This is almost a response to my last piece. I wanted to post it so you get to know more about me and so I can share an important part of my life. I didn’t play a song for this piece, but I have attached one of my favorite Hindi songs. It’s pretty popular. I love it for its beat and music, but also because of the way it describes drums and some of our gods. Here is the song: Nagada Sang Dhol, and here is the translation (it does have a video of the song but the YouTube version might be better).

*Italicized words in the piece are defined after, at the very bottom.*

---

I used to be embarrassed. My parents would talk in Gujarati in public and I would pretend I didn’t know them. My mom would wear her punjabi to go shopping and I would check to see if anyone was staring. When someone asked, my middle name, I was nervous about telling them it was my dad’s name, Dilip.

I wanted to be more like my friends. I wanted a name that was easy to pronounce and a regular middle name. I wanted to converse in English in public and not be embarrassed of my mom’s clothes. And I didn’t want my passport photo to be of me with a chandlo on.

When I went to camp for the first time, I filled up my bowl with cereal and way too much milk. Like at home, I figured I would just tip the lip of the bowl into my mouth when I was done and drink the milk in a few swigs. But as I finished my cereal, I noticed no one else was doing this. They carefully balanced a spoonful of milk and drank that. Or, they threw it out. But I refused to waste it, so I quickly downed the milk, drinking it the way I had been taught, the way my parents would finish a bowl of dal.

And when people asked why my nails were stained yellow, I had no other explanation except for Indian food. The yellow turmeric had turned my white nails yellow, and I hated that.

When I got to high school, my mom wanted to me to join our school’s Indian Student Organization so I could make some Indian friends. I was reluctant. I didn’t want to join a club that separated me from everyone else. I didn’t want to be different.

But as I entered the club fair and passed the table representing ISO, I saw a girl I knew sitting there, and she invited me to join. I couldn’t say no. So I wrote down my name and email. I had asked my South Indian friend to join with me. She said no. It would be “social suicide.” I guess I was setting myself up to be judged.

My mom was thrilled I joined. I, however, was not. When I went to the first meeting, I found myself surrounded by more Indian people my age than ever before. We talked about our first event, something in the school cafeteria celebrating and informing others about Diwali. On the day, when a bunch of students showed up, I was more than embarrassed.

I’m not totally sure what changed. But I soon started to realize that brown was just the color of my skin, and I was proud of my culture. Sophomore year, I modeled in our school’s charity fashion show, Catwalk for a Cause, dressed in Indian clothes and jewelry. And I continued up until senior year. I liked showing off my fancy dresses. I became proud of what my culture had to offer, and I realized I wouldn’t trade anything.

Let’s be real. Indian sweets are the best by far. You can’t anything better than a warm bowl of shiro. And Indian food is pretty high up on the list too. Nothing beats the savory curries or rich shaks. I wouldn’t trade them for the comparably bland burgers. Indian clothes are some of the best, with their gold decor and intricate designs, many of them heavy enough to act as paperweights. They don’t compare to the simple, yet still elegant, American dresses.

And I learned to love that I was different. I liked that I grew up not eating meat, that something that had been a part of my religion now became a choice I made daily. It wasn’t about anything else other than my morals and values. And I liked that I grew up differently, going to a temple every weekend and eating food with my hands, ditching the spoons and forks. I liked that I got to explain my traditions and values to others and share why my identity was so important. I liked it so much that I became secretary of ISO in eleventh grade and vice president in twelfth. I wanted to represent my culture and share it with others.

But I guess most importantly, I learned to be accepting of others. Instead of judging those  I saw in public conversing in Spanish or Chinese, I found it fascinating, listening to their speed and ease and admiring their differences. And I think realizing the appreciation for my culture heightened my passion for equality. Like never before, inequality between race, gender, religion, and sexual orientation made me mad. And I don’t think I cared as much until I became proud of my culture and insulted by anyone who found it limiting. It was not “social suicide” to be brown. It was just a part of me. And I wore it proudly.

There was nothing better than talking about all the Indian weddings I’d been to over the summer after sophomore year. I had pictures upon pictures of me and my family in colorful cholis and beautiful hairdos and makeup. And I had stories of three-day-long weddings with multiple ceremonies, each representing a different tradition. No American wedding could top that. No cake or slow dance was better than our garba circles, performances for the bride and groom, and piles of sweets. No exchanging of vows was better than our walk around the fire. No wedding video would be three hours long unless it was an Indian wedding. And no bride’s hands or feet looked as pretty as our bride’s, covered in mehendi, decorated with small flowers and swirls and conjoined in pattern.

I was lucky to have all this. I am lucky to have this to pass on to my children. I have stories and memories. I have a community of people who understand my “brown” references and Indian problems. I have people who understand some of the decisions I make and who help me celebrate some of the best festivals. I have a better understanding of other Indians and communities. I wouldn’t trade this for anything.

punjabi – Indian outfit with a dress that goes to the knees or longer and pants. It also has a scarf that is generally placed around the neck so the ends hang behind you.

chandlo – the Gujarati term for bindi

dal – lentil soup typically eaten with rice

shiro – an Indian sweet made from cream of wheat, ghee (purified butter), sugar, and milk (IT’S SO GOOD!!)

shak – many times, it is the main component of our meal, consisting of a vegetable and spices and eaten with a thin bread

choli – Indian dress, with a short blouse and long skirt intricately decorated. Like a punjabi, it has a scarf that is pinned onto the dress

garba – a celebration dance done in circles around God. It is a component of weddings, but also done to celebrate Navratri, a nine night festival (for more details, look it up, because neither me nor my mom knows how to explain it)