Reckoning with my Indian identity

I have been at odds with my birth country since I was born on the outskirts of Mumbai in 2003. I grew up in Mumbai, Pune and Bangalore. I have very fond memories of getting street food with my grandmother, going to weddings and celebrating festivals. At the same time, I carried a lot of hatred toward my Indian identity, as contemporary India’s political narratives center on nationalistic, right-wing and patriarchal values. In recent years, the passage of Islamophobic and sexist legislation are only two examples of India’s politics becoming increasingly conservative. The country’s history of colonization has only complicated its politics. As such, I have had to work a lot on reckoning with my Indian identity, trying to restore a healthy relationship with it and my identity as a progressive activist.

When I think about it, I never really had a strong connection to my Indian identity to begin with. In middle school, we were only allowed to speak English. Hindi, my first language and India’s most-spoken language, could only be spoken during Hindi class. I was forbidden from speaking my mother tongue in my mother country. Alongside my feeble attachment to Indian culture was a passion for activism that often clashed with India’s politics. Toward the end of middle school, I started forming my political identity, reading books on feminism, and becoming more aware of current events and social justice movements. I started becoming more passionate about gender equity and LGBTQ+ rights. I had the privilege of going to an international school, which most people in India don’t, and I tried to use that platform to advocate for issues I was passionate about.

International schools in India usually tout progressive values and an awareness of global issues. When I asked to host an awareness assembly on LGBTQ+ issues, I assumed the administration would be on my side, but they said no, telling me that such matters were “inappropriate.” I felt defeated. I had wanted to create a safe zone for my LGBTQ+ friends, but I couldn’t even discuss their identities at school. Of course, I myself hadn’t identified as queer back then. If I had, my identity would have been deemed inappropriate, which would simply invalidate and dehumanize me.

As I started becoming engaged in activism I became frustrated with the lack of political advocacy platforms available to me. The United States, on the other hand, seemed like the ultimate escape from India’s conservatism. The Indian media I consumed throughout my childhood made the United States seem like a perfect land with perfect people, where the quality of life was simply better — more progressive. The idea of moving to the “West” and living in the magical land of America enthralled me. You could have caught me watching American television shows as a child with wide eyes and an open jaw.

The universe granted my wish halfway through the ninth grade. My father, who worked for Nike, was transferred to the company’s global headquarters in Portland, Oregon. Moving to the United States was a privilege that most Indians don’t have. I was excited to engage with progressive politics and activism. However, my excitement faded when the facade lifted before my eyes. The United States wasn’t all that.

In the United States, marginalized people rail against those in power to dismantle systems of oppression that have been in place ever since colonizers brutally stole this land from Indigenous peoples. India might appear to be more progressive in certain ways, such as its history of women in power long before Kamala Harris became the U.S. Vice President, the constitutional right to reparations offered to the historically marginalized, and longer maternity leave stipulated by law than many “Western” countries. But these professedly progressive policies, while theoretically written in law, are often inaccessible to people who need them most. Despite the problems in both nations, in my experience, starting social movements or engaging with activism seems much easier in the United States than India.

As a college student, I also became involved with sex education. Now, I feel conflicted about how misaligned my values are with those of the authority figures I had growing up. One of the reasons I became passionate about sex education and sexual liberation was that I didn’t receive any sex education at my school in India. I recognized the need for comprehensive sex and consent education is just as important here in the United States, where there is no mandate for teaching it on the federal level and many states stress abstinence over education about sexual health or informed consent.

In the United States, although I could be a sex educator openly and engage in the political activism I was passionate about, my peers constantly stereotyped me. I was appalled by the number of people who were surprised I could speak proper English. The captain of my high school’s speech and debate team complimented me on my English, though I have always prided myself on being well-spoken. Realizing that I could be reduced to a stereotype was a harsh and hurtful truth. Everything I have known and experienced in my life seemed to vanish, reduced to a warped, “Western” perspective of South Asian culture.

As someone who lived in India for the first 14 years of their life, I believe I have the right to criticize my country for its wrongs. But it makes my blood boil when people who have never even read about India make assumptions about my culture or society, thinking all we do is eat curry and speak “Hindu.” It would always bother me when people would tell me they love Indian food the minute they heard my accent.

I have seen mundane practices from Indian culture fetishized and exoticized in the United States. Think about the last time you went to a yoga lesson or watched a TikTok about crystals. No, it’s not called the downward dog, it’s the Adho Mukha Svanasana. Better yet, go into any New Age spirituality shop or even vintage store. Note the various “trinkets” from Indian culture and Indic religions on the shelves: incense, crystals, tapestries, idols of various deities and the Om sign, ॐ, a symbol that signifies bringing together the three parts of an individual — mind, body and spirit.

I subscribe to many spiritual aspects of Hinduism — karma, the afterlife, divine consciousness — but not the religion in its entirety. Nevertheless, symbols and cultural aspects of Hinduism are important to me. Every time I have entered a New Age store in Portland, a non-Indian person behind the counter has smiled at me with incense in hand. Seeing my friends in Portland buy and light that incense — agarbatti, as I know it — unsettles me. I often wonder if those buying and selling items with the ॐ symbol know its significance, or what it’s even called.

When their Indian roots are not preserved, these practices become subject to U.S. consumerism and lose their meaning. However, I am glad my culture is being appreciated on a global scale. Seeing Indian culture valued, however misinterpreted, made me realize how beautiful and fascinating it is. However annoying it was when people heard my accent and immediately told me how much they love Indian food, it does remind me of my home and the culture I miss. I can never truly detach from that. I will never stop loving and protecting my culture.

After 18 years, I’ve finally begun to reconcile my identity with my values by coming to terms with the United States’ flaws and separating who I am from my home country’s shortcomings. I love India’s culture, despite being at odds with some of its societal values and the effects of its colonial history. I am unequivocally proud of being Indian, because it has made me who I am.

Reconciliation is an ongoing process. I wrestle with it every time I see headlines of sexism or Islamophobia in India or see Americans appropriating my culture. I believe it’s important that I work towards building a better relationship with my country and its culture. No matter how far away I move from India or what clashing values I hold, it will always be my home.