Sikhism, J.K. Rowling, and the Importance of Representation
When I was seven years old, I visited India for the first time.
This trip was probably one of the most formative experiences of my life, the details of which have never left me to this day. The aureate clothing, in which every dress was a one of a kind creation, the celebration of Diwali, a holiday that contains all of the vibrancy of Independence Day and mixes it together with the cozy mirth of Christmas, the lavish weddings, filled to the brim with color and resplendence; there were times I truly believed I was in a fairy tale.
My relationship with my heritage as a child was heavily influenced by this early exposure. I was positively bursting with pride towards my culture. When I was ten, I wore starchy, billowing shirts embedded with small mirrors to school. Like many textbook ABCD’s, I was an “Indian princess” for Halloween nearly every year. My teacher would ask me to pronounce the names of Indian historical figures for the class and I would beam. I was always excited to see people with henna on their hands in the U.S. (Particularly when they were white; if they liked it, then it had to be cool, right?) I pointed out Indian characters in TV shows and books to my parents with alacrity, as if I had to let them know, as well as myself: “Look! We really do exist!” I still remember pulling my mother from the other room just to show her the Indian girls wearing saris in the latest Harry Potter movie.
Man, would I have been psyched to read The Casual Vacancy.
J.K. Rowling, the author of Harry Potter, actually researched and wrote about a Punjabi girl. It would not have seemed possible to my ten-year-old mind. It would have been too good to be true, to be recognized by one of my heroes in such an indirect, insignificant, yet incredible way. There was no way she served a major role in the plot, I thought, she must have been a token character or exotic love interest. (Even the latter, for its sheer scarcity alone, I would have welcomed.) In our world, white male is the default — especially where main characters in books are concerned. I recognized and accepted this without question as a child. By the time I’d read Rowling’s first non-Potter-related work in high school, I was absolutely consumed with bitterness towards my being the nondescript Other. In my childhood I was not aware of the concept of catachresis, but during my adolescence, the phenomenon was a great source of alienation for me.
J.K. Rowling’s novel helped me cope. The Sikh female character I’d been so eager to read about more than exceeded my expectations — she did not merely float by in the background as I had feared. She and her family were of great relevance to the plot and other characters. Their existence wasn’t just established, but expanded upon. Sukhwinder Kumar was intensely relatable, but not stereotypical. Her Punjabi identity was a part of her, but it did not define her. She had a predilection for self-harm, failing grades in math, and an onerous amount of arm hair that was the absolute bane of her self-esteem. Her parents did not understand her, her siblings outshone her, and her peers either bullied or disregarded her. Despite all these things, and to my utter delight, Sukhi got a happy ending.
I stumbled upon the book a bit too late for it to have the lasting impact I would have liked. But for all the other little ABCD girls out there, Sukhvinder Kumar is a sign of hope. Our stories can matter, we can be main characters, too. The white man is universal, yes, but work like Rowling’s — work that explores the lives of marginalized and overlooked groups and normalizes their narratives — open that universe a little bit more.
