. Instead of taking accountability and

responsibility for one’s actions, it is actually much more common to bribe the

police officer so that he does not mark the driver for the violations. This was

exactly what had just happened. Even though I had seen many similar

35


incidents in relation to bribery on every India trip, it still does not make it any

easier to digest.

Disgusted, I thought how could officers of the law show such partiality

and not hold themselves and the citizens liable for misconduct? What kind of

culture are they promoting by doing such deeds regularly? How does one

learn to live at the highest standards of respectability if they can always pay

themselves out of every transgression? How can one become successful if

they adopt and ingratiate that mindset into their everyday lives? Most

importantly, how could a country which had so much positivity, support, and

humanity, also have such unlawful and irresponsible practices? With such

thoughts churning in my head, I fell asleep in Mama’s house struggling to

understand the powerful interplay of the dynamics that governed India.

Executing my goal was turning out to be even harder than I imagined.

My mother and sister arrived the next night to much fanfare. The

whole family was in extremely good spirits as two of our cousins were

getting married within a few weeks! The festive atmosphere was definitely

rubbing off on all of us as we tirelessly shopped, cleaned, organized, and

discussed every logistical aspect of the wedding. During this time I was

extremely proud of myself for my consistent effort in speaking Tamil as

much as possible. Usually on every India trip, I have some starting difficulties

in getting used to conversing in Tamil as it is clearly not my first language.

36


After a couple of weeks go by, my Tamil definitely gets more fluid and

natural, allowing me to speak without the fear of getting “stuck” and lost in

the middle of a conversation.

Getting stuck is easily the most frustrating and embarrassing thing

that happens to me every time. I tend to get stuck when there is a

dissonance between my inner voice, which is always in English, and my outer

or external voice which happens to be in Tamil during that moment. As my

Tamil does not have the same fluency and level of comfort as my English, I

find it difficult to express myself to the fullest in Tamil. Once I get stuck, I try

and swiftly change into English to try and draw attention away from my

minor gaffe before others realize what had happened.

Second, I also realized another reason I have been uncomfortable in

previous trips to India is my dependency on my parents and sister to

communicate for me because of the lack of fluency in my Tamil. My sister for

example, speaks Tamil very fluently with flair and authenticity, allowing her

to walk into any social situation and converse without any inhibition and

express her personality to her fullest extent. It is quite the contrary for me in

India as I usually saunter in to speak only the most basic of sentences and

smile my way through the rest of the conversation or allow my family to act

as my personal mouthpiece. Though it is more convenient at times to follow

37


this route than allow my conversational abilities in Tamil exposed, I realized

that it definitely alters and masks my personality and social presence.

As someone who is truly passionate about meeting new people and an

individual who enjoys the epic journey of life, it really made me feel

uncomfortable to realize I was not upholding the values I cherish most in

myself. A self-described socialite by nature who revels in interacting and

mingling with people in any situation, but is suddenly pumping the breaks

and changing his innate principles because of lingual issues? Not any more, I

decided with finality. If I was going to achieve my goal to be less of an

“American tourist” and be as approachable and authentic as possible, I had

to strip off the training wheels and fend for myself regardless of how often I

got stuck.

My new found resolve was surely tested during the wedding. As my

family only frequents India once in a few years, we were all bombarded with

plenty of new faces, awkward situations, and plenty of detailed questions

from random people I have never met. All was going as well as it could have

gone and I was generally pleased with how I had started to overcome my

shortcomings and converse with people as enthusiastically as possible.

During the reception, I along with my cousins were serving as the stage

guards helping to direct the immense flow of people who wanted to get

onstage to take pictures with the lovely newlyweds.

38


Listening to instructions from my Mama, we all did an admirable job

taking care of the flow of traffic and making everyone as comfortable as

possible. During the rush hour, someone came up and tried to get past me. I

politely told them that the line is on the other side of the stage. He, on the

pretense that we were best friends, kindly patted me on the shoulder and

asked if I was from the United States. After brushing off his hands I told him

that I was indeed a proud citizen of the United States. Laughing as though he

had made a great joke, he told me he could tell because I was trying too

hard to speak Tamil. Immediately I was taken aback and embarrassed by the

statement of this complete stranger. I wondered if indeed I was trying too

hard to fit in. Shaking it off, I continued to stand on the stage and conduct

the traffic.

Few minutes later, someone from the groom’s family walked past and

shook my hand. I politely congratulated him and wished him a very nice

evening. Laughing good naturedly, he responded by saying that I sounded

like a true American. Smiling graciously, I agreed with him and walked off the

stage to eat dinner with my cousins as the reception had come to a grand

conclusion.

Later that night as I tried to fall asleep, my uneasy mind kept circling

back to these two mundane interactions. For some reason I found myself

getting extremely upset and annoyed as I kept replaying those two

39


conversations. One person thinks I am trying too hard when all I am doing is

speaking my mother tongue with sincerity, whereas another person thinks I

sound like a “true American” just because I wished him a good evening. The

more I thought about those two incidents the more they seemed symbolic of

my whole identity.

The constant conflict I was in during every India trip: the struggle to be

true to my Indian culture, heritage and cultural upbringing while also

maintaining my innate liberal perspectives, personality and western

tendencies. Why was I trying so hard to be someone who I was not?? Even

though I had done fairly well during the day predominantly speaking Tamil

and trying to appear authentic, it was still a different mask I was wearing. My

personalities were not friends and definitely conflicted with each other. My

dominant “English” personality depicts a fun loving, care free, humorous guy

who handles social situations with utter ease, whereas my other “Tamil”

personality portrays a quiet, slightly awkward chump who does not look

forward to social situations and keeps more to himself. The stark differences

between my two temperaments really caught me off guard the more I

thought about it.

I was trying too hard to be someone that really was not me

fundamentally at all. It would be one thing if I maintained my normal

personality while speaking Tamil, but that was not the case. After

40


overthinking and scouring through these thoughts for too long of a time, I

decided to dismiss my previous goals for India and instead substitute a much

simpler one instead. Instead of feigning an authentic Indian personality to

appease those around me, I would just let myself be as natural and genuine

as possible. If I could find a way to be true to myself, those around me can

always appreciate that regardless of what language I speak. With the

satisfaction of coming to an important decision, I fell asleep with a big smile

on my face.

I finished the rest of my India trip with great fanfare! With more

weddings, baby showers, and family dinners, the trip was very memorable

indeed. I had spent the remainder of the trip speaking mostly in English. Not

because I was trying to accentuate any differences, but because I felt always

like myself when doing so. With my confidence soaring higher than ever, I

boarded the plane feeling extremely satisfied with myself for identifying and

labeling the fuzzy reasons why India was always uncomfortable. With a re-

engineered, more secure and mature identity, I bode farewell to my bustling,

energetic, and transformative hometown yet another time, thankful that it

had helped me understand it and myself, in a new and unforeseen way.

Chapter 6

Someday Starts Today

-Sejal Patel

41


According to South Asian society, I had it all. Good job? Check. Health?

Check. Good support system? Check. Sure, I was single—which some South

Asians see as a burden and my parents liked to remind me of every chance

they got, but I rarely let that be something that bothered me. At 27, life was

good—or rather, good enough. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was about

to change drastically.

Out of college, I landed a job with a great Fortune 500 company in a

role that many people would love to have—and I was doing pretty well. My

dad would call me every time the company’s stock price went up, urging me

to hold on to my stocks, acting as my own personal financial advisor. My

mom, who didn’t really understand what I did but knew that it meant I

worked odd hours and often took calls from home, would always ask me,

“Are you working? At home or in the office?” whenever I picked up her calls.

My siblings and my friends often came to me for my take on the latest

technology or newest startups because the world that I lived in meant that I

had to stay in the loop.

But I wasn’t all work and no play. In my own time, I lived a lifestyle that

I like to call ‘feast or famine’ which later became known as FOMO. Doing

something halfheartedly wasn’t in my DNA—either I was all in or burnt out. I

describe myself as an outgoing introvert who lives in a state of organized

chaos, who can’t sit still but can sleep like a rock (for short periods of time)

42


and who is constantly on the go but appreciates the joy in camping out on

the couch, being a bum. My interests are varied from watching and playing

sports, experimenting with new recipes and ingredients in the kitchen,

reading a book or learning a new skill. I love my sweatpants and dresses

equally, have a jewelry collection fit for a queen and a makeup collection

that rivals a beauty counter’s (though it goes through periods of collecting

dust because I can’t be bothered to always get dolled up). On a Friday night

you could find me on my way out of town for the weekend, hanging out at

home on the couch, out on the town with friends or even working (it’s

amazing how productive you can be on a Friday night, especially when it

comes to cleaning out your inbox).

My personal life was fairly lively. Even though my family lives in

different parts of the world, technology made it fairly easy for us to keep in

touch. Rarely does a day go by without a Whatsapp message from my

brother or sister and my parents text messages and emails are some of the

most entertaining pieces of communication I’ve ever received. My friends are

also spread out because of my time in Toronto, Illinois and Oregon—but

we’re still fairly close thanks to FaceTime, frequent flier miles and unlimited

night and weekend minutes. You’ll hear my friends who do live close by

complain that they have to ‘book time’ with me weeks in advance because I

was scheduled out with trips and dinners and parties. But they also know

that they could call me anytime, day or night, and I would drop whatever I

43


was doing for them. Anytime someone I know randomly meets someone else

that I also know, they would barely blink an eye at the small world

connection because allegedly I could give Kevin Bacon a run for his money

when it comes to degrees of separation.

So with all of that good stuff going on, what could possibly transform

my life? Was it a promotion and raise at work? Was it discovering a knack for

a special skill that would launch me into a career of fame and fortune? Did I

meet someone, fall in love and live happily ever after?

It was much simpler than that: it was an email. An email motivated me

to quit my job, get rid of most of my stuff and jump on a boat halfway across

the world. An email is what transformed my life from good to great.

I emailed a friend, who captains a charter boat in the Carribbean, and

asked where he was going to be in a few months so I could plan a trip to

visit. Imagine my surprise when he wrote me back sharing that he would be

sailing from Israel to the Bahamas during the time period I wanted to visit—

did I want to join them for an ocean crossing instead? HECK YES! Who gets

the opportunity to go sailing across an ocean on an incredible luxury yacht

with their friends? Apparently I do. But…I didn’t have enough vacation days

—unless I quit my job. But that’s crazy talk, right? Who leaves a good—nay,

44


GREAT—job to go sailing on a whim? Maybe some people would, but

especially as a South Asian female, this would be unheard of.

This is the kind of thing you would expect from a caution-to-the-wind

throwing, free-spirited, confident adventurer. Surely, that wasn’t me.

Growing up, I was the youngest of three children born to a Gujarati

immigrant couple. My dad started a business manufacturing printed circuit

boards and worked long hours to provide for the family. My mom spent most

of her time shuttling us around to school, sports, dance, birthday parties and

sleepovers, until my older brother and sister got their license and took over.

Even with a successful business and a strong financial foundation, a strong

work ethic was instilled in us and we were taught the value of a dollar which

contributed to our modest upbringing. My brother was the athletic one, my

sister was the smart one and I was the adaptable one who could fit into any

category you put me in. I was really good at making friends, mostly because

I was adaptable, extremely empathetic, I focused attention on other people,

and I was a good listener who remembered what you had to say. As a kid

and as an adult, I always played fair, I followed the rules and I would seek

consensus rather than conflict. And I naturally was aware of my actions and

how my actions would impact others, usually opting for the calm, even-

keeled route rather than disturbing the peace. All in all, I was the one you

didn’t have to worry about rocking the boat.

45


My life was laid out for me: you go to school, you get a job, you get

married, you have kids, you raise your kids. That was the general plan that I

was expected to follow from early on. There was no room for this kind of

adventure. I had already ‘broken’ some of the rules by moving over 10 hours

away to go to university—and then moving even further away for a job,

instead of going back home. I had become somewhat of a professional

wedding guest yet anytime an Aunty or Uncle asked when they’d be

receiving a wedding invitation from me, I’d smile politely as they gave me

advice on how to change my single status. I had veered away from the plan,

dare I break more rules? If I did this, I would, for the first time in 11 years,

not have a purpose that the masses could get behind. When you’re in school,

people understand that you’re a student working towards the goal of

obtaining a degree. When you’re working, people understand (to an extent)

what your job is, that you’re earning money to provide for yourself and your

future, and you’re working towards the goal of promotions and raises and

climbing the corporate ladder. When you quit your job to travel, you’re giving

up the stability of a pay cheque, you’re abandoning the progress you’ve

made in your career path, and you no longer have an answer that appeases

society’s idea of where you should be in your life…in exchange for

adventure, uncertainty and life experience?

I was looking at it all wrong. I was focusing on what I would give up by

taking this leap of faith instead of thinking about what I would gain. I was

46


prioritizing how this would impact other peoples’ lives ahead of mine. I was

letting fear cloud my mind instead of letting opportunity shine. Taking this

leap would mean casting off from the comfortable shores of my perfectly

cultivated world, a world that I worked hard at building and a world that still

had more to offer. Taking this leap sounded outlandish and daring—two

attributes that I didn’t associate myself with—as I would be walking away

from so much, yet I’d be walking towards even more. Taking this leap would

thrust my character and my strengths and my weaknesses, especially my

weaknesses, into the limelight as they would undoubtedly be tested with

changing plans or misplaced doubt or fear of the unknown. As non-traditional

and thick-skinned as I considered myself, there was no denying that there

are parts of my personality that are traditional and that wouldn’t be able to

block out the naysayers or criticisms that came my way. But, today was as

good as any day to take a step towards the person I aspired to be, the life

that I desired to live and the world that I craved to explore. There would

always be reasons to not do it, there would always be excuses to hold me

back, but there wouldn’t always be opportunities at my fingertips.

So I did it. I made the decision to leave my job and go travel—and the

response was overwhelming. My family was supportive from the get go, but

especially after hearing about the savings that I had accumulated over the

years that gave me a bit of a safety net. My friends were excited, and

envious, as they started throwing out destinations that I should set up shop

47


in so they could come visit, stat. And as sad as my coworkers were to see me

go, every single one of them encouraged me to go on this great big

adventure on one condition: I had to share my experience with them so they

could live vicariously through me. As I went through the motions of telling

people and sharing my plan it became clear that the biggest skeptic wasn’t

society, it wasn’t my family, it wasn’t my friends and it wasn’t my

colleagues; it was me. But with a little bit of guts, and a lot bit of support,

breaking away from the expectations and traditional path was easier than it

looked. Soon enough, I was setting sail towards my unknown destiny.

Chapter 7

A Journey of Dharma

-Priya Shah

"When he insisted on taking a stray dog into heaven, he performed an

act of dharma, showing that goodness is one of the few things of genuine

worth in this world that might take away some of the familiar pain of being

alive and being human..."

I read this excerpt in high school in a book I was reading for our South

East Asian history class, and it was this small passage that triggered a

realization for many things that were yet to come. Being a first generation

48


Indian in America naturally entails complexity growing up as you bring two

very different cultures together to make sense for you. My father was born

and raised in India and my mother, who is also Indian, was brought up in

Uganda and my brother and I were raised in Chicago. We all battled with

molding cultures in our lives but all in different ways.

What fascinated me about my Indian culture was this beautiful spirit of

history, complexity and meaning which brought calm to anyone immersed in

it. Going to Hindu temples while growing up and attending family puja’s, I

never completely understood all the rituals - no one knew it all - because it

was a practice that you continually learn from, perfect and understand and

that inherently brought patience… and peace. You learn there is never just

one way to do anything - which opened up this thought of “What else is out

there to understand?” And that inner question, in addition to my mother’s

encouragement to see the world, is what sparked a journey around the world

which poetically allowed me to arrive to where I am today.

Beginning in high school through college, my travels led me from

working in the slums of India and South Africa, to studying in Brazil, South

Africa and Turkey, in addition to attending conferences in Morocco and

Korea, amongst other travels. I liked to travel places that would trigger a

culture shock for me so that I could quickly heighten my awareness and in

turn raise my understanding of human-kind during every experience. Like for

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many people, travel triggered a certain awakening and freedom which

encouraged unrestricted dreams of possibility. How can I better understand

the problem of the people of this country? How can I bring awareness to it?

How can I fix it?

Experiencing another culture forces us to continually be open-minded,

enabling us to realize that a single thing can have various meanings, which

was a parallel with my understanding of the world through my culture. This

was an interesting realization for me and I began to seek out these

differences everywhere I went in order to understand people better, be able

to connect to them easily in hopes that I would eventually learn about what

other realities existed.

One awakening period for me was when I worked at Mother Teresa's

orphanage for a short period of time. At the orphanage, we ate, played and

hung out with children that had been abandoned in unimaginable ways,

scarred with body mutations because of suffering during their few years on

this earth and many other stories that could be thought as beyond possible

to any human being. Walking into a space knowing these stories were

written on every child within the room came off overwhelming - so

overwhelming in fact, that one of our supervisors, who was also a doctor,

would continually decline to participate on this part of the trip. He had visited

India many times before and he said this was the one place he could not visit

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because as a doctor, he felt he had the ability to fix things - but this, he

could not fix and it overwhelmed him. His explanation lingered with me as I

walked into the orphanage for the first time.

As I walked into the room, it was actually how I imagined it - a large

room full of 100+ simple, white, metal cribs equally spaced out across the

floor. On the left side of the room there was empty space which was used as

a play area and eating area where some kids had already gathered while

others laid in their crib, waiting to be picked up or played with. The range of

the conditions of the children was so vast that it took the group a back a bit

as we walked in. Children spanning from 2 to 13 years old carrying every

physical and mental disorder you would not imagine were put into this single

warehouse-like room and as a safety precaution, were not allowed to go

outside.

It took a few minutes for everyone to take in the image of the room

that was laid out in front of them before one of the nuns encouraged us to

just meet the children and break the ice, and begin playing. It was at the

moment I realized the adult fearfulness was actually stronger than a child’s.

After that moment, the day went beautifully - lots of smiles and

laughter, kids running around and a fun atmosphere that overtook the space.

Shortly after everyone was settled, there was this uncontrollable crying

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coming from a child right behind me. It went on for a few minutes and finally

I asked the nun what was wrong.

“He is crying because no one is playing with him,” she said.

I looked at the crying child and saw he had no legs and one arm -

which may have been the reason why others would have been intimidated to

approach him. I took him from the nun and carried him to the rest of the

children and asked him if he liked to dance. He instantly stopped crying and

nodded his head. I smiled and spun him around in my arms and like magic,

there was a burst of laughter, joy and happy energy exerted from a child

who only seconds ago screamed in such pain and sadness. It was that small

gesture, that small movement that colluded the conspiracy of pain and

sadness of that child’s life into a bright light that lasted the remainder of the

day. That was all it took.

I could not sleep on my flight home from that trip. That experience was

so powerful it made me wonder why I did not see this type of impact at

home. It was such a small gesture, yet so powerful - why was it only in India

did I see this magic conspire? And then it hit me - this magic does exist back

home - if we choose to see it.

As a society, we rush through life so quickly that we forget about how

connected we are to one another through the most basic and fundamental

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element of good in our world. Bringing into focus the incredible little things in

our lives can help us realize how human beings are connected to one

another through this basic element of good. My journey’s around the world

after that day allowed me to come to a realization that no matter where you

go in the world, good means the same to all of us - and that is what connects

us as human beings. This epiphany led me to an amazing journey which I

would never have expected.

I began sharing my stories with friends and family which led to us

looking through photos of all of our travels. It did not take very long to come

to a cosmic realization, that all of our pictures, no matter what country they

were taken in, were capturing the same moments - a sunset, a smile, a

moment of peace - moments of the simple good in our lives. It was an extra-

ordinary but simple realization that led to us pulling our favorite photos

together and their ‘simple good’ stories to start a blog which would hold all

these perspectives of good. We ended up compiling a set of 54 photos - each

from a different country we had traveled to, each with its own story.

Before we knew it, the photos and stories we posted on this blog

caught on fast - everyone loved the photos we posted and amazingly

connected to each story we told. We quickly opened up the blog to the public

calling for submissions for other meanings of ‘the simple good’ to collect

even more perspectives of this universal truth. Within a week, we began

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getting submissions from parts of the world we never expected - stories from

China, Italy, Spain, everywhere -and stories began flooding in, all with

inspirational moments on the realization of good in their lives. It was

amazing. It was powerful.

The blog was received so well that I knew there was more I could do. I

wanted to bring the movement that was happening in the internet world on

the ground, into the community, in order to bring this digital conversation to

life. I decided the best way to do this is to organize my own art showcase for

the community of Chicago.

Within a few months, the first Simple Good art showcase was put

together featuring the most popular Simple Good submissions posted to the

site. The opening reception brought in over 100 people who were all required

to bring in their own picture representing their meaning of their ‘simple

good’ as an entrance ticket. The photos brought in were also added to the

showcase so that participants could see not only the good from around the

world, but also within the room. The evening ended with so much energy and

positive feedback that I knew I had to continue this movement - and this

time it would be in the schools.

Chicago, unfortunately, is known for its gang and violence across a

very segregated city. While volunteering abroad was a passion of mine, I

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came to realize the same issues I worked with in India and South Africa were

replicated in my own backyard. The same needs were apparent, the same

type of poverty was rampant and the same outlet of hope was needed in my

own city. Through bringing an understanding of the simple good in our lives

to youth in Chicago, I felt there was an opportunity to spark realization and

positivity to communities that needed it most - in the same way I was able to

do so in India.

I proposed the idea of a simple good art program for youth. Students

would participate an after-school art program which required students to

paint a picture of their meaning of their simple good. The purpose was not

only to provide students with a creative outlet but to also develop a skillset

for students to learn how to appreciate the little things and to share that with

each other. I would provide the supplies and goal of the program

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Chapter 8

Becoming a modern Indian woman

- Nikitha Rai

Like many first generation Indian-Americans, I was raised hearing my

parents and relatives’ stories of struggling through the American dream, and

a simple childhood in India. I remember my mother describing being a young

girl in India, listening to western music and wearing shorts and skirts. Trying

to feel like a “modern Indian woman” and becoming the antithesis of her

own, my grandmother, who had traditional Indian beliefs on the role of

women in society. The Wrigley’s gum, Levi jeans and Michael Jackson music

that punctuated my mother’s adolescence, also shaped her desire to define

“modern Indian women” as a Princess Diana-like, fashionable, western icon.

Yet, my mother was similar in so many ways to the “traditional Indian

woman” that she strove not to be. She was raised in a time when a woman’s

sole responsibility was to get married and have children. She was

westernized, beautiful, hardworking and extremely intelligent and yet similar

to many women, she accepted an arranged marriage to a man she hardly

knew and gave up a chance at a career to help my father with his. My

mother’s representation of modern Indian womanhood was unacceptable to

me. I loved her dearly, but I could not fathom giving up a career to help my

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husband or never discussing my Indian heritage with anybody outside of my

family.

When I was twelve years old, I never understood my mother’s aversion

to discussing her Indian heritage with other Americans. I didn’t understand

the necessity to publicly distance us from our unique cultural background. I

was raised in a small, Pennsylvania town with an overwhelming Catholic

population. We were able to fit every Indian within my hometown into one

school gymnasium; needless to say, the Indian population was tiny. There

were a few cultural meetings every year, for Indian Republic Day or Diwali,

but otherwise there was almost no exposure to Indian culture for young

people. Therefore, many of my classmates and my parents’ colleagues had

never been exposed to Indian culture. My mother would say, “Why do you

need to make yourself seem so different? People will not like you if you are

too strange.” I would wonder: “The same woman who prayed for 1 ½ hours

every day, and cooked Indian food every day for dinner, was so intimidated

at the idea of discussing this part of herself to other non-Indians.”

I grew up with this context of fear of being different and an

understanding that “western fashion” and “western music” was better. Still, I

was eager to learn about the land my parents had come from. I started to

study Hinduism and reveled in stories like the Mahabharata and Ramayana. I

begged my grandmother for stories of her childhood in India. I would study

the history of the subcontinent and watch so many Bollywood movies that in

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a few months, I could sing the Indian national anthem by heart (a result of

watching Khabi Khushi Khabi Gham too many times). When I was 11 years

old, my English class read the story “Rikki-Tikki-Tavi,” a whimsical tale about

a mongoose in an Indian farmers home. When we discussed the cultural

context of the story, my teacher didn’t understand some of the cultural

points. I raised my hand and helped him by pointing out that the “elephant

statue” in the back of the room was Ganesha and showed him how to

pronounce “naan.” I was excited to discuss these topics. I had never been

able to discuss my Indian heritage with anybody outside of my family before.

A few months later, after I had entered the 7th grade, my social studies

class did a quick poll of where each of us was born. When I told the class I

had been born in NYC, they were surprised. My friend leaned over and

whispered, “We all thought you were born in India. You knew so much about

that mongoose story from last year!” I was stunned. I told my mother and

she chastised me, saying, “What did I tell you? Discuss that part of yourself

and you are different. You should listen to me.”

I started to wonder, how could I combine my Indian heritage and

American upbringing? To a young girl barely exposed to Indian culture

outside of her family, this was the ultimate challenge. With my parents

steadfast denial of Indian culture in public, I had to figure out on my own how

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to find pride in being of Indian heritage, while also acknowledging my

identity as an American teenager raised in the United States.

I struggled with my identity for years. I considered myself a modern

American woman because I was able to make my own choices about my

career path, and I had chosen a career. I defined modern womanhood as the

ability to make choices regarding my life path without worrying about

traditional gender roles. With this understanding, I couldn’t reconcile pride in

my Indian heritage with being an American woman, because I felt that have

pride in being Indian was denying a part of my American upbringing.

During my sophomore year of high school, I sat in my AP World History

class, absentmindedly staring out the window. My teacher was lecturing on

Hinduism, one of the “major religions of the world.” “This is going to be

easy,” I thought as my teacher began to speak. Even a few years later, I can

still remember his first few words clearly: “Well. Hindus are a little strange.

They have a caste system, and a couple blue people. And something called

“dharma.” I don’t really know how women are viewed. Check your

textbooks.” I couldn’t believe my teacher had said that. Did he not know

about the richness of Hindu history? Was he unaware of the path of dharma?

I anxiously debated what to do: Should I raise my hand and correct him?

Should I go along with what he was saying?

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I decided to raise my hand. Although my teacher was not very happy

with my corrections, to me this was a moment of self-validation. I explained

in class the concepts of dharma and karma, comparing them to different

American sayings like “What goes around comes around.” I formed a bridge

between their American upbringing and Indian culture, and in the process,

started to chip away at my reluctance to discuss my heritage. For weeks, I

answered all my friend’s questions about Indian culture, while clarifying a

few misconceptions: “Did we all wear red dots? No, we didn’t all wear bindis,

and we were much more creative than just “red dots.” Did anybody actually

ride an elephant to school? No, that’s why we had cars and bikes. Did Yoga

REALLY come from India? Yes! Did we all get arranged marriages? Of course

not. Did India only have Hindus? No, there were Muslims, Sikhs, Buddhists,

Christians and a multitude of other faiths represented.” These were my first

few moments of understanding that standing out was not necessarily

“negative”; my peers were just as curious about me as I was about their

questions.

By my senior year of high school, my friends and their parents felt

comfortable approaching me with questions about India—history, culture,

Hindu faith, etc. My reluctance was in the past. I stressed that my experience

with Indian culture was only one aspect of an incredibly rich, culturally

diverse country. I told my friends that the view I could give them was my

take on Indian culture, and I was very comfortable discussing it with them.

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During high school, I traveled frequently with my family. I met more

Indian-Americans who were raised similar to me—without a large Indian

population nearby, and with their own struggles of what to take from their

rich heritage and what to leave behind. I had fully accepted Hinduism and

Indian parental values, but I had left behind traditional gender roles. My

mother would often say, “today’s Indian girls are able to choose their own

paths” and I felt a kinship with those women. Regardless of where we were

raised, whether in India or America, Indian women were choosing different

paths. They were choosing to have a career or not to have one, they were

deciding on whether or not they wanted families—the power of them making

that choice cannot be understated. It was with this new generation that I

identified with the most.

As I came to my own conclusions about myself, I noticed the gradual

change in my family, most notably in my father. When my father was asked

the old question, “Where are you from?” instead of answering “I’m from the

United States” he would preface it with, “I was born in India, but I live and

work in the U.S.” Watching my family evolve with their own relationship with

their culture was heartwarming. I was fascinated by those extra five words

my dad used as a preface, but moreover, I took so much confidence and

strength from his pride when he said those words.

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As I reflect on my journey in becoming a “modern Indian woman,” I

realize how different my view of modern Indian womanhood is from my

mother’s. While my mother’s definition of a modern Indian woman included

complete acceptance of westernization, I had created my own. I am a

woman, and therefore I choose my direction in life, however I am a modern

Indian woman because I choose to love my heritage and combine it with my

American upbringing. In any path I take or career I choose, I carry my pride

in my cultural background, and I draw strength and confidence from my

choice to not just be a modern woman, but become a modern Indian woman.

Chapter 9

Owning my Indian identity

-Ryan Singh

“Alright mom, we’re about done here right?” I hurriedly told my mom

as our family’s langar was nearing completion. We were at Gurudwara, or

Sikh temple, and it is customary for family’s to host a langar every year, or a

preparation of meals at the Gurudwara’s community kitchen. I had been to

countless langars growing up, and the process of buttering roti’s and

washing pots and pans was pretty well understood by me, but over time

increasingly became a chore that I had to be a part of. I really just wanted to

go to my friend’s party that he was throwing - his parent’s had gone out of

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town leaving an empty house, which meant that it would be more fun than

anything else happening that Friday night in Long Grove - a sleepy suburb of

Chicago.

“Yeah just about, why? Are you going somewhere?” my mom said surprised,

looking up from cleaning some dishes with an anxious look. “Yeah Matt’s

having some friends over, and I was just going to stop by for a bit…” clearly

trying to downplay the night’s eminent craziness.

Just moments after she reluctantly said good bye, I quickly left the

Gurudwara, hastily ripping off the bandana that I had to wear to cover my

head inside, and I began wondering who was going to show up that night. I

started my car and as I was pulling out of the lot, I caught a glimpse of my

hair in the rearview mirror; it was patted down flat to my head after a few

hours of being covered. I spent the rest of the ride combing my fingers

through it to make sure I didn’t show up at my friend’s with a flat comb over.

I didn’t really feel like explaining how I have to cover my hair at my place of

worship and that, yes, some people wear turbans, and no, I don’t but I wear

a bandana instead, and I was there for a langar, which is something like a

community kitchen and a huge social function at the same time… Explaining

all that at a high school party would be an uphill battle to reach any sort of

understanding. I really just wanted to hang out, spare the explanation, and

win a few games of beer pong.

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When I finally arrived at the party some of my friends asked where I

had been.

“My bad, I had some family shit I had to go to”. And with that, no further

justification on my whereabouts necessary, the night proceeded on.

My simple response made no attempt to let on to the whole

truth. It turns out that that “the family shit” I was doing that night involved

nearly 80 of my relatives coming from far and wide to congregate together,

catch some vibes through recitation of hymns and religious songs, and then

catch-up over a shared meal. Not only is Gurudwara the center of Sikh

activities, but a place where the community comes together, and hosting a

langar is the epitome of family involvement at the Gurudwara. It’s a time

when the whole family comes together to pray, cook, serve, and eat

together, but it’s still just one of the many opportunities my family would get

together.

Not to mention, I wasn’t remotely letting on to the fact that I had come

from Gurudwara, a place I had been going multiple times a month since I

was born, a place where I learned to play tabla, harmonium, sing Sikh

hymns, and learned the building blocks of the Punjabi language. It was a

place where my cousins, aunts, uncles, and other Sikh friends would meet

and mingle, play sports, and relive the moments of the last family party or

Punjabi festival.

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It sometimes happens that a non-Indian friend will tell me about a

family reunion they’re going to, and sometimes they say it’s bound to be

awkward because they haven’t met their family or get along with them. I try

to empathize but the reality around my family life was always much

different. Our family bordered on perhaps too much family interaction. On

certain days I’d come back from school and just want to hang out, there

would be my aunt and uncle in the living room, drinking some chai my

mother had made them. They always stop their conversation and greet me, I

give them hugs, and I’d sit with them because it’s rude to ditch guests. They

would always excitedly probe into my happenings, how I’m doing in school, if

I have a girlfriend, if I can tell my cousin to work out on their behalf, and on

and on. Sometimes gossip would travel through the wire (a network of aunty

spies) that my sister was seen with a boy and this would result in lots of

unnecessary grief for her. Other times, my family would have full-on

interventions of some sort, gathering everyone together at someone’s house

to painstakingly go through the he-said, she-said of that year’s main family

drama.

This level of involvement and connectedness is totally warranted,

though. (PIND)My father’s brother and sisters have lived in the Chicago area

since the 80’s, and while they once all lived in the same home, they’re now

just a short drive away from one another. This meant relatives over all the

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time, and that my sister, my cousins, and I were constantly being raised,

advised, smacked, and driven around by a clan of aunts, uncles, and

grandparents. We’d have family dinners several times a month, attend the

numerous birthday parties and graduations that happen with 50+ in your

close family, dance our way through a summer full of Indian weddings, go to

Gurudwara, Punjabi melas (festivals), and celebrate Rakhri, Lohri, and

Vaisakhi. All this in addition to the usual American lineup of New Years, 4th of

July, and the winter holiday season.

These events were ones I learned to love, and after spending my

developmental years as an Indian-American, I finally felt a strong

identification and understanding of them. But there were still many times

that I would step back and realize that this world of Indian family and culture

was an intense and mostly self-contained bubble. Most of us Indian-

Americans feel like what happens there stays there, and that most non-

Indians don’t get it. I definitely felt like my friends didn’t get it. It was a lot

easier to chalk it all up to having “some family shit going on”.

There will always be some people that just don’t get it, don’t see the value in

understanding other cultures and ways of being, and will be closed off to the

possibility of opening themselves up to something new and different. While

in high school it was easy to believe that people just don’t care about other

cultures, and would rather continue buying into conformity that comes with

being an American high school student, I’ve more recently been seeing that

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the bigger issue here is a lack of understanding myself on my own culture,

and the massive agglomeration of cultures, religions, people, art forms, and

lifestyles that come under the umbrella of Indian-America, or the larger still

Desi-America that includes Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, Sri Lankans, and

Nepalis of the greater South Asian subcontinent.

When Charu Sharma asked me to contribute to a body of work about

being Desi in America, I instantly felt a huge sense of enormity and weight

that that title carried with it. How can I possibly speak on behalf of Indians in

America? I quickly came to the answer: I can’t. My perspective is distinctly

one of a 22 year old Punjabi male that was born in America to a Sikh-family

and raised in the suburbs of Chicago. Each perspective is an integral part to

telling the entire Indian-American story, to raising awareness of a growing

minority of achieving, hard-working, and vibrant community that has

blossomed in the US - An enormous task that I feel this body of work aims to

achieve.

Meeting more Indian-American students in college is how I came to

truly understand the sheer range of perspective of the Indian-American

experience. Hindus, Sikhs, Muslims, Christians that were anywhere from

completely fluent to only knowing a few words of Hindi, Punjabi, Urdu,

Persian, Tamil, or Malayalam so they can make basic conversation with their

grandmas. They danced Bhangra and Bollywood Fusion, sang ghazals and

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Justin Bieber. They lived in “browntown”, or intentionally avoided other

Indian students at all costs. They studied everything and anything,

sometimes to their parents dismay. They travel to Indian once a year, or

have never been back to the motherland at all. This was just a small subset

of the voices and perspectives I got to see and be a part of.

For my Indian-American friends that are like me for whom being Indian

claims at least a part of their identity, our own heritage is one we have to

continually learn about and preserve. Because of the vast history and

tradition behind us, there seems to be a large sense of obligation to the

culture. In our own ways, we have found ways to be a part of it, promote it,

and carry it forward through song, dance, involvement in family life,

awareness and advocacy. But at the most simple level, sharing our Indian-

American stories candidly and honestly is the most profound, the most sure

way of us carrying the owning our own story and being proud of it. This is

exactly where I struggled in high school, and I think I have now come a long

way towards feeling a strong sense of ownership of my Indian identity.

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Chapter 10

Sex and All the Questions (You’re Not Suuposed to Ask About it)

- Ailsa Sachdev

Vah-jaiee-nah. I take a deep breath in and push my stomach out. Vah-

jai-nah, I repeat my mantra more confidently. This time, I exhale through the

word itself and my slightly bulging belly restores its original place.

This ritual takes place for a few minutes before I have to give a speech

or talk in front of people. It uses the three body parts, mouth, belly and

vagina (kind of), located in the center of each third of my body: my face,

torso and lower body.

I know people usually use this breathing technique without saying

“Vagina” as a soothing exercise. But the thing is, it doesn’t work without my

vagina.

Or saying the word Vagina rather.

My sexuality has always been a sanctuary for me and my vagina is a

sort of metaphorical cave I can crawl into and hide from the rain. I know my

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way of thinking is vulgar to a lot of people - trust me, I’ve been criticized

about it all my life – but I’ve actually learnt that what I gain from my

sexuality is strength and it should not be a source of shame.

I grew up in Dubai, UAE, an oddly shaped block on the atlas nudged to

the edge of the Middle East by Saudi Arabia and Oman and taken over by

South Asians. I lived by my Indian family’s rules, in an Indian community that

was acting like they had never left the motherland, under Islamic law. There

was little room to discuss sexuality but luckily my family is a little more

liberal than others.

My mother first taught me what the act of sex is when I was eleven. My

friends had started talking about it at school but my mother told me to come

to her when I wanted to learn what this mysterious three-letter word meant.

The austerity with which she issued the demand made me terrified of what

this ‘sex’ thing could be. I would put my fingers in my ears and wail out a

song when I heard the word around my friends. I would come home and

complain to my mother.

“Do you want to know what it is?”

“No,” I would mutter frighteningly and walk out before she could utter

a word.

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Finally, there was no escape. I came back home with a mission to

confront sex. I related to the geographical positioning of UAE on a map,

pushed to the edge of land like a pirate on a plank, by two parties. It was

time to find out what I was dealing with. Anticipating the unknown plight of

my life post-knowledge-of-sex, my shoulders were further weighed down by

my anxiety than my backpack filled with enormous science books.

I didn’t even take my Jansport backpack off. I sat on the couch,

opposite my mother and surrendered, “What is sex?”

My mother handled ‘the talk’ very well. She was straightforward and

her voice was unwavering. Every word was precious to me. This sex thing

and all the words aligned with the act have been all around me my entire life

and I didn’t know even they exist. And every one does it! Why hadn’t I heard

about this before? I mean sex is the reason we’re all here right?

Suddenly, I was shoved off land, swimming in the Persian Gulf and

lovin’ it. My mother and friends were taken aback by my curiosity and ease

with topic of sex. Of course, like every other teenager in the world, I had the

unpleasant image of my mother and father having sex flash before my eyes

but I didn’t care. Even though my friends had been discussing sex a lot, even

before I knew what it was, they would mostly talk about how gross it is. My

mother grew more uncomfortable and began further hesitating as my

questions became more specific and sometimes even personal.

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“So how often do you and dad have sex?”

“Oh god, Ailsa. Stop it…”

“What? I know you do it.”

Over time, my friends grew more comfortable with the topic of sex as

all teenagers do. I learned that this was one of those things you DO NOT talk

to your parents about. I still talked about sex more than everyone I knew.

But I had so many questions. Many friends couldn’t answer most of

them and my parents refused to get into that sort of discussion. Google in

Dubai is censored or provided many unwanted images of genitals clashing in

the most peculiar ways. There was no sex education at school of course.

Soon, with maturity, I learned restraint like any decent Indian girl. It

felt more like suppression to me. Sometimes my fascination with sex was

funny to my friends, and other times they wondered how such ideas even

entered my head. When those moments occurred, I felt like an ugly,

perverted beast in the body of an awkward, lanky girl. I didn’t look and talk

like all the pretty girls who were giving blow-jobs by the age of fourteen. I

didn’t fit the profile of the girl who should be associated, in any manner, with

sex. The thing is, I didn’t want to have sex. I just wanted to talk about it.

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Even when I reached the age of seventeen, I couldn’t talk about sex

without guys thinking I wanted to do it with them. All of the sudden, I could

see how I appeared like an easy lay to them.

Of course, there were a lot of acts of a sexual nature that occurred

during my teenage years but even then, sex was a secret. I was so frustrated

with sex. Not in a physical manner but I wanted to talk about sex positivity. I

just didn’t know that’s what it is called then. I didn’t know other people cared

about it too.

But as I said, I learned “restraint.” These ideas were deposited in the

back of my brain like the dirty pictures that was hidden in a secret folder of

all of my guy friends’ computers. Because that is exactly what I was: dirty.

Every teenager experiences of a series of emotional paper cuts to the heart

and ego. It’s only later that we realize we’re not alone.

During my summer before Mount Holyoke College, I remember looking

at the course list and seeing this:

Yes.

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I wouldn’t say coming to the United States was a place where I

achieved an American Dream of sorts. I wasn’t enchanted by the whole free

country business because not everyone was open to talking about taboo

topics. After all, taboos are taboos for a reason. In fact, for a long time, most

of my friends at college weren’t only puzzled by my willingness to talk about

sex; they were repulsed by it. At least my friends at school accepted me.

But this class, Race/Sexuality/Style, happened way before those weird

college friends. It was the first piece of assigned reading that made me feel

invincible: “The Uses of the Erotic” by the queen of the fucking world: Audre

Lorde.

“There are many kinds of power, used and unused, acknowledged or

otherwise. The erotic is a resource within each of us that lies in a

deeply female and spiritual plane, firmly rooted in the power of our

unexpressed or unrecognized feeling. In order to perpetuate itself,

every oppression must corrupt or distort those various sources of

power within the culture of the oppressed that can provide energy

for change. For women, this has meant a suppression of the erotic

as a considered source of power and information within our lives.”

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My head was the globe, whirling faster and faster with every sentence

as if Lorde herself was spinning my head with her bare hands. There was

someone else out there. Someone like me.

Next week, there were big black penises in our course reader. Ah, life

at a liberal arts college!

Soon, what people said didn’t matter. I realized that, in the US, part of

what made people reject my openness regarding sexuality was because I’m

Indian and from Dubai. Everyone had this expectation that I would be mellow

and innocent. So when I got loud and obnoxious, like I usually am, it seemed

unnatural and wrong. Like the time I won the “Fake An Orgasm” contest in a

floral balloon-like skirt and glittery blue headband! I could see the ocean of

shocked faces from the stage. It was terrifying. White chicks talked shit

about me on Facebook videos without really caring about how I’d feel. It

would always hurt for a bit but never for too long. My race is something I’ve

never been ashamed of.

Also, by then, I knew it was a common topic of discussion and even a

field of study. Even though I never studied sexuality (never say never right?),

I took gender study classes and, in the last semester of my senior year, I

started a sex positivity talk show on the college radio station. I felt like I had

gained enough knowledge and confidence to share my experiences with the

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world, or at least South Hadley residents and Mount Holyoke students.

“Hi everyone, this is WMHC, South Hadley, 91.5FM and you’re listening

to G Marks the Spot with Ailsa.”

That’s how I opened my show every Tuesday (except school holidays)

from 6-8pm. I had been running a rock show called “Rock and a Hard Place”

for two years before that but that simply involved playing music from my I-

phone and running the station. For my first talk show, I decided to give my

listeners a run-down of the best vibrators and how to maintain them.

The sweetest South Hadley resident decided to call in and ask a

question.

“What’s the best way to perform cunnilingus? I have a girlfriend and

want to learn how to better please her.”

He seemed really shy but determined to become a better lover and I

gave him the best advice I could think of at the time. I made him listen to

“Lick it” by God-des and She. The song’s lyrics are genius and give step-by-

step instructions to cunnilingus. Also, the artists are lesbians so they know

their shit. I also told him to make his girlfriend talk sexily when he’s going

down on her and tell him what she wants. From there, it’s in his hands to

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listen and give into her every command until she’s ripping the sheets off the

bed, or wherever they’re doing it.

I don’t know if that’s the best advice - in fact I’m sure it’s not – but

answering a question that once lingered in the nape of my skull was

incredibly liberating. In a selfish way, it wasn’t only because I possibly helped

a random stranger and his girlfriend experience one of the most pleasurable

acts of life, but also because it reminded that I can still ask the most basic

questions despite all the research I’ve done and learn more. I guess sex

positivity being a taboo has its benefits because it maintains a sort of

mystery that few other things in life retain.

Chapter 11

What’s In a Name?

-Viraj Shashin Patel

“Give your daughters difficult names. Give your daughters names that

command the full use of tongue. My name makes you want to tell me the

truth. My name doesn’t allow me to trust anyone that cannot pronounce it

right.”

-Warsan Shire

Ages 1-21

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"My name is Viraj Shashin Patel."

“So, Vuh-rahjh?”

“Sure, that’s fine”

Viraj, ages 1-3

My world is composed of my mom, dad, and countless family and friends, all

Gujurati. My name is pronounced as it should be- Vee-rahj.

“Vuh-rahjh Mahal”, ages 3-10

I am 3 years old and part of the new, exciting exotic Indian family that

just moved into their first house out of their apartment down the street into

the upper middle class suburbs of Chicago. This family- at the time, a father

and mother in their 30s with me, their daughter, in pigtails, has an

alarmingly large family and group of friends in the surrounding

neighborhoods. Cars line the street every Saturday night when the family

hosts parties and faces unfamiliar to the neighborhood pile in wearing

glamorous clothes and their laughter can be heard late into the night. I learn

quickly that there is a life that happens in the home, where the people look

different and the food smells warm and is layered with spices, and outside

the home, where the people look like the ones on TV and seem to care a lot

about things my parents do not. I make a friend down the street- another girl

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whose birthday is actually just one day before mine. We play together almost

every day and our parents have cordial relationships with one another. The

girl down the street’s father is warm and inviting, affectionately calling me

“Vuh-rahjh Mahal”. I do not share this nickname with my mother,

understanding that I live in two worlds in which I have two different names. I

am confused by the nickname (nobody else called me anything but Vee-rahj)

but overall welcome and accepted. I feel a sense of pride, whatever that

feels like at age 8. I have not been to the Taj Mahal and do not know what it

means or why I was being associated with it, but the nickname exists and I

know better than to tell someone older than me that I am confused by the

name. In the same breath, I was simultaneously welcomed with warmth but

reminded that I am an outsider to the only community I knew at home.

The Middle Name Game

I am in grade school and, again, it is time for recess. I feel alienated

during this time every day- yearning for the comfort of the library while I do

my best to avoid the girls whose moms let them wear makeup and know how

to style their hair. My mom and dad, instead, think it is more important for

me to focus on homework and helping to take care of my little brother. The

fun game to play at recess is the Middle Name Game, where we guess each

other’s middle names. I don’t understand what the purpose or function of a

middle name serves nor what mine is. My mom tells me that Indian children

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adopt their father’s first name as their middle name. I feel left out again at

having a “fake” middle name and embark on a project lasting a number of

months to find the perfect one- I settle on Kruti. My mom indulges it and I

spend hours in my room practicing with my new “real” middle name- Viraj

Kruti Patel. It’s perfect.

The Name Speech

It is freshman year of high school and my first assignment in English

Honors is to deliver a speech talking about my name to the entire class. I

realize I know nothing about it. I ask my parents why they picked the name

they did for me- my mom mutters something about my first name being in a

book my dad read in high school, that it has something to do with a castle,

repeats what I already know about my middle name, and that my last name

is tied to the Hindu caste system (something I only knew about because we

were studying it in World History) and that it meant that, at some point, our

family were farmers. I deliver my speech with pride and a wholeness I

haven’t felt before. I get an A, pronouncing my name Anglicized the whole

time to Vuh-rahjh.

Learning to Say My Own Name

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It is my first year of college. For the first time, I have a community of

desi friends. I feel a seamless connection between my worlds I have not felt

before. I can be my authentic self, perform my culture and ethnicity both

inside and outside my home, connect it to my liberal arts coursework, and

grapple with all of the problems people in their late teens and early twenties

must. I say my name out loud the way it is supposed to be pronounced for

the first time in my life. It feels foreign and I practice a few times, noticing

the impact of my English training. It doesn’t sound quite like the way my

parents say it but it’s closer than what it was. When I go home to visit, my

parents comment on how I’ve changed and seem more confident and

outgoing. I walk with a new gait and my head held high. For now and for the

rest of college, I say my name differently depending on whether the

audience is desi or not.

“Your Name is Incorrect”

It is still the first year of college. Again, for the first time in my life, I

meet other desi folks who have been raised in predominantly desi

communities. They are fluent in multiple languages and came to college with

a group of desi friends in place before orientation. They indicate they have

no interest in building a more diverse community and I am frustrated. This is

also the first time I am told matter-of-factly, by a number of people, that I

have a boy’s name and that my name is weird. I am used to seeing faces of

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confusion when I say my name to non-desi people, but I have never

experienced shame and confusion around my name from people who look

like me. The same people who accuse me of having a weird name are the

same who publicly gossip about my decision to pursue an English degree and

decide I am too “different” to belong. I brush off their rejection and build my

own rich community, but their comments sting. My parents assure me that

the character in the book I’m named after is, in fact, a woman.

“You’ve Changed.”

I am home for the summer after my first year of college. In my own

process of reclaiming my name, I approach my best friends- all White women

born and raised in the suburbs of Chicago. They are the young women who I

laughed, cried, and grew up with. They mean the world to me and, in our

first year of college, we supported each other and even visited regularly. In a

rare moment of seriousness, I talk to them about my name, excited to teach

my newly unearthed and embraced identity as Vee-rahj. They are confused-

“How does your name just change?” they ask. “You will always be Vuh-rahjh

to me.” Nothing changes. They recognize that they have been calling me by

a miscorrect pronunciation my whole life and continue doing so. I am proud

of myself for standing up but I am met with resistance and hostility. The rift

between us grows and I realize that the journey I am on to be true to myself

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and to the world means I may have to leave more than just the

mispronunciation of my name behind.

“Why do you do that?”

It is the summer after my senior year of college. I am at a summer

leadership retreat in Seattle for a fellowship program I am in to help recruit

folks with minoritized identities into the field of student affairs. We spend a

few days doing activities to discover ourselves and share our stories. I

proudly announce that I have been accepted into a top program to earn my

Master of Education degree and that the program is known for its social

justice focus.

During a lunch, one of the faculty of the program, a Filipino-American

man, asks me casually, “Why do you do that? Say your name two different

ways depending on your audience?” “It is easier, I say.” “You know better,”

he counters. “ I am flustered- nobody has asked me this question and I am

frustrated with my answer. I have never advocated to take the easy route,

but the fight to understand and say my own name, much less get others to

say it, is exhausting. That night, alone in my room, I cry, releasing 21 years

of internalized racism and sexism and cursing the world for making me too

afraid and too tired to have my name spoken correctly, instead

accommodating the comfort of others around me.

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Hold Yourselves and Others Accountable

It is my second professional job, 5 years after my watershed moment

in Seattle. I completed graduate school and my first professional job, where

social justice and inclusion were salient values and I never once had to think

about how I belonged in terms of my name. Even before day 1, the sweet

sound of Vee-rahj rang across the campus and I felt a sense of comfort and

wholeness.

In this new job on Day 1, I notice that everyone is saying Vuh-rahjh

again, a name that is now foreign to me. With the best of intentions, and

with so much friendliness, the name gets dropped countless times each day.

Each time I hear it, it is like a little stab in the pit of my stomach. I announce

the correct pronunciation during a meeting. Everyone thanks me, a few

apologize, some even practice with me, and I am drained trying to

demonstrate patience and forgiveness. I am terrified of being alienated so I

do not correct often. I am drowning in apologies. For a while, people are

careful, trying very hard to fix something they learned before I even had an

opportunity to intervene. Four months go by and I notice that it is happening

again. Vuh-rajhj, the name that haunts me. A ghost of a timid, passive, lonely

girl who was beat down by the world before she realised what was

happening continues to greet me though her presence is unwelcome. The

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problem is not fixed and I have stopped correcting people. I feel invalidated

and exhausted by the drain of not only completing my job but fighting to be

acknowledged as myself.

I make another announcement at an all staff meeting. This time,

instead of offering to help others, I ask everyone to hold themselves and

each other accountable. I am just too tired.

I am less convinced that this will resolve the issue this time around or

if it ever will be. I notice that the people I am closest to are also the ones

who say my name correctly. I wonder if I just need to get over it and accept

my name being mispronounced, if only for my personal sanity. I am angry

that I have to consider thia as a means of self-preservation.

“My name is Viraj”

A simple sentence, and one that I say every day. These 4 words

encapsulate a lifetime of self-discovery, pain, liberation, shame, confusion,

frustration and pride. A thoughtless part of my identity, and one that I had no

choice in adopting but, in 6 short syllables, tells the story of my roots and

wings. My namesake, my father tells me, comes from a character in a novel

by the great Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay (also the author of Devdas).

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My father describes the character as “...a woman who faced a lot of

pain and stood up and fought for herself.” My father, the man who was

raised in a system of such deep patriarchy that he never learned to do his

own laundry until he came to graduate school, picked a feminist for his

daughters namesake. Amazing. My life is clicked into focus when I learn of

my namesake and I inhabit the spirit of this character Viraj as I continue to

navigate a world where my tongue, body, & spirit have been manipulated to

make their authentic forms unfamiliar to even myself.

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Chapter 12

The American Dream

-Bharat Walia

The year was 1999, the rapper Eminem had just released his first LP,

Slim Shady and while there was much talk about Y2K and other tales of

doom and gloom about approaching the year 2000, I was a recent high

school graduate excited about my prospects to work for the United States

Census Bureau. So why would a 19 year old care so much about the U.S.

Census Bureau. To better explain, I was not like the average American 19

year old, unless you lived where I lived, Albany Park, Chicago. Albany Park is

one of the most diverse neighborhoods in the United States pulling people

from all over the world and when I arrived it was fraught with people from

the Philippines, Cambodia, Vietnam, Bosnia, Albania, Palestine, India,

Pakistan, Bangladesh, Korea, and many other countries.

I had migrated from India three years prior and the immigrant

experience for millions meant performing multiple low wage jobs to make

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ends meet. So when I learned that the U.S. Census bureau was hiring and

that a placement in the top tenth percentile of the test that temp workers

who conducted the census poll was fourteen dollars per hour, I realized this

would triple my income or consolidate the equivalent of working three jobs,

no brainer right!?! Well I took the test and placed in the top 2% and was

chomping at the bit to get started as a field leader only to then be informed,

that I could not because, I was not a U.S. Citizen and India was on a non U.S.

friendly list. This created two reactions for me, a logical and a sentimental

one. The logical one wrestled with the labeling of a country who has never

been in direct military conflict with the U.S. and whose relationship in recent

years under President Bill Clinton and then finance minister of India,

Manmohan Singh's opening of Indian market had begun to flourish. The

sentimental response fought with why the land of opportunities and freedom

had snatched an economic opportunity out of my hands I had qualified for.

My family had moved to the U.S. at a time when India was still

emerging from a corrupt system where the way out of extremely competitive

situations required nepotism. The outlook it presented was not nearly as

promising as what my Uncle had attained when he had moved to the U.S. in

the 60s and had done extremely well for himself. He was also our sponsor

who enabled our move to the U.S. This was a long term play for my parents

and one they had bet their entire lives over. And that for their children's

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prospects. Needless to say they shielded us from all things politics.

Although baffled and irate, I saw few means to change the verdict

about the bureau’s decision and life went back to normal which meant

multiple low wage jobs and slowly integrating into American culture,

language, and lifestyle.

It was a September morning in 2001 and I woke up to the terrible news

that a plane had crashed into a high rise in NYC. While I, like many

worldwide, was trying to make sense of this "accident", the second plane

crashed and the news broke that it was a terrorist attack. It was horrifying,

terrifying, and shocking all rolled into one big disorienting emotion. I was in

undergrad at UIC at the moment. There were rumors that Chicago was also

an intended target and might be next. I was feeling angry at those who had

committed this savage act and trying my best to keep my feelings composed

to be resolute. In this state, my first call came from my American born and

raised Indian friend Ras. He asked me in a firm and admonishing tone, “go

home and shave your beard off. It will not be safe for you to walk around”.

Ras was a Sikh and kept a beard as an observation to his Sikh faith. I

adorned my tool t-shirt, ripped jeans, with my chain wallet to appear as

American as I could for the coming weeks out of fear. My friend Ras would be

once accosted at a gas station by a hostile patron and have racial slurs flung

at him and almost a physical altercation had broken out. Soon after the

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incident, stories started breaking out over the coming days about violence

against people of middle-eastern, South Asian backgrounds throughout the

country. There was an unsettling and confusing feeling of apprehension,

alienation, and being misunderstood and unsafe. How can the citizens of a

country whose principal beliefs are rooted in acceptance, cultural, ethnic,

and religious tolerance, due process, and protecting civil liberties lose their

footing in response to this tragedy.

What I had really woken up to was something that extended beyond

the terrible incident that ill-fated morning. I had woken up to a reality that at

its center required confrontation, understanding, and involvement. The

American dream for the first time showed signs of some vulnerability. I

became deeply curious about what had made this country so great, what

were the foundational elements of why millions immigrated here, the tall

tales of success, the influence it had created across the world, the power it

manifested on decisions that would have global impact. In my learnings I

uncovered that the power laid in the architecture of the constitution and the

people who interpreted and enacted their actions in line with these concepts.

The greatness was a direct output of the principle values as they were being

demonstrated, lived, and willed by ordinary citizens who rallied to a civil war

to end slavery, organized civil unrest for sake of racial integration, fought for

equal rights for women, socioeconomic policy to provide equitable support

around healthcare and unemployment during the great depression, laws that

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protected minorities, prosecution of those who abused political power and a

press that tackles issues unfettered.

In the subsequent months as the U.S. government would mount a case

to go to war against Afghanistan and Iraq under the accusation of Weapons

of Mass Destruction I became politically hyperaware and felt the weight of

the same power that I had sensed from a distance once and how it might

affect the lives of millions of people in the countries we were planning to

invade. I would become a more active participant in asking questions. I

joined live protests in the streets of Chicago and vocalizing my concern. I

started to understand that the U.S. political system allowed its citizens to

actively participate and create influence in the decisions by speaking to their

local representatives and senators. It had opened a new door of action, one I

never knew existed when I was denied my position for the U.S. Census

Bureau. I waited for my naturalization as a U.S. citizen and anxiously awaited

my first chance to vote in the Illinois state gubernatorial election in the year

2004. Becoming a U.S. citizen for me finally meant a new level of

accountability that I can create by active participation in elections, by writing

to my congress person, my senator, canvasing for candidates I supported,

donating to causes I cared about. I had found a new muscle I can now flex to

turn my opinions, ideas, beliefs, and position to legislative and policy based

results. Surprisingly the American system allowed me access to those in

political power with relative ease. I had the ability to go meet my congress

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person at their local office, write to them, and when I disagreed express my

disagreement by shifting my support to other candidates.

Parallel to these events was my continuous education in American pop

culture, movies, music, understanding American phrases and the numerous

gaffes I committed in broken attempts to get them right. Moments when I

was the only person who was unaware of who Elmo or the cookie monster is,

or Zack Morris from Saved by the bell, any of the Dr. Suess books were, what

a homecoming dance meant, what timeouts were, American football or

baseball looked like.

In 2006, I decided to work for a candidate running against an

incumbent for U.S. Congress in a District outside mine. The experience

brought me closer to understanding the nuances and intricacies of what the

ground level campaigns of these elections looked like and getting to know

what the candidates were made out of. What they aimed to accomplish and

the support they had to garner to get where they needed to get. Needless to

say all of it rested on the people who turned up day after day canvasing door

to door, donated dollar upon dollars, hosted fundraisers, made countless

phone calls, all driven by the conviction of their beliefs. I realized they were

not these distanced figures that ruled from a high throne of power as they

had made to appear once by my parents or to be shielded from. In fact, they

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were looking for active participation and conversation and support from their

citizens.

As I write this in the year 2014, I realize that becoming an American for

me personally has been not only going way beyond understanding the

cultural nuances and integrating linguistically and aspiring professionally but

there is also a whole another sphere which at its core propels the most

important components of our lives; the taxes we pay, the countries we go to

war against, the economic opportunities that we create as a result of local,

state, and federal policy, the education system that is made available in our

districts and state funded Universities, the rights afforded to exercise as they

conduct their daily commerce and the general pursuit of happiness. That

ultimately there is a sense of accountability that the system is as good as the

components of its system and the Government of the people, by the people,

and for the people as efficient and glorious as the people in it. It is

incumbent on every citizen, born and or naturalized to continue to aspire to

live out these values to the highest standards so what made this place so

special for me, and you, and everyone else can pass this along for

generations to come.

Today while economic opportunity has flourished for me financially and

professionally, I serve on Board of my University’s alumni association, act as

a liaison between the state and my school for lobbying efforts to continue

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State funding as an important channel of support for inner city students like I

once was that could afford higher education, serve on the board of

community organizations that provide integration and professional support

for career mobility for Asian Americans, and the state advisory board of a

non-partisan U.S. Global Foreign policy non-profit that influences legislators

on why foreign aid and responsible international involvement remains crucial

is the United States wants to continue playing the kind of role it is capable of

playing in the highest order of responsible global power center.

So thank you to the U.S. Census Bureau for denying my opportunity

because it taught me an important lesson that the American dream is only

but a dream unless we wake up each morning to fight to make it a

preserving reality and that makes me feel American every day.

Chapter 13

Say

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-Aparajita Sen*

I am what they call a probashi Bangali - someone who is Bengali only

at her roots, someone who for all practical purposes identifies with the race

and culture, but has never been imbued in it. Ma, grew up in Calcutta while

Baba studied under a tree in his village until fourth grade. He was sent to a

boarding school after and later, joined a medical college in Calcutta. He was

a quiet, persevering and diligent student, not really in the popular crowd, but

graduated top of his class. Sometime in 1983, my mother was apprised of

this 'gold medalist' boy who was being considered by the family as a

potential match.

--

Ma and Baba spent almost five years together in medical school before

I was born at the fag, sultry end of May, a few years into the marriage. Ma

went to Calcutta for the delivery and since she had a slipped disc condition, I

was born by Caesarean section, almost under-weight; in the same nursing

home where all of my maternal cousins were born. Six weeks in, I was taken

to Pune and there I was raised for the next 18 years of my life. Given the

immense physical pain my mother underwent to go through her first

pregnancy, being bedridden throughout, I think my parents were exhausted

to try for any more children.

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Growing up, every summer meant a month in West Bengal. Three of

the four weeks were spent in the two story mansion in the heart of central

Calcutta, near the Esplanade, amidst all the hustle and bustle of everyday

life. And then, we would take the overnight train ride from Howrah Station for

a week or ten days, to the village where Baba grew up, where his parents

still lived. A bullock cart would be sent for us to the closest station, which

was a few miles from our destination. Here, too, every summer the entire

family would assemble - my paternal grandparents, who were farmers, their

five children and their children's families. Baba is the third of four brothers

and they have one sister, my Pishimoni. His eldest brother I call Boro Jethu

and his second eldest brother I call Mejo Jethu. Mejo Jethu's son was the one I

played with the most. Like me, he was also an only child and he was five

years elder to me.

From the crack of dawn, when we woke up during those ten days that

we were together, we'd run around in the fields, chase the bullocks, feed the

cows, feed the geese, feed the hens and create all other kinds of nuisance.

This one time I remember wanting to shower flowers on the cows in the

shed. I had collected wild flowers in a basket. I went into the shed, wanting

to pour the flowers on the cow's head, and then she butted me. Scared, I ran

for my life. My brother, who was waiting right outside the shed, chased me to

the pond and pushed me in. I still hold a grudge against him.

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The summer would fly by and as soon as the monsoon set in, it would

be time for school again.

One winter, when I was in fourth grade, we went to visit Mejo Jethu's

family over the break. During the day, our fathers talked about the news and

read newspapers while our mothers spent time in the kitchen, preparing our

favorite sweets and savories. Mejo Jethima had spread out some dried

mangoes on the roof and she asked us to go check on them. My brother and

I, we ran up the four flights of stairs, to break out into the brilliant sunshine.

The mangoes being dried for aachaar were there; there were no evil crows in

the vicinity. We stole a piece and each ate one. At some point, while

laughing and playing, he started tickling me and at some point, his hand was

inside my sweater. Someone from another roof in the neighborhood saw us.

Embarrassed, I ran downstairs with the pretense of being hungry for lunch. I

heard him lock the door leading to the roof when I reached the last flight of

stairs.

The next spring, my Pishimoni's eldest son was to be married. The

entire paternal side of my family had assembled in Bombay for the event. My

brother and I were in charge of stealing the groom's shoes and playing other

childish pranks. All of us stayed in a guest house during those days -

Pishimoni's house was not big enough to accommodate the entire extended

family. He threw a tantrum that it would be fun to sleep together. My parents

acquiesced. We talked about school and movies till we fell asleep that night.

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I woke up in the middle of the night, aware that there was something strange

between my legs. The moon shone brightly through the window as everyone

else slept peacefully, tired from the festivities during the day. I lay still,

trying to understand what was going on - what his fingers were doing at the

place I peed from. Yet, I had never felt that way before. After what seemed

like an eternity of pretending to be asleep, I pushed the covers aside and ran

to the bathroom.

A couple of years later he joined a college that was an overnight bus

ride from home. He began visiting every few weeks during some school

break or other, always staying a couple of days at our place as my mother

prepared all the foods that he loved, trying to make a home away from home

for him. As she cooked, we watched television in the living room. I would

voluntarily sit as close to him as possible so that he could reach me, yet far

enough for my parents not to suspect anything. I began to look forward to

his visits. I began dreaming of his touch, the way he squeezed my

developing breasts. I wanted and craved his touch. I felt myself becoming

wet with these thoughts when he was away. I started to gratify myself with

the thoughts of his touch. By now, I knew factually that what was happening

wasn't completely correct but in some sense, no one had ever paid me this

kind of attention.

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When I was 15 and he 20, he paid us a surprise visit, one cold night in

January. I was sitting with my friends in our neighborhood and he came up

from behind me and hugged me, slipping his hand inside my sweatshirt,

under my bra. At that instant, something me that revolted. How dare he

touch me even in front of everyone else? Had I no dignity? I sprung up and

called Ma, pretending to be surprised that he'd come to visit for the

weekend. Inside, a disgust was erupting in me - disgust for me, for him, for

my parents, for his parents, for everyone who was involved yet so oblivious

to this. The next time he wanted to touch me that weekend, I looked him in

the eye, thinking - why do I have to stop you when you should have enough

sense to stop yourself. I said no and walked out the room.

--

At the age of 22, graduate school invited me to Boston. After spending

four years studying engineering in Delhi, in one of the most diverse

technological schools in India, Boston blew my mind with all the people from

the scores of cultures from around the world that walked the streets here.

Despite being in such a lively city, I had managed to isolate myself

emotionally. I felt stuck, alone, unable to understand why I felt stagnant. I

maintained a jovial facade for my parents; I had never been able to confide

in them and they made minimal effort to understand me. I left it at that. I

delved deep, trying to make the most of the many new and interesting

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opportunities that presented themselves to me. I tried hard to convert my

new-found ‘acquaintances’ to ‘friends’. It seemed like everyone had their

own circles and I could at best be an observer and casual tag-along.

The next spring, I traveled for an internship to Europe for three months

with some classmates. I took off to see the beauty of France, Turkey,

Switzerland, and the Netherlands all by myself. Traveling felt like running

away from reality. Discovering and learning new things kept me engaged,

interested and happy, at least on the surface. But once the internship and

travels came to an end, I dreaded my return to Boston. I had no option but to

face myself. After running at a relentless pace to keep myself ahead, life had

finally caught up with me. I had hit rock bottom and there was nowhere to go

from here. I finally decided to go ask for help.

In India, talking to a counselor or therapist is considered very taboo,

even looked down upon. Here in the US, I was on my own with no one to

judge me or stop me. I had all the freedom to help myself, or not, in any way

that I wanted. In many ways, the distance, from everything and everyone I

had known for the major portion of my life, was emancipating.

Over the course of the next year, my therapist helped me wade

through the entangled mess that she termed my ‘hard wiring’. I slowly

understood that I had subconsciously allowed people to trample on me, to

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take me for granted. That that feeling had stemmed from those formative

‘experiences’ and neglect throughout the years. I had never known what it

was to love myself, value myself, have self-esteem, to be proud of myself.

Painstakingly, I began to learn all of these things. Sessions with my therapist

left me raw each Friday. It felt like I was stripped bare to my core, slowly

learning to cover up and nurture myself in care. I was teaching myself to be

at peace with myself, more than two decades after I knew the concept of

‘me’. I wanted to yell at my parents, ask them just how they could only ask if

I was still a virgin when I finally did tell them that I was abused and not even

ask once if I was okay, how I coped all those years since. I fought with

maintaining facades of productivity and being completely broken inside. The

past year, with all these internal struggles, left me stronger, with a clear

sense of identity, purpose and integrity.

--

September 2014

It is becoming chilly now and the leaves are starting to turn. When I

wake up at 6am, I can see that even though the first rays hit the Charles

later and later every day, the persevering crew is in their rowing boats,

pulling through stroke after stroke as they prepare for the Head of the

Charles Regatta.

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We have moved to a new place. The view is not as nice. The river

always stays a murky brown instead of switching hues of blue with the

moods of the sun and sky. I see people running by Storrow Drive and a part

of me wonders why I’ve stopped running. It is also a new semester. I am

teaching a course for the first time as well as taking a pathology course. I

have found hardly any time for research in the past few weeks which

surprisingly is not irking me. I find that I would rather spend time reading up

about my pathology tutorials and assignments than dedicate an afternoon to

research. I am beginning to worry about what I really see myself doing

ahead. I had felt that by now I’d be established enough and knowledgeable

enough to be able to lay down the map, but apparently not. While I want to

do good work, while I want to get this project working, while I want to get

those papers out, a part of me doesn’t as well. Graduate school has become

too comfortable. I am very used to this pace of life, this freedom and this

peace of mind. I’m glad I chose to come here. I would’ve been a very

different person if not and possibly, still carried on to make the same

mistakes I’d made throughout the time I came here.

But, I am thankful and incredibly lucky. The past year and a few recent

events have helped me, maybe, find, what seems to be a core. While I tread

carefully around it, wary yet hopeful at the same time, I hope I don’t spoil

things for myself. I think I am stronger, more level headed now. I like the

path I’m on.

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~*~

Footnote:

* Name changed to protect author’s identity

The story is named after the song ‘Say’ by John Mayer.

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Everything comes to us that belongs to us if we create the capacity to

receive it.

~Rabindranath Tagore

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"Me no meat" & other South Asian American narratives

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