Personal essay: Is it India, or is it me?

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As someone who grew up in the US, my perception of India and the culture I identified with has always brought me a sense of home that I never felt here. Here I was just another Indian kid, distinct by my heritage instead of being among the many.

I imagined India would be a place where I just existed, not the brown girl sticking out like a sore thumb. The longer I stayed away from India, the more I grew to idealize what it would be like to be there.

I envisioned crowds of people who looked just like me, big “gujju” noses and all. I could hear the comfort of Gujarati being spoken all around me. But more than that, I longed to seamlessly fit into the hustle of people on a busy street. Similar to children of other South Asian immigrants, I longed to find a place where I fit. 

A series of unfortunate events

From the minute I sat down in my middle-aisle, economy Air India cloth seat, I began to question whether my long-awaited trip would live up to my expectations.

The comfort I initially felt by hearing Hindi and Gujarati being spoken on the flight was knocked out when I overheard the man sitting next to me comment “Oh yeah, I am next to some Gujarati girl, but she is an ABCD (American-born confused Desi), so I probably won’t talk to her,” over the phone to his friend unknowing of the fact that I understood Gujarati. It was the first time it hit me that I was different. It dawned on me that the superficial nature of a shared identity and language would not be enough for me to feel like I belonged.

While I hoped the incident was a fluke, it was actually the first in a series of events that made me feel further from India than I ever have, even though I was physically there. In all my idealizing of Indian culture, I neglected to think about the ways I might not fit in. The ways I would be “othered,” just like I am in the US. 

After an almost 48-hour journey from my home in New Jersey to Vadodara, Gujarat, thanks to the extreme fog in Delhi leading to flight cancellations and long delays, I was relieved to see my dad’s home. I entered a big party celebrating my uncle’s birthday and while everyone was getting drunk and dancing to music, I was getting stared at for grabbing a beer from the cooler.

When I went to snap the can open, I looked up to see people surprised by what I was doing. I realized that not a single other woman had an alcoholic drink and that, despite being able to indulge in a cocktail or two back home in New Jersey, it would not be “normal” for me to do so here. Though I was shocked, I poured the beer into a plastic cup to stop the stares. I thought, “I guess I should just respect the norms here.”

My parents always raised me to be who I wanted to be. They never restricted what I could wear, what I could do, or where I wanted to go. As long as I was safe, they emphasized giving me the freedom to grow into myself. So why was everything suddenly so different here?

After a day of shopping in Vadodara, my brother noticed a bunch of men staring at me.

“Selena, maybe you really shouldn’t wear pants like these here,” he commented as he tried to shield me from their gazes.

I was wearing army-green, paisley-patterned chiffon capris that I confidently felt were Desi. While I appreciated my brother’s protectiveness in the situation, I couldn’t help but feel disappointed by the looks I got. I was blissfully unaware of the looks I was getting, and the realization stunned me with insecurity. I thought I was doing a great job of blending in, but once again I stuck out like a sore thumb.

As my trip continued, I was determined not to let little things like this get to me and to take in the beautiful aspects of my parents’ hometowns. It was a trip that I had been waiting to go on for years. But despite my greatest efforts, each instance in which I was told I wasn’t allowed to do something for simply being a woman slowly ate away at me.

My breaking point was visiting a temple near Anand that my mom’s family grew up attending. The temple, shimmering in gold under the sun, was surrounded by a shaded courtyard that was humble yet so glamorous. 

When I showed up with the male members of my family, they were promptly shown to an outdoor seating area in the courtyard. As I walked in, trying to take in each structure around me, I was stopped and told, “Ma’am this is a gents-only area. You cannot enter.”

I was taken aback, but listened out of respect for the priest and the temple. The rest of my family continued into the area, leaving me to wander around a suddenly unfamiliar space. I have been to many temples in the US that have gender-separated prayer, but this was the first time I was told outside of the temple where I could and could not go.

I was confused that it shocked me, but even more perplexed that it upset me. I thought, Why am I constantly being told what I can and cannot do? Am I just a brat for thinking all of this is unfair? 

I seemed to be the only one to see any problems on the trip. Each instance was seconds long but lived in my mind for hours.

When my family members eagerly inquired about how my trip was going or how I liked India, I lied through my teeth. “Yeah, it's been everything I can imagine. I can’t wait to come back.” 

My brother would add, “I am going to come back every year for at least a month now. I would even move here if I could. It's been such an amazing experience.” He wholeheartedly found a home in India, but I found yet another place I just didn’t seem to fit in. 

In any case, I tried to put the bad parts behind me and focus on the good things: welling up with tears after seeing my grandma and mother’s siblings for the first time in 15 years, trying pani puri from a street vendor for the first time, seeing tigers in the Tadoba-Andhari Tiger Reserve. And while all of those experiences will stay with me as cherished memories, I still couldn’t help but feel unfulfilled by my trip.

Culture shock from my own culture

It was not until after my trip that I realized I was experiencing culture shock from my own culture. My experiences in India forced me to ask questions like, Is it India, or is it me? and, Do I truly belong anywhere?

I have always been “too American” for my Indian family, but not American enough to be just another kid here. My cultural heritage used to define me like a badge of honor, but when I came back from my trip, all I felt was shame. 

It wasn’t until weeks after my trip that I accepted no place would truly fit who I am, because I am proudly Indian American. I began to reflect on all the wonderful experiences I had. Though I had some pain coming to terms with the bad experiences I did have, I realized that they didn’t take away from the great experiences I also got to enjoy in India.

I realized that it was India, and it was me. I will always find a piece of me in both places, and it's okay that not every piece from either place fits me.

Selena Patel is a reporting fellow for Central Desi.

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