I am Indian But I Have Never Been to India
My mom would always challenge me and ask me “Why do you call yourself Indian…you were born here in America, you are American.” Astonished and shocked I would answer, “How can you say that mom! I AM INDIAN.” With no further response, I would think in my head: Damn mom you have a point but…but…
It was so hard for me to validate my answer. I became frustrated every time this conversation would come up. I felt like I was falling into a pit of confusion and disillusionment. “I am Indian” I would repeat to my mom, as if I was trying to convince my own mother who I am. The closest thing I have experienced to India is the smell of luggage, returning to the states. Every time my Masis (mother’s sisters) and Ba and Dada (my grandma and grandpa) come back from India, I eagerly wait to unpack their suitcases. As soon as the lock clicks open a certain smell fills the room. Anyone who has traveled to India or received a package from India, knows what I am talking about. Some despise the smell others love it. I particularly love it. There is a sense of nostalgia and comfort embedded into the scent that makes me feel at home.
But how is it home if it’s something I have never experienced? Or stepped foot upon? Growing up all I ever knew was my culture…my Indian culture. Every evening my mom would cook up a storm, tirelessly frying mustard seeds, dried red chillis, and cumin seeds in hot oil. I would roll rotis on a Gujarati Adni and and use a traditional wooden Velun. My first words were spoken in my mother tongue. My first gesture of love and compassion was felt and comprehended in Gujarati (my first language) . I could feel prem (love) in my mother’s cooking and karuna (compassion) when my brother got hurt.
When I started elementary school I distinctly remember humming Jana Gana Manna in my head when we had patriotic school assemblies where we would sing the American national anthem. I would feel all these urges to identify with my Indian culture although I had never even seen my homeland. Why?Why did I keep telling myself that my culture is the closest thing I had to understanding my past? It’s had become an imaginary homeland- a fragment of my imagination that manifested itself as an “India of the mind” . My cousins recently traveled to Ahmadabad, Gujarat for a wedding last year and took videos just so I could vicariously live through them.
I have been learning Bharatanatyam since I was five, and attribute much of my cultural longing to the role Bharatanatyam has played in my life. From the minute I began dancing I identified myself as an Indian dancer. I would perform at charity events, International Day shows at school, and even went on tour in the seventh grade to perform the epic drama of the Ramayana. My relationship with dance has been a cultural textbook that has helped me navigate within my diasporic community. The opportunities I have been able to take through dance have opened my eyes immensely. Dance has allowed me to learn so much of my cultural framework- without having to physically go to my motherland. Prayers and mythology have been intertwined with movement and expression to produce an art form that depicts a home away from home. Rushdie’s self validating approach towards literature can be compared to my interpretation of Bharatanatyam and its connection to ancient Indian history, a history that has built the foundation of my existence.
As a member of the South Asian diaspora I am learning to create a new home and understanding as an Indian living away from India. Today’s cultural out pour and appreciation of South Asian American art and dialogue has allowed me to foster a stronger relationship with my homeland, one that is bigger than my imagination.
