Indian-American

A Balancing Act

As an Indian-American, I found myself hovering between two worlds throughout the last seventeen years of my life. I haven’t been sure how to maneuver my American life while still staying true to my heritage.

I love eating idlis for breakfast during my weeks in India each summer, exploring my grandparents’ house in Chennai, and meeting another member of the seemingly endless Viswanathan family. However, blatant stares at my jean shorts and ignorant comments about my “American” or “surfer” accent make me wonder if I could ever fit into my culture. Last June, my family and I traveled to Chennai to celebrate my Thatha’s (grandfather’s) eightieth birthday, his Sathabhishekam. I had two weeks without distraction, namely without my cell phone, and I was forced to really examine and try to understand the people and culture around me. Seeing grand estates next door to tin shacks made me brand India as completely different in comparison to America. Little did I know I had even more to learn.

As we were packing for our return to the airport on our last night in Chennai, I realized I hadn’t taken a final trip to my favorite sweets store, Shri Krishna Sweets. I ran to the other room to look at the clock and saw that it was almost time for the store to close. I rushed to find my dad in order to and convince him to head to the store with me. We rushed out of the apartment completely forgetting my attire: pajama shorts and a T-shirt. The sweets store was only a few minutes away on foot, and we had been to the corner where it sits approximately fourteen times during our stay. Turning right, then left, and then left again was like muscle memory for us. As we stepped onto the street, we stopped and suddenly noticed the only lights we could see were the headlights of scooters and bicycles. Pushing our apprehension away, we started to speedwalk towards the store. Suddenly, someone behind me said something in a tone that made me freeze. I turned around to see two men on a motorcycle. One of the men said something. Neither my dad nor I understood his crude Tamil, but I know what catcalls sound like, even if they’re in a different language. I felt a breeze on my legs and my palms started to sweat; then my dad grabbed my shoulder and hurried me towards the store. We didn’t turn around until we reached our destination, even though we heard them behind us. My dad and I quickly made our purchases, and then he held my hand the entire way home. I collapsed on one of the couches as soon as we arrived. I didn’t know what to think. Something terrible could have happened so easily. I was wearing shorts. Was it my fault?

In that moment something clicked in my head. Every piece of information I knew about culture and tradition in India rearranged themselves to form an entirely new picture. I realized one of the reasons women in India don’t dress as freely as women in the U.S. is due to the danger they’re in if they show skin. My relatives didn’t make comments about my dress and my mannerisms because they didn’t like my “Americanism”. They were worried about me.

My parents forced me to wear a sari a week later. As I wandered through the religious hall, picking up snippets of conversation and waving to relatives, I reflected on my summer spent in India. I thought about the differences between India and America again, but this time, there weren’t as many as before. They both have great, hole-in-the-wall restaurants, supportive family and friends, and ridiculous societal norms for women. There were so many parallels I couldn’t help but accept myself as a true Indian-American.