Dream In Bengali

Written by Antara Basu Artwork by Sophie Hoet

Language and food are perhaps the two most common ways in which families pass along their traditions to their children. For me, there is something so inherently comforting about being able to prepare perfectly cooked fluffy rice to accompany the মসুর ডাল (masoor daal, red lentils), infused with fragrant aromatic spices, that my mother would send me packed with after a long day. The iconic Dal-Chawal (lentil rice) duo is a staple in the typical Indian household, one of the most basic dishes because of how easy it is to make; and yet living in London, it is my pride and joy. I find immense solace in the simplicity of this meal, or the simplicity of being able to express myself in my native tongue.

I speak English fluently, having mastered the art at a young age. It commands automatic respect in India: a sign of intelligence (and privilege). But it is while speaking Hindi I feel most at ease, and it is in Bengali that I dream, cry, and feel the most profound happiness.

Having lived most of my life in India, it was a wonderful yet overwhelming transition moving to a new country for university. London is an amalgamation of different identities; a truly massive pot of melting cultures, languages, and identities. But many, and I include myself in this list, have often felt conflicted over how Indian can or should they be. Treading the fine line between being ‘Western’ enough for the West while still being rooted in your culture and traditions is common to the South Asian experience abroad. While this is a gross simplification of social intricacies and identities, it is hard to be able to fully embrace a culture that has often been globally ridiculed and minimised to funny accents and spicy food.

You can be ‘too’ Indian or ‘not’ Indian enough. This constant categorisation intends to gauge your ‘Indianness’ or ‘South-Asian-ness,’ something I was not aware could be measured. Just the other day, a waitress at the place I work part-time was visibly surprised to know that I grew up in Delhi. Her shock stemmed from the fact that I did not have an ‘Indian accent’. Her perception of an ‘Indian accent’ aligns with another one of our colleagues who speaks with a thicker accent than me but is from a different part of the country and has a mother tongue different to mine. I can say with utmost certainty that I do have an Indian accent, but according to her, I did not.

Within a stereotypical Western umbrella gaze as long as you look like me you will be grouped under the ‘South Asian’ moniker. Within South Asia, there are political, cultural, and social boundaries in place which solidify the differences between our similar yet distinct backgrounds: Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis and Sri Lankans to name a few. Without nuance, it is difficult to understand the diversity of South Asia’s languages, cultures, histories, socioeconomic positions, and religions. It is relatively easier to club all South Asian communities together, which ultimately contributes to the erasure of identities and experiences of our diverse backgrounds. A refusal to acknowledge this diversity stems from ignorance and apathy towards the Global South.

It would also be a huge misstep on my part if I fail to acknowledge that my experience stems from the privilege of my caste and socio-economic position. Caste is deeply ingrained in the societal fabric of India, and the experience of a Dalit person is very different from that of a Brahmin person. The diversity of the South Asian identity is unparalleled and I cannot authentically embody this identity or experience in its entirety, and to suggest otherwise would be a disservice to the varying experiences of South Asians all over the world.

In London, I am grateful for every little interaction that reminds me of home. I love strolling around East London streets, reading the shop signs brightly lit with Bengali calligraphy while surrounded by the chatter of familiar conversations; or the Sikh man who approached me and my friend at a Morrisons in Stratford to let us use his discount code because he heard me on the phone speaking in a language familiar to him; or the childlike excitement with which I call my father to narrate which vegetable native to India (and not easily available in big chain grocery stores like Sainsbury’s) I discovered that day while walking past the shops in Whitechapel. I ground myself in my ‘Indian-ness’ in the big and the little things - be it celebrating festivals or listening to my Bollywood playlist as I walk myself to and fro from seminars.

Cultural identity is an integral component of people’s personalities and individuality. In this interconnected world, where difference risks being grounds for attack, it is crucial to foster an environment where everyone can honour and nurture their roots while simultaneously transitioning to life in a foreign land. UCL has a strong international student community that comes from states across the world. While studying abroad, most students are exposed to, learn about, and embrace new cultural traditions. My Dal-Chawal recipe has gained an adoring fan in the form of my Hungarian friend, who in return, has shown me what authentic Hungarian Gulyás tastes like.

I am also painfully aware of the historical relationship between Britain and South Asia. The context of foreign migration, cultural disconnect, and the need for social acceptance drives many individuals to reject traditional norms to fit into stereotypical Western identity standards - especially reflecting on South Asia’s colonial history. Decades of oppressive European colonisation have sustained internalised notions of White superiority. But societal integration should not be conditional upon having to tweak cultures to fit Western standards. I have embraced London, as it has me. Balancing two cultural settings and honouring your roots in a foreign land is never easy but I have never felt freer than when I walk in London in my mother’s white-indigo Kantha stitch saree.