STANDING ON THE SHOULDERS of a SOUTH ASIAN WOMAN: Notes from a Daughter and a Granddaughter
By Kavery Kaul & Usha Kaul
Notes from a Daughter
I know Shyamala Gopalan Harris. Like Kamala Harris’ mother, my mother Kanak Dutta was a brown-skinned woman who arrived in America in 1959. I came to this country with her. In one hand, she held the sitar she was learning to play. With the other hand, she held onto me, her young daughter. We had come to Philadelphia to join my father who had left India just before us.
My mother was her own person — — open-minded, committed, genuine, and giving. She could not have been prepared for a country where she would be invisible, at best marginalized. After all, she had come to pursue further studies with a graduate degree in history and literature from Calcutta University already under her belt. She became a history teacher at a time when hardly any women taught at the high school level. But it was assumed a sari-clad woman could not be a pioneering American feminist.
It was assumed that a woman from India had no story to tell. Yet, as a student, she had led young people in the fight to end colonial British rule in India. That’s how she met my father, who would build a career as an economist. They made “good trouble” together. And he always had her back.
At Indian independence, the British divided the country, arbitrarily cutting through towns and villages. Partition left a broken Bengal, home to both my parents’ families who took flight from what was to become East Pakistan. It was one of the largest and most vicious human movements in history. But in America, no one seemed to have heard of it. The broader human experience had no place in that narrative.
Partition robbed my mother of her childhood, but it could not destroy her spirit. She held on to her Indian culture and gave me that rich heritage to draw upon. She committed herself to the America we could be. Her life had purpose. She made sure that her students learned about the world beyond the European perspective.
Long committed to women’s issues, way back in 1981, she advocated for a South Asian woman who had killed her husband after 16 years of an abusive marriage. She shared the woman’s relief when the jury voted to acquit her. Four years later, inspired by my mother, five of us banded together to form Manavi, the first organization to support South Asian survivors of domestic violence in the U.S.
My mother was active at the grassroots level and within the Democratic Party. She ran for the New Jersey State Assembly as a Democratic candidate. In 1981, she was the first Asian-American woman to run for office in the history of the State of New Jersey, and the first Indian woman in the history of the U.S. New Jersey voters were startled by a candidate who didn’t look like them. But my mother was at home in the world. She would repeat over and over, “Kanak. K-A-N-A-K. It’s an Indian name.” She held on to her dignity, her integrity, and her generosity of spirit.
My mother opened doors that others would have left shut. In the words of the Indian poet Tagore, she walked “where the mind is without fear”. She faced so many odds. Nevertheless, she persisted. She knew that as an Indian-American woman filmmaker, I would have to repeat over and over, “Kavery. K-A-V-E-R-Y. It’s an Indian name.” I learned from her. She told me the first Indians arrived in the U.S. long before we came here. As a teacher of history, she knew that chapter was missing in the textbooks. She wanted to visit me when I went to India, to film “The Bengali”, this untold story about the ties between South Asians and African-Americans in the U.S. But she wasn’t well. In her life, my mother led the way. She passed away just a few years ago, but she still leads my way.
Notes from a Granddaughter
“I am here tonight as a testament to the dedication of generations before me.” — Kamala Harris
That’s my grandmother.
From a college student marching and shouting ‘British Quit India’ to being named ‘the first lady of Indian-American politics’ by former New Jersey Governor Jim Florio, my grandmother Kanak Dutta never stopped fighting. She stood up to Americans who sneered at her when she ran for NJ State Assembly by saying, “My color is brown. I am of Asian origin. I cannot speak English like you. I wear a sari and I am a woman. But do not judge me by all this. VOTE for me based on how I think.”
When Kamala spoke at the 2020 Democratic National Convention about how “we may not agree… but we are united… and we look out for one another…”, in my mind I couldn’t help but see my grandmother beaming. This is what she wanted America to hear. Her voice may have been silenced by the times she lived in, but now Kamala is using her voice to shout it from the rooftops. And my grandmother is listening to make sure we do look out for one another.
My grandmother embraced life with determination. She used every opportunity as a stepping stone for the well-being of the community — — Indian-Americans and all Americans. She often sculpted her own stone to step onto. She wanted to see America move forward.
One of the memories I will treasure forever took place on January 20, 2017, at the March on Washington. I know that my grandmother would have been the first to RSVP ‘yes!’ for that march. Knowing she would be unable to go and inspired by her example, I marched for over 10 hours with a sign that read, “Granddaughter of the first Indian Woman to run for office in NJ #That’sWhyIMarch”. For me, it began as a personal statement about my grandmother. Before I knew it, so many South Asians came running up through the packed crowds to stop me. They wanted to take a picture of themselves with me and my sign.
I realized then, how my grandmother stood for all of us. In my heart, I wish my ‘Dida’ had been there. That’s the picture I wanted them to have.
But by then she had Alzheimer’s. She liked to tell me about the mango trees she grew up with in what was then East Bengal, in an undivided India. She missed those sweet, juicy mangos so much. She broke out into a big smile when she remembered how great it was to climb those trees even though girls weren’t supposed to do that.
On my last visit to her, I knew I would not be returning. I just knew it. But I didn’t cry. My feet were not glued in place, because my grandmother had taught me to fly. She gave me her strength to carry forward. Over the years, I had watched her listen, learn, and speak out no matter what. She taught me to believe in people and fight for what’s right. I am so proud to be the granddaughter of the first lady of Indo-American politics. I see my grandmother as the person who planted the seeds for me. It’s my job now to continue to care for her mango tree. I cannot let the tree die.
Kavery Kaul, the daughter of Kanak Dutta, is a writer and filmmaker. Learn more at www.kaverykaul.com
Usha Kaul is Kanak’s granddaughter, a student of social work and public health, and a photographer. Learn more at www.kaulphotography.com
