Preserving your identity in a country that’s not yours, a profile.
Malika Goel talks about her experience abroad.

It’s a Tuesday morning, after pouring herself a glass of chocolate milk that she put on the glass table, and covering her lap with a warm blanket, Malika smilingly starts talking about her journey as a foreigner.
At first sight, what is striking about Malika is the positive energy she brings along with her. Her innocent smile may fool her interlocutors into thinking that she is reserved, but immediately her mischievous traits invite people to engage in a conversation with her. Malika is about 5’3” in height and has long brown hair, with a few blond highlights, that fall all the way down her lower back.
Malika grew up in the heart of New Delhi, surrounded by the constant noises of the tuk-tuks in the streets that lift up the red dry earth of the road as they carry more often than not too many passengers to even move in a straight line. Her mind has been imbedded with the mixture of Hindi and English as she would sing Ajj din chadeya on her way to school, while the road directions would be written in English on big green billboards.
And it’s as if all of this animated life was condensed in her, as if New Delhi in broad daylight presented itself to you, but bore the name of Malika. It’s as if the vividness of the city was remodeled in her words with the pace of her voice echoing the constant hubbub of the Indian capital, and her sparkling eyes mirroring the innumerable colors of sarees worn by women during Diwali.
Once in school, her classes would be taught in English and not a single word of Hindi would be used for academia. So coming to Buffalo for university did not require her to learn a new language, but merely to adapt the English she had learned all these years.
A minor difference of diction, within the same language, eventually led Malika to experience something that would reinforce her Indian identity, “Apparently American say ‘academic’ (American accent) but I have been brought up to say ‘academic’ (British accent) which was a big thing because everyone on my floor kept saying that the way I pronounce it was weird, and apparently it was between life or death because they were like ‘no you’re wrong and you need to fix it’, and I didn’t want to fix it” she explained.
As if taken away by the fast current of her own words, she takes a breath and immediately adds, “My brother switches to an American accent when speaking to Americans for the mere convenience that they understand it better, but I refuse. If you don’t understand when I say ‘can’t’ (British accent) instead of ‘can’t’ (American accent) I will explain to you what I mean, but I won’t change it to an American accent. I understand my brother does it because it makes sense to save yourself sometimes and makes it easier for them to understand you, but just because it is easier for them, I won’t change me. And it’s funny because recently according to my Indian friends my accent became very American, and I hated it, and people were telling me to let it be, but I explained that I don’t want to be American, I’m Indian, and I’m fine with that.”
Malika serenely keeps her Indian identity alive in a country where she believes the president is openly racist towards brown and black people. It’s with her brightest smile and her energetic voice that she talks about how president Trump will never bury her roots. And for a moment, the energy she releases through her accent, added to the pace of her voice would make anyone forget that she is currently in America and not in the middle of Gurgaon, the place she has called home for the first 18 first years of her life.
She explains with the exact same tone one would use to talk about the most trivial anecdote, “That’s actually easy; when it comes to the president, I don’t care. I’m not interested in politics, if I could vote I would study it, because my voice would matter, but as an international student, politically my voice doesn’t matter. On a human level, and that may sound horrible, but America is filled with racism. At this point I feel like everyone plays a role, so the president could be racist but if the country was not it wouldn’t matter, but it’s not like that.”
Despite the comfort Malika showcased when talking about language, identity and her personal life it was with a more nervous and uneasy posture that she addressed the topic of womanhood.
She searched for what was the best thing about living in the USA. Somehow it felt that the answer to this question lied in an inevitable comparison with her lifestyle back home. Many times she paused and looked in the void, as if to find the next words she was about to say.
Her facial expression changed so suddenly as though the festive New Delhi she embodied earlier, was now shutting down. Unable to speak into words her thoughts, she now became one of the small tuk-tuks stuck in between millions of cars during traffic hours. It’s as if the unbreathable air of the Indian capital now blurred her thoughts.
It took her a few seconds to regain her wits, and she eventually explained that safety in India “is going horribly bad” and that, “Now that I’m here I feel more empowered about my security, and as a woman I feel like here I’ll never have to fight to be a woman.”
Finally, the pressure came down as Malika’s grin reappeared when she, without a doubt, clamored that food was the worst thing about living in America, “They eat bland and tasteless food. You got to have flavor in there, food is the worst thing about America!”
Malika eventually grabbed the glass of chocolate milk that remained untouched for the entire duration of the conversation, and before taking a sip concluded, “Like I said, because I am brown I have been treated differently, but in a good way. When Americans see that people are brown they assume they are interesting, now it’s true I am interesting (laugh), but when they see someone who is not white they want to be their friend.”

