"Me No Meat" & Other South Asian American Narratives

ME NO MEAT & Other South Asian American Narratives
ME NO MEAT
& other South Asian
American narratives
Compiled and Edited by Charu Sharma
Copyright 2014 by Charu Sharma. All rights reserved
Index
Chapter 1. Me no meat ..3
Chapter 2. Tangled Threads 11
Chapter 3. A HinJew explores her roots 18
Chapter 4. From Berkeley to Bangladesh ..25
Chapter 5. Tanglish: Struggles of a Split Personality ..29
Chapter 6. Someday Starts Today..38
Chapter 7. A Journey of Dharma ..44
Chapter 8. Becoming a modern Indian woman ..51
Chapter 9. Owning my Indian identity ..57
Chapter 10. Sex and All the Questions .63
Chapter 11. Whats in a name? 77
Chapter 12. The American Dream .80
Chapter 13. Say .87
Chapter 1
ME NO MEAT
- Hetal Jannu
"Me no meat." This was the first broken English sentence spoken by a terrified
5 year old on her first day of school in America, after having stepped off the
proverbial "boat." Reflecting on these three simple words, I realize that sometimes,
knowing what you don't want in life is equally as important as knowing what you
want. As an Indian who was raised in America, I knew that I did not want to be an
"ABCD" or "American Born Confused Desi," a derogatory label for those Indians who
didn't have a clue about the Indian culture. This conscious, yet sometimes
subconscious, thought guided me through my adolescence.
I immigrated to the US under unusual circumstances. I would be meeting my

father for the first time at the age of five and my mother after several years, an
unfathomable notion for most children. My mother was pregnant with me in India
when my father travelled to the US to further his education. With tight financial
resources and strict immigration laws, my father was never able to return to India to
meet me. My mother soon followed my father to the US, leaving me and my brother
in the care of my grandparents. Living in a joint family, I was oblivious to the norm
where children had a mother and a father. I never really knew what parents were or
missed having them. When my dad picked me up from the airport and took me home

for the very first time, someone asked me what I thought of him and I remember
saying, "I thought he was the driver." Children are as resilient as they are adaptable
and I quickly found my place in a nuclear family, quickly accepted my two parents
and quickly mastered the English language - "I am a vegetarian."
Like many immigrants in the 1970s , my parents carried with them the culture,
the mannerisms and the sense of what it meant to be Indian. And like many
immigrants, they passed those 1970s values on to their children. Even as India
modernized over the years, mimicking western trends and values, the children of
these immigrants continued to hold on to the original set of values.
As first generation immigrants, my parents tried their best to keep the Indian
culture at the forefront. They insisted that my brother and I speak our native
language, Gujarati, at home and English was reserved for school. In a very short
time, I was fluent in both languages. Though my parents were not overly religious, our
family visited the Hindu temple and I learned about all of the gods and goddesses.
Every friend of the family was either my "aunty" or "uncle" and I was expected to treat
them with the utmost respect. My parents also shielded me from what they thought
were "unacceptable" western behaviors. I was not allowed to wear miniskirts, not
allowed to disrespect my elders and not allowed to date.
Children who grow up in an ethnic household in America have two choices:

embrace their ethnicity and allow others to accept the cultural differences or try so

hard to hide the differences that it becomes almost impossible to find their own
identity. United States in the 1970s was quite different from today. When I looked
around my classroom of 25 students, I was the only Indian. My parents got excited
when they spotted another Indian family shopping at our local grocery store,
sometimes even stopping to chat. Yoga, meditation and Chicken Tikka Masala had not
hit mainstream yet. And without fail, when I told my classmates that I was Indian, the
question back was almost always, "Which tribe?"
Armed with my 1970s Indian values and my parents' constant guidance, I

decided early on to accept my differences. After all, though not American born, I
knew I was not going to be labeled an "ABCD." Knowing what you don't want can free
up precious time in deciding what you do want. For me, as for many young people,
my parents' approval and acceptance meant everything. I was certainly going to
embrace my culture and make them proud, but I was going to do so on my own terms.
I wanted to fit into western society but at the same time, I needed to be accepted as
is. I tried my best to expose my non-Indian friends to Indian food, Indian festivals and
even taught them a few Indian words. They were more understanding of my
differences and even intrigued once they were familiar with my culture.
Over the years, it became increasingly easier to be an Indian in America's

melting pot, though I'm sure the youngsters of today are facing their own set of
issues. More and more immigrants from all over the world brought over their own
culture, food and customs, allowing everyone to become familiar with once foreign

concepts. From being the only Indian in my classroom in elementary school, I was part
of a rather large Indian Students Association in college.
If I think about one activity that shaped me and my future, it was eating dinner
together with my family every evening. Everyone waited to eat until we were all
present, even if it meant that we waited well past normal time. Most parents ask
their kids the obligatory question, "How was school?" Most kids answer with an
equally obligatory, "Fine." Sitting around the table while enjoying a delicious meal
gave each of us an opportunity to elaborate on our day and share our thoughts. It was
the time for us kids to talk about our friends, upcoming tests or other interesting
happenings of the day. It was my parents' time to instill upon us our customs and
stories from their past.
Preparing dinner was also equally important. My mom and dad were both
fantastic cooks and made sure that I knew the basics of Indian cooking from a very
early age. Since I was naturally interested in food, I started to experiment with
different cuisines. I would try to replicate the recipe of an item we ate at a
restaurant or being a vegetarian, I would make traditionally non-vegetarian food with
my own vegetarian or Indian twist. I made my share of mistakes, but thankfully, my
parents always reacted to my creations with great enthusiasm. Without the fear of
failure, I was able to learn from my mistakes and continually improve my cooking
skills.

When it was time for me to think about marriage, things got somewhat
complicated.
From my upbringing and personal experience, I knew I would marry an Indian.

Though I had many non-Indian friends, I always felt that I had less explaining to do
with my Indian friends and that they understood me. I met my future husband in
college and we were friends for a few years before I knew that I wanted to marry
him. Even though he was Indian, he was not from the same part of India as me. My
parents approved of him as a friend, but they were still holding on to their 1970s
Indian values and would not accept me marrying him. "He's great, but he is not
Gujarati. You don't speak the same language. What will our family think?" After many
arguments and tears, they finally agreed to the marriage. Surprisingly, once the
decision was made, it was full force ahead with joyous and endless wedding
preparations. I will forever hold dear my dad's words a few years before he passed
away. "I could not have found a better person for you to marry."
Now with a family of my own, I often look back on how my parents raised me
and I can understand the frustrations they must have faced being adult first
generation immigrants. The food, the culture, the education - everything was foreign
to them. They successfully imparted on me the wisdom of what they knew, however,
I was left to find my own way for everything else. I learned to be "Indian" when the
situation required it and equally "American" when it was appropriate. This dualfaceted ability has been a boon in raising my own children.

Like my parents, I find myself imparting on my children the values and culture
of 1970s India. Sometimes, it makes sense to them, sometimes, they don't have a
clue what I'm saying. Unlike my parents, I am able to relate to my kids' school system,
their friends, wardrobe choices, homecoming dates, etc. I find myself being strict on
issues such as grades and good manners, but more lenient on those things I thought
my parents were unreasonable.
Many of the children I knew growing up refused to acknowledge that they were
Indian. They did their best to avoid Indian social gatherings or associate with Indian
friends. Instead, making the decision to accept and embrace my cultural differences
from the beginning allowed me to be successful in my career as an entrepreneur and
the host of the online cooking show "Show Me The Curry."
I had taken a few years off from my career as a financial analyst to care for my
young children, but when the youngest started full time school, I dreamed of doing
something challenging. Knowing my passion for cooking, my husband offered a simple
yet monumental suggestion. "Why don't you make a video that teaches people how to
cook Indian food? We can upload it on YouTube." At the time, YouTube was just
starting to gain momentum and though there were countless websites for written
Indian recipes, there were no videos.
Coincidentally, my ShowMeTheCurry partner Anuja Balasubramanian had

recently moved nearby and shared my passion for cooking and entertaining. One

weekend, we rented a movie to keep our children occupied, handed our husbands a
home video camera and some shop lights that we purchased from our local hardware
store and set out to film our first cooking video. Though neither of us had any prior
experience being in front of a camera or teaching anyone to cook, our first video was
well received -- well enough for us to continue making more videos.
In a short time, we realized that our children were severely neglected on the
weekends and we were forced to fire our husbands because they couldn't stop
laughing in the middle of our shoots. We decided that if we wanted to pursue this line
of work full time, we had to learn to do everything ourselves and treat it like any
other job where we would be off on the weekends.
Once again, we both knew what we didn't want. We did not want to make
home videos hovering over our stove with a video camera in one hand and a spatula in
the other, while haphazardly throwing together a recipe. From the start, we wanted
our show to be professional in every sense, something that could be on TV. Our
recipes were well thought out, researched and perfected before we filmed them.
Over time, we acquired better equipment and improved our skills both in front of the
camera as well as in post-production and our viewers have come to appreciate our
efforts.
Some of my viewers find it funny or unrealistic that I have an American accent.

"How can someone who sounds like that know anything about Indian cuisine? She is

putting on a fake accent and trying to sound like an American. She must be an 'ABCD'."
Though it bothered me at first, I look at those comments now and smile. I am proud
to have taken two very different cultures and integrated them within myself. There
will always be the few naysayers but I am humbled to know that so many people
around the world, especially in India, watch me, accept me and allow me to teach
them Indian cuisine.
Sometimes knowing what you want is difficult. Allowing yourself to think about
what you don't want can open up alternative avenues and perspectives. By not
becoming the so-called "ABCD," I managed to learn valuable lessons from my parents,
things that I will pass on to my children. Rather than discounting them, I learned
about Indian culture, food, music and cinema. I learned to balance traditional values
in a modern world. Most importantly, I learned that I could be as Indian or as
American as I needed to be.
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Chapter 2
TANGLED THREADS
-Shivani Srivastav
My mother always brought me fat books from the library; she knew I would
read them. But the July before fifth grade, two years after we had moved to America,
she got me the fattest book of all. Using both hands, she pulled the large hardcover
out of the blue book bag and said, Read this before you go back to school.
I took it and looked at the cover. This is the Bible.
Yes.
Why do I have to read the Bible? Were Hindu,
Your dad is Hindu. You are half Hindu, half Sikh.
So were not Christian.
It doesnt matter, everyone should read the Bible. And the Quran.
So, I read the Bible before fifth grade. A year or so later, I followed up with the
Quran. The Bhagavad Gita, the Ramayana, the Guru Granth Sahib those were the
everyday, the stuff of my grandmothers and mothers stories. As we had in Bombay,
in Boston we celebrated Lodi in the spring, Diwali in the fall, and Christmas in the
winter. The only difference was that we replaced firecrackers on Diwali with a
Christmas tree for the holidays. Because my brother joined a Jewish pre-school, we
also practiced Passover one year. After all, if everyone else was celebrating, it was
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only fair that he should too. We listened to shabads every morning in the car, sang
bhajans with my Baba and Dadi when we got home, and lip-synced qawwalis with the
movies. Because that was just the way it was.
That this was an exceptional way of life in America was a fact it took me some
time to grasp. I loved showing Bollywood movies to my friends, but a pattern began to
repeat itself. Whenever Shah Rukh Khan or Kajol or Rani Mukherjee went to a church
to pray, my friends would give me a weird look.
What? I would ask.
Arent they supposed to be Hindu?
I would shrug, unclear as to the importance of this distinction. Shes just praying.
and the question would drop.
After 9/11, these questions and the explanations I wanted to offer became
even more awkward. Even as a middle school student, I could tell from watching the
news that informing people that God is only Allah in English to me might strike them
the wrong way. Allah tero naam, Ishwar tero naam (Allah is your name, Ishwar is your
name) is a concept much easier to explain when you can sing the song, but there were
no Indians at my school to understand the reference. I realized that I knew more
about other peoples beliefs than they knew about mine, but no one seemed eager to
ask questions. So, in a land where people referred to the Quran as though it had
nothing to do with the Bible, I learned to hold my tongue.
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In my home-life, things stayed the same. God was a constant, appearing in
many different languages and usually in song. My Dadi and Baba, my fathers parents,
have always lived with me. Some of my earliest childhood memories are of sitting on
their bed and learning the bhajans, Hindu hymns, that my Baba composed himself. On
special days, days I dreaded in my petulant adolescence, my whole family would
gather and sing these bhajans. My grandparents room downstairs in our Boston house
and their small Ram-Sita shrine was the setting for such events. Family being a
necessarily fluid notion, we could often gather at least twenty people aunts, uncles,
cousins of all ages for our singing sessions. Of course, numbers increased vastly
during holidays like Holi, Diwali, and the new big holiday Thanksgiving, where going
around the table and saying what we were thankful for replaced singing as the key
ritual.
Leaving home for college, I realized I missed these routines. My best friend
freshman year was Bahai, and I began attending Devotionals with her. Sitting in an
apartment and eating real food, true luxuries for the dorm resident, I learned how to
pray the Bahai way. There would be books scattered on the coffee table, and
everyone sitting around would read silently. When moved, someone would read out a
bit from one of the books. The Quran, the Gita, Rumi, Kabir, the teachings of
Bahaullah: a universe of books lay on those tables. I relaxed in the presence of this
open mixing, this declaration that reading any of these books could give me peace. I
would often read aloud, and never from the same text twice. When people sang Bahai
songs, I mouthed along till I learned the words. Once in a while, someone would ask
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me if I was Bahai or planning to convert. Unable to offer the explanations I had long
suppressed about the many threads of my spirituality, i stopped going to the
Devotionals altogether.
The next year, I made friends with a girl involved with the Christian
Intervarsity group on campus. Noticing my interest in Christianity, she invited me to
lecture after lecture put on by her group. At the end of my Junior year, this led to my
acceptance of an invite to the end-of-the-year retreat for her group. Anticipating a
relaxing post-exam camp in upstate New York with kayaking and zip-lining, I didnt
realize I was the only non-Christian attending the five-day retreat which consisted of
six hours of Bible study each day. On the first day, walking into a room full of Bibles
with strangers whose opinions on my outsider status I didnt know, I felt like slinking
back out. But, other than the praying, Bible study was a lot like English class. It was
only on the third day when I noticed the theme for the passages we were studying:
conversion.
I had a nervous breakdown on the fourth day. I sat in the bedroom while
everyone was out kayaking and cried. Ellen, the leader of Bible study back at Penn,
noticed.
Are you alright? she said, coming in and sitting down on the floor next to me.
I snuffled.
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I have been meaning to talk to you, ask you if you are alright. I know this must be a
lot. When I didnt answer, she kept going. I am really glad you came, you know. It
is wonderful to hear your perspective on things.
I wanted to tell her that all the texts were about conversion. That it would be
easier to talk if I was 100% sure that she didnt want me baptized tomorrow. I blurted
out, I feel like everyone wants me to become Christian.
Ellen cocked her head to the side. I think people are interested in your point of
view. I know I am. No one needs you to convert.
I looked down, trying not to read too much into her words.
Are you having a good time at all? Ellen asked.
I nodded, but stayed silent. There was a long pause during which I dried my tears.
If you dont mind me asking, Ellen said, why did you decide to come?
Ive read the Bible and the Quran and a ton of stuff like that, I said, growing up in
India we practiced a lot more of everybodys religions. I mean, we did that once we
came here too. Religions are like languages for me. Everyone is in different places,
they made up different languages they made up different stories, different religions.
I just see more of the similarities between religions than the differences. I said this
almost in one breath, expelling with force thoughts I had kept nebulous for years.
So you never picked one?
No. Ive learned so many different things from all of them about spirituality and
God and everything. I cant pick one, it wouldnt feel right. I stopped. Sorry, I hope
I didnt offend you
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Ellen shook her head and shrugged. I grew up with Christianity. She paused.
But I also grew up in one place. I guess its just very different for us. As a couple of
people began walking into the room, she leaned over and gave me a quick hug. Let
me know if you want to talk more about this.
When I got back to Philadelphia, my parents were already in my apartment

packing up. We were planning to leave later that night to drive back to Boston.
So, how was Bible camp? my dad asked.
It was really great. We studied all these passages in Luke and did a ton of stuff.
So, youre not Christian now are you? my mom asked.
No.
Good.
You know youre the one who made me read the Bible in the first place.
To read it. I didnt know you would go to Bible camp.
It was just fun, mom. We did a lot of outdoors stuff; I kayaked every day. We didnt
spend that much time on the Bible.
Well thats fine then. Im glad you had a good time. You should do more outdoors
things. You arent going to Muslim camp next are you?
No mom.
I am mixed more than was intended. I am in India right now. One morning, my
Chacha, Chachi, and Bua took me to the Hanuman Mandir, and we sang the Hanuman
Chalisa together. And then we went to Bangla Sahib and ate prashad. It is comforting
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to know I am not an anomaly. And yet, here too, everyone seems to spin one thread,
to know either mandir or gurudwara better. Somewhere in America, all my threads
grew entangled. To this day, every morning, my Dadi wakes up around 6 am to begin
her prayers. My mom opens the Guru Granth Sahib to a random page and learns from
it her lesson for the day. And I when I am sad I sing the bhajans my Baba taught me
and read Sufi poetry. When I return to Philadelphia, I will go to church on some
Sundays. And if someone asks me my religion I will smile because I have only one
response: Do you have time to talk?
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Chapter 3
A HinJew Explores Her Roots
-Kesha Ram
I found myself shifting nervously in the sprawling lobby of a compound-like

hostel in Jerusalem, just a stones throw from the Mount Herzl Military Cemetery and
Yad Vashem Holocaust Memorial, where I had just spent a profound and moving
afternoon. The day before, I had done my best to pray at the Wailing Wall and
became teary thinking about my mothers sacrifices during my makeshift Bat Mitzvah.
I had come on Birthright, a free first-time trip to Israel for Jewish young adults to
foster a connection to Israel and Judaism, so I could better understand and appreciate
the moral and spiritual foundation of half of my cultural identity. As my journey
was coming to a close, leaving me a lot to process, I was asked to try and articulate
this mix of thoughts and emotions to The Jerusalem Post.
The Birthright organizers had picked my story out to share with the Israeli press
and I was waiting to speak with Israels most widely circulated English daily,
auspiciously separated from the rest of the young people on my trip, mentally
preparing to answer questions about what it was like to be a 25-year-old state
legislator and how to account for having a long-term boyfriend who was a nice boy,
but not a nice Jewish boy a source of continual disappointment and explanation in
Israel. The journalist sat down, smiling as he pulled out a small notepad, and swiftly
setting aside the small matter of being a state legislator in the United States young
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enough to be on a Birthright trip asked the question that interested Israelis far
more: So what does it mean to be a HinJew?
That is the question I have been asking myself for most of my life, confronted
by puzzled looks and pick one boxes since childhood. Put simply, I was raised by a
Hindu father who immigrated to the United States from India to access a world-class
education and a Jewish mother whose great-grandparents came through Ellis Island to
seek economic opportunity in Chicago. I am part of a multiracial and multicultural
generation made possible by legal and cultural barriers being broken in America, and
yet I still struggled to define myself and tell my story. Which is why I found myself in
Israel, the subject of an article that would come to be titled A HinJew explores her
roots.
My roots have never run deep, but have stretched outward. They have taken
me from Illinois to Israel to India and back, searching for wholeness. At the same
time, I have much to be proud of from this global heritage. I am the great great
granddaughter of Sir Ganga Ram, who was said to have read in the street lamps of
Lahore to educate himself, knowing no other way out of poverty. He went on to
become one of the most revered engineers of late colonial India and helped pave the
way for its independence by investing his wealth in schools, especially for women and
girls. My fathers cousin, Baroness Shreela Flater, started her career as a counselor
for refugee women outside of London and now serves in the House of Lords as the first
woman of South Asian descent appointed to the British Parliament. She was once
accosted on London public transit by a white war veteran who claimed immigrants
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like her had no place in a country for which he had fought. Fed up with the lack of
recognition or reverence for men like her father, who fought alongside the British
with countless other Indians and citizens of Commonwealth countries in World War II,
she enlisted the help of Prince Charles and created a monument dedicated to those
forgotten soldiers in front of Buckingham Palace.
Then there is my grandmother, my Dadiji, moved to the United States from

India the day before I was born. You waited for me, she liked to say. Whatever she
lacked in her own upbringing as an Indian woman at the turn of the century, she
heaped upon me in scores. As a squirmy toddler on her warm verandah in Los Angeles,
I sat for hours taking dictation and learning to read under her tutelage. To her, if I
was not two grades ahead in my subjects, I was falling behind. Even up until her
recent passing, when she would ask what I was busy with and I would say I was still in
elected office, she would inevitably stop me with a placating "That's nice, Kesha,
and then move rather impatiently to, But what are you studying?"
She had survived the Partition of India with very little but the clothes on her
back. She fled the region of India that became Pakistan with my grandfather and her
two young children - my aunt and father. They lost a life of relative comfort and
wealth, but persevered. She lived out her final years in our guest house and carried
herself with pride and dignity, but I dont think I fully appreciated the beauty of her
life until after she passed away and we took her ashes to the Holy River to lay her to
rest. I had the opportunity to visit her last home in Punjab where they had made one
20

last attempt to rebuild their lives across the newly cut Pakistani border. It was in
Hoshiarpur, a very modest and dust-choked town, nothing much to speak of, and I felt
I might be searching for healing and closure in vain.
When we finally arrived at the house after getting lost a few times as my aunt
and father tried to trace the way back from decades-old memories, we were standing
in front of a lavender, one-story cement structure. It had clearly gone through many
layers of paint and been abandoned for quite some time, so there was no one to
inquire with about past occupants or future plans. We had all but given up, when we
met a woman who was the caretaker of the grade school next door and her five-yearold daughter. They told us through my fathers interpretation about the tenants who
had cycled in and out of the home, and then led us to the backyard.
My eyes were instantly drawn to the massive, glossy, broad-leaved mango trees
towering over us. My aunt recalled, with some jest, how Dadiji would travel all over
Punjab on the bus to find the best mango saplings. It almost seemed like a way to
cope with settling in this new, unfamiliar place but it drew the ire of my grandfather,
who chided her for wasting time and money. By the time my grandparents left, the
trees were still young and did not bear much fruit. When that story was told to the
caretaker, she laughed and began talking excitedly. As my father interpreted to me,
in season, the mango trees now bear more fruit than any for miles around, and all the
children at the school come to the yard to have their fill of juicy mangoes.
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This was my Dadiji, my life story, in these mango trees. Not knowing what the
future would hold, she still traveled great distances to choose the best saplings.
Without much power to change her circumstances and without knowing what impact
she would have, her seemingly inconsequential efforts are now providing a modicum
of nourishment and joy to hundreds of schoolchildren.
As an elected official, I have my share of political struggles that do not seem to

be leading to visible outcomes, times when compromise and claiming small victories
keep me from seeing the bigger picture of my efforts, moments where my hopes and
dreams feel presumptuous and distant. In those moments, I think of standing under a
street lamp to make out my lessons, turning a rude encounter into a national
monument, or traveling long hours by bus for mango saplings, and I know I come from
a long line of independence-seekers, refugees, and immigrants who didnt just accept
what was there, but saw what could be. Whether it was the Partition of India or the
religious persecution of Jews in Europe, I was wrought out of a long legacy of
upheaval in which my ancestors found a path forward where none seemed apparent.
The thread that runs through these stories is not just about reaching out, but reaching
back and leaving no one behind. It is a common bond between Hindus and Jews, and
something that helps me feel more universality than duality in my identity.
My parents both taught me the importance of giving back to my community and

standing up for what I believe in, no matter how difficult. As the great Mahatma
Ghandi states in his Principles of Nonviolence, All life is one. We are called to
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celebrate both our differences and our fundamental unity with others. Our oneness
calls us to want, and to work for, the well-being of all. Similarly, Rabbi Abraham
Joshua Heschel, who hosted Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. for Shabbat dinner the
Friday before his assassination, had this to say about the need for religious unity: No
religion is an island. We are all involved with one another. Spiritual betrayal on the
part of one of us affects the faith of all of us. Should we refuse to be on speaking
terms with one another and hope for each others failure? Or should we pray for each
others health, and help one another in preserving a common legacy?
I heard echoes of these sentiments when I introduced the junior Senator from
Illinois in my sophomore year at the University of Vermont. Others clearly knew a lot
more about this growing political rockstar in 2006 and were clamoring to get an
autograph or handshake. I was nobody special, but had gained a reputation as being
unafraid to speak out on campus about my beliefs. I suppose the logic, however
faulty, might follow that I would be able to handle speaking in front of a crowd of
thousands with the nations most popular orator at my back. Anxious as I was, I
managed to get through my brief speech with force and conviction, arguing that
young people needed to get involved in the political process and make their voices
heard or we were going to continue to feel the consequences of decisions made
without us. When this rockstar Senator got up to speak, he began to invoke the
cadence and spirit of the Civil Rights movement, began to talk about the arc of the
moral universe bending toward justice. He talked about his own complicated past,
with a mother from Kansas and a father from Kenya, and a funny name that no one
23

could pronounce. With a mother from Illinois and a father from India, not to mention
a similarly mispronounced name, all of a sudden I was hearing my version of the
American story being told. At that moment, I thought to myself, if there is a place for
him in politics, maybe there is a place for me. Turns out we would both end up on the
ballot together, me in my first race for Vermont State Representative, and he as the
44th President of the United States.
So where does all of this lead? How can I anchor myself as I forge my own path?
There is a lesson that nature can teach us about roots. I spent more than one
childhood camping trip staring up into the heavens at the Giant Sequoias of California.
These trees are the largest living things on earth by volume. They can grow over 300
feet in height and over 50 feet in diameter. The oldest known Sequoia is over 3,500
years old. How do these majestic giants survive and thrive? One may think it to be
counterintuitive, but you will never see one alone and their roots are very shallow.
That does not mean their roots are not strong, however. Sequoias grow by spreading
their roots out and intertwining with the roots of other Sequoias they grow together
in community. My roots stretch halfway across the globe, and they may be shallow
because of it, but they are strong. In this way, I can feel the common striving of those
who came before me, those who stand beside me, and those I can help raise up.
24

Chapter 4
From Berkeley to Bangladesh
-Akile Kabir
I was born in Berkeley, California, a progressive college town, which in the

early 90s, was already home to immigrants of various back grounds. My parents had a
diverse group of friends and at the age of five, so did I. I guess the fact of being South
Asian American was not something that I gave much thought to, possibly as a function
of age or simply because it didnt present any problems or predicaments. We
occasionally visited Bangladesh over the summer and I was aware of the fact that this
was where my parents came from and as a result, I had a connection to it. I adored
my relatives in Bangladesh just as I adored my friends back in California. It was easy
for me to integrate and separate these aspects of my cultural background. Though I
felt that I fit in as an American kid, I was still aware and proud of my Bangladeshi
background. I attended an elementary school that encouraged us to learn more about
different cultures. Parents would come and give presentations on Jewish holidays and
Chinese New Year, often bringing in tasty dishes related to the holiday. And so we
kindergarteners came to associate our respective cultural backgrounds with multiple
snack treats and no one was ever bullied or teased for being different.
I am sad to say that this lack of identity crisis did not last forever. When I was
seven years old, my family packed up and moved to Bangladesh and suddenly, I was
no longer Bangladeshi American. I was an Americanized kid who had moved to
25

Bangladesh, could not speak the language properly, didnt understand the metric
system and was too sensitive to handle the disciplinary style of Bangladeshi teachers.
Suddenly, I was no longer a flower child in tie dye t-shirts and leggings, I was an
awkward misfit in a grey and white uniform. McDonalds was suddenly the holy grail
that I no longer had access too. I became a fan of WWF (as this was the only English
speaking show that aired on our television) and Bollywood movies. Thanks to family
support, and a couple of amazing best friends, I adjusted to this new identity and my
new home. Though to this day my conversational Bengali is atrocious, I am glad that I
learned to read, write and understand it. This came in handy when my classmates,
unaware of the fact that I understood much more than they thought, would secretly
talk about me in Bengali.
Alas, the period of identity crisis was not over for me. At age 15, once again we
packed up and moved, this time back to the Bay Area. As a teenager, I was prone to
delusion and so I believed that this transition would be easy for me. After all, I still
spoke English, I watched American TV shows and I had visited every now and then.
Why would it be difficult? There were many reasons why. On the one hand, I was a
pretty shy and reserved kid. But in Bangladesh, I had friends that I had grown up with
and who knew me. We were all comfortable around each other and the concept of
making friends was something I didnt need to think about. It just sort of happened.
I enrolled in a small American high school and pretty soon, people were pretty
comfortable with each other. I was too shy to include myself and once again, felt like
an awkward alien. This was exacerbated by the fact that after dressing in a uniform
26

every day, I now had to choose my own clothes and chose poorly, and that I felt tiny
compared to everyone. As a teenager, those superficial problems were paramount to
me. Not everything was a problem, though. Having come from a school where we
were prepping hard for the Olevels, I was able to easily grasp the coursework at this
new school. The transition between the British and American school systems seemed
to have its benefits and I am thankful to have experienced both.
A year later, I transferred to a bigger school where it was easier for me to

make friends. I had friends who had spent their whole lives in the states and those
who had emigrated from other countries. Suddenly, that feeling that I had in
kindergarten returnedthat it is possible to find common ground with someone, no
matter what their background is. Even during my semester abroad in Greece, a
country I had never been to, that sense of being an alien did not return. I can go
abroad and accept that I am different but essentially the same as those around me.
And after a while you realize that part of the similarity is that everyone has
something that sets them apart.
Thats how I feel living in New York city. There are so many things to do and so
many types of people, that its hard not to find a niche. Then again, is it even
necessary to find one? Because of my varied experiences, and the different people I
have encountered over the years, my identity has transformed and made me open to
new experiences. Now I dont see any reason why identity needs to be a rigid entity,
or something that we need to fret about. I can be that same progressive Bay Area kid
27

who attends Bollywood dance class and will sometimes enjoy a Mango bar in Jackson
Heights. Its a wonderful feeling and I hope it sticks.
28

Chapter 5
Tanglish: Struggles of a Split Personality
-Varun Chandramouli
Vigorously jerked out of my slumber, my eye lids were not very keen on
cooperating with me; the turbulence was rude and jarring to the torpor of my tired
body. As I lay lost in my thoughts, with my stomach grumbling and the familiar uneasy
ache of my legs I sincerely hoped we were almost there. Although I am an avid flyer
who loves nothing more than to rush beneath the stars in a five hundred mile per hour
Boeing 747, the fatigue and duration of the almost twenty hour journey had caught up
to me. My placid stream of thoughts was rudely interrupted yet again with the
unpleasantly accustomed lurch in my stomach; the plane was on the descent. Minutes
away from touching down in the mother land, I exploded out of my seat with childlike exuberance and looked to my right see my father fondly watching the Chennai
skyline from his window with a sincere, yearning expression stretched across his face.
Within a few moments, the dirty-yellowish lights of Chennai International illuminated
the runway as the pilot brought down the Boeing gracefully from flight with the tires
screeching and the flaps extended. Eight thousand one hundred and ninety-two miles
later, we were home.
It did not take us too long to get through customs and security on our way to
the baggage area. My once stiff, lethargic and exhausted body was suddenly charged
and teeming with positivity, enthusiasm, and energy. I had previously promised myself
29

to enjoy and savor this trip more than on my previous excursions. With two proud
degrees from UConn, increased maturity (highly questionable now that I mention it),
and an increased grasp on my mother-tongue, Tamil, I hoped to connect better with
my family, the situation, and internalize the various nuances of India. For as long as I
could remember coming to India was a highly conflicting process; a land where I have
had an abundance of joys, experiences and memories, but a place where I was always
in a state of both mental and physical discomfort.
An awkwardness that only occurs when one feels like a foreigner in their own
home country. A foreigner no more I exclaimed! This will be the trip where I distance
myself from the label and affectionately interact with my uncles, aunts, cousins and
strangers with the zeal and authenticity of a true Indian. I really did not wish to come
off like an unaffected, head above the clouds kind of tourist (as my dear twin sister
fondly describes my persona during previous vacations to India) who reveled in the
fact that he was not from this country. In analysis, I realized that much of my
behavior in India was not intentional, or malicious, I simply was not as comfortable as
she was in accepting and adjusting to the vibe, rhythm, and norms of socialization in
India. With confidence and renewed vigor in my goal, I broke my train of thought as
Appa and I had reached the last security checkpoint in the airport. I handed my
passport to the guard as I prepared to exit the airport, a joyful bounce in my step.
With a grand smile, I walked out of Chennai International and took my first step
onto the soil of my motherland in over fifteen months. Instantly I felt the familiar
30

sights, sounds, and smells of my mother country. An intense wave of humidity
engulfed me within seconds as the blare of horns, the buzz of people conversing, and
the sight of folks patiently waiting to receive their loved ones from the airport.
Craning my neck left and right, I finally located my Mama, my moms eldest brother,
who had tactfully located us moments before. With a warm wave and a tender hug he
embraced us and led us towards the waiting taxis as he inquired about our journey.
Upon a few seconds many prospective drivers came up to my Mama and Appa
and asked if we needed their services. Immediately two of the drivers were out of the
race due to their exorbitant price tag and inability to negotiate a fair deal; seeing this
my Mama finally hired a more reasonable fellow and instructed him to put our luggage
in the back. Without any hesitation, the drivers who were not hired by my Mama
rushed to help as well. Such kindred and supportive actions always seem to amaze me
on every trip. Even though there are 4.7 million people in the city of Chennai, they all
seem to embrace each other and form an interwoven, unbreakable bond. Always
willing to help and give genuine advice and assistance even though they are not
related by blood. This heightened level of camaraderie and conviviality demonstrated
at every juncture genuinely puts a smile on my face as it demonstrates the love and
inherent belief that life is only better if everyone helps each other as much as
possible, without selfishness, and holding back.
The immediate overwhelming positive snapshot of Chennai was jarred within

moments. After entering the vehicle, and exiting the airport parking lot, we were
31

driving back to Mamas house when we were stopped by Chennai police at a main
intersection. Confused, I wondered why, seeing as we were not speeding, and we
were following all the rules of the road. Mama by this time was deep in conversation
with the officer. Within a few moments, the driver calmly took two crisp hundred
rupee notes and handed it to the officer without another word. The car roared away
instantly, with the driver and Mama in complete harmony with what had just
occurred.
That was quite a stark contrast to my emotions at that moment. Upon

demanding an explanation for what just occurred, Mama replied that the car had
been pulled over for a routine safety check as it was known. Safety checks were
pretty common in the city as some of Chennais drivers were known to drive around in
a state of inebriation especially late in the night without seat belts or documents. The
driver provided the needed documents without haste to the officer but was not
wearing his seat belt. As per the rules, the officer takes down the drivers information
and fines him for violating the safety regulation. Instead of taking accountability and
responsibility for ones actions, it is actually much more common to bribe the police
officer so that he does not mark the driver for the violations. This was exactly what
had just happened. Even though I had seen many similar incidents in relation to
bribery on every India trip, it still does not make it any easier to digest.
Disgusted, I thought how could officers of the law show such partiality and not
hold themselves and the citizens liable for misconduct? What kind of culture are they
32

promoting by doing such deeds regularly? How does one learn to live at the highest
standards of respectability if they can always pay themselves out of every
transgression? How can one become successful if they adopt and ingratiate that
mindset into their everyday lives? Most importantly, how could a country which had so
much positivity, support, and humanity, also have such unlawful and irresponsible
practices? With such thoughts churning in my head, I fell asleep in Mamas house
struggling to understand the powerful interplay of the dynamics that governed India.
Executing my goal was turning out to be even harder than I imagined.
My mother and sister arrived the next night to much fanfare. The whole family
was in extremely good spirits as two of our cousins were getting married within a few
weeks! The festive atmosphere was definitely rubbing off on all of us as we tirelessly
shopped, cleaned, organized, and discussed every logistical aspect of the wedding.
During this time I was extremely proud of myself for my consistent effort in speaking
Tamil as much as possible. Usually on every India trip, I have some starting difficulties
in getting used to conversing in Tamil as it is clearly not my first language. After a
couple of weeks go by, my Tamil definitely gets more fluid and natural, allowing me
to speak without the fear of getting stuck and lost in the middle of a conversation.
Getting stuck is easily the most frustrating and embarrassing thing that
happens to me every time. I tend to get stuck when there is a dissonance between my
inner voice, which is always in English, and my outer or external voice which happens
to be in Tamil during that moment. As my Tamil does not have the same fluency and
33

level of comfort as my English, I find it difficult to express myself to the fullest in
Tamil. Once I get stuck, I try and swiftly change into English to try and draw attention
away from my minor gaffe before others realize what had happened.
Second, I also realized another reason I have been uncomfortable in previous

trips to India is my dependency on my parents and sister to communicate for me
because of the lack of fluency in my Tamil. My sister for example, speaks Tamil very
fluently with flair and authenticity, allowing her to walk into any social situation and
converse without any inhibition and express her personality to her fullest extent. It is
quite the contrary for me in India as I usually saunter in to speak only the most basic
of sentences and smile my way through the rest of the conversation or allow my
family to act as my personal mouthpiece. Though it is more convenient at times to
follow this route than allow my conversational abilities in Tamil exposed, I realized
that it definitely alters and masks my personality and social presence.
As someone who is truly passionate about meeting new people and an

individual who enjoys the epic journey of life, it really made me feel uncomfortable
to realize I was not upholding the values I cherish most in myself. A self-described
socialite by nature who revels in interacting and mingling with people in any
situation, but is suddenly pumping the breaks and changing his innate principles
because of lingual issues? Not any more, I decided with finality. If I was going to
achieve my goal to be less of an American tourist and be as approachable and
34

authentic as possible, I had to strip off the training wheels and fend for myself
regardless of how often I got stuck.
My new found resolve was surely tested during the wedding. As my family only
frequents India once in a few years, we were all bombarded with plenty of new faces,
awkward situations, and plenty of detailed questions from random people I have
never met. All was going as well as it could have gone and I was generally pleased
with how I had started to overcome my shortcomings and converse with people as
enthusiastically as possible. During the reception, I along with my cousins were
serving as the stage guards helping to direct the immense flow of people who wanted
to get onstage to take pictures with the lovely newlyweds.
Listening to instructions from my Mama, we all did an admirable job taking

care of the flow of traffic and making everyone as comfortable as possible. During the
rush hour, someone came up and tried to get past me. I politely told them that the
line is on the other side of the stage. He, on the pretense that we were best friends,
kindly patted me on the shoulder and asked if I was from the United States. After
brushing off his hands I told him that I was indeed a proud citizen of the United
States. Laughing as though he had made a great joke, he told me he could tell
because I was trying too hard to speak Tamil. Immediately I was taken aback and
embarrassed by the statement of this complete stranger. I wondered if indeed I was
trying too hard to fit in. Shaking it off, I continued to stand on the stage and conduct
the traffic.
35

Few minutes later, someone from the grooms family walked past and shook my
hand. I politely congratulated him and wished him a very nice evening. Laughing good
naturedly, he responded by saying that I sounded like a true American. Smiling
graciously, I agreed with him and walked off the stage to eat dinner with my cousins
as the reception had come to a grand conclusion.
Later that night as I tried to fall asleep, my uneasy mind kept circling back to
these two mundane interactions. For some reason I found myself getting extremely
upset and annoyed as I kept replaying those two conversations. One person thinks I
am trying too hard when all I am doing is speaking my mother tongue with sincerity,
whereas another person thinks I sound like a true American just because I wished
him a good evening. The more I thought about those two incidents the more they
seemed symbolic of my whole identity.
The constant conflict I was in during every India trip: the struggle to be true to
my Indian culture, heritage and cultural upbringing while also maintaining my innate
liberal perspectives, personality and western tendencies. Why was I trying so hard to
be someone who I was not?? Even though I had done fairly well during the day
predominantly speaking Tamil and trying to appear authentic, it was still a different
mask I was wearing. My personalities were not friends and definitely conflicted with
each other. My dominant English personality depicts a fun loving, care free,
humorous guy who handles social situations with utter ease, whereas my other
Tamil personality portrays a quiet, slightly awkward chump who does not look
36

forward to social situations and keeps more to himself. The stark differences between
my two temperaments really caught me off guard the more I thought about it.
I was trying too hard to be someone that really was not me fundamentally at
all. It would be one thing if I maintained my normal personality while speaking Tamil,
but that was not the case. After overthinking and scouring through these thoughts for
too long of a time, I decided to dismiss my previous goals for India and instead
substitute a much simpler one instead. Instead of feigning an authentic Indian
personality to appease those around me, I would just let myself be as natural and
genuine as possible. If I could find a way to be true to myself, those around me can
always appreciate that regardless of what language I speak. With the satisfaction of
coming to an important decision, I fell asleep with a big smile on my face.
I finished the rest of my India trip with great fanfare! With more weddings,
baby showers, and family dinners, the trip was very memorable indeed. I had spent
the remainder of the trip speaking mostly in English. Not because I was trying to
accentuate any differences, but because I felt always like myself when doing so. With
my confidence soaring higher than ever, I boarded the plane feeling extremely
satisfied with myself for identifying and labeling the fuzzy reasons why India was
always uncomfortable. With a re-engineered, more secure and mature identity, I bode
farewell to my bustling, energetic, and transformative hometown yet another time,
thankful that it had helped me understand it and myself, in a new and unforeseen
way.
37

Chapter 6
Someday Starts Today
-Sejal Patel
According to South Asian society, I had it all. Good job? Check. Health? Check.
Good support system? Check. Sure, I was singlewhich some South Asians see as a
burden and my parents liked to remind me of every chance they got, but I rarely let
that be something that bothered me. At 27, life was goodor rather, good enough. I
didnt know it at the time, but it was about to change drastically.
Out of college, I landed a job with a great Fortune 500 company in a role that
many people would love to haveand I was doing pretty well. My dad would call me
every time the companys stock price went up, urging me to hold on to my stocks,
acting as my own personal financial advisor. My mom, who didnt really understand
what I did but knew that it meant I worked odd hours and often took calls from home,
would always ask me, Are you working? At home or in the office? whenever I picked
up her calls. My siblings and my friends often came to me for my take on the latest
technology or newest startups because the world that I lived in meant that I had to
stay in the loop.
But I wasnt all work and no play. In my own time, I lived a lifestyle that I like
to call feast or famine which later became known as FOMO. Doing something
halfheartedly wasnt in my DNAeither I was all in or burnt out. I describe myself as
38

an outgoing introvert who lives in a state of organized chaos, who cant sit still but
can sleep like a rock (for short periods of time) and who is constantly on the go but
appreciates the joy in camping out on the couch, being a bum. My interests are varied
from watching and playing sports, experimenting with new recipes and ingredients in
the kitchen, reading a book or learning a new skill. I love my sweatpants and dresses
equally, have a jewelry collection fit for a queen and a makeup collection that rivals
a beauty counters (though it goes through periods of collecting dust because I cant
be bothered to always get dolled up). On a Friday night you could find me on my way
out of town for the weekend, hanging out at home on the couch, out on the town with
friends or even working (its amazing how productive you can be on a Friday night,
especially when it comes to cleaning out your inbox).
My personal life was fairly lively. Even though my family lives in different parts
of the world, technology made it fairly easy for us to keep in touch. Rarely does a day
go by without a Whatsapp message from my brother or sister and my parents text
messages and emails are some of the most entertaining pieces of communication Ive
ever received. My friends are also spread out because of my time in Toronto, Illinois
and Oregonbut were still fairly close thanks to FaceTime, frequent flier miles and
unlimited night and weekend minutes. Youll hear my friends who do live close by
complain that they have to book time with me weeks in advance because I was
scheduled out with trips and dinners and parties. But they also know that they could
call me anytime, day or night, and I would drop whatever I was doing for them.
Anytime someone I know randomly meets someone else that I also know, they would
39

barely blink an eye at the small world connection because allegedly I could give Kevin
Bacon a run for his money when it comes to degrees of separation.
So with all of that good stuff going on, what could possibly transform my life?
Was it a promotion and raise at work? Was it discovering a knack for a special skill
that would launch me into a career of fame and fortune? Did I meet someone, fall in
love and live happily ever after?
It was much simpler than that: it was an email. An email motivated me to quit
my job, get rid of most of my stuff and jump on a boat halfway across the world. An
email is what transformed my life from good to great.
I emailed a friend, who captains a charter boat in the Carribbean, and asked
where he was going to be in a few months so I could plan a trip to visit. Imagine my
surprise when he wrote me back sharing that he would be sailing from Israel to the
Bahamas during the time period I wanted to visitdid I want to join them for an ocean
crossing instead? HECK YES! Who gets the opportunity to go sailing across an ocean on
an incredible luxury yacht with their friends? Apparently I do. ButI didnt have
enough vacation daysunless I quit my job. But thats crazy talk, right? Who leaves a
goodnay, GREATjob to go sailing on a whim? Maybe some people would, but
especially as a South Asian female, this would be unheard of.
40

This is the kind of thing you would expect from a caution-to-the-wind throwing,
free-spirited, confident adventurer. Surely, that wasnt me. Growing up, I was the
youngest of three children born to a Gujarati immigrant couple. My dad started a
business manufacturing printed circuit boards and worked long hours to provide for
the family. My mom spent most of her time shuttling us around to school, sports,
dance, birthday parties and sleepovers, until my older brother and sister got their
license and took over. Even with a successful business and a strong financial
foundation, a strong work ethic was instilled in us and we were taught the value of a
dollar which contributed to our modest upbringing. My brother was the athletic one,
my sister was the smart one and I was the adaptable one who could fit into any
category you put me in. I was really good at making friends, mostly because I was
adaptable, extremely empathetic, I focused attention on other people, and I was a
good listener who remembered what you had to say. As a kid and as an adult, I always
played fair, I followed the rules and I would seek consensus rather than conflict. And I
naturally was aware of my actions and how my actions would impact others, usually
opting for the calm, even-keeled route rather than disturbing the peace. All in all, I
was the one you didnt have to worry about rocking the boat.
My life was laid out for me: you go to school, you get a job, you get married,
you have kids, you raise your kids. That was the general plan that I was expected to
follow from early on. There was no room for this kind of adventure. I had already
broken some of the rules by moving over 10 hours away to go to universityand then
moving even further away for a job, instead of going back home. I had become
41

somewhat of a professional wedding guest yet anytime an Aunty or Uncle asked when
theyd be receiving a wedding invitation from me, Id smile politely as they gave me
advice on how to change my single status. I had veered away from the plan, dare I
break more rules? If I did this, I would, for the first time in 11 years, not have a
purpose that the masses could get behind. When youre in school, people understand
that youre a student working towards the goal of obtaining a degree. When youre
working, people understand (to an extent) what your job is, that youre earning
money to provide for yourself and your future, and youre working towards the goal of
promotions and raises and climbing the corporate ladder. When you quit your job to
travel, youre giving up the stability of a pay cheque, youre abandoning the progress
youve made in your career path, and you no longer have an answer that appeases
societys idea of where you should be in your lifein exchange for adventure,
uncertainty and life experience?
I was looking at it all wrong. I was focusing on what I would give up by taking
this leap of faith instead of thinking about what I would gain. I was prioritizing how
this would impact other peoples lives ahead of mine. I was letting fear cloud my
mind instead of letting opportunity shine. Taking this leap would mean casting off
from the comfortable shores of my perfectly cultivated world, a world that I worked
hard at building and a world that still had more to offer. Taking this leap sounded
outlandish and daringtwo attributes that I didnt associate myself withas I would
be walking away from so much, yet Id be walking towards even more. Taking this
leap would thrust my character and my strengths and my weaknesses, especially my
42

weaknesses, into the limelight as they would undoubtedly be tested with changing
plans or misplaced doubt or fear of the unknown. As non-traditional and thick-skinned
as I considered myself, there was no denying that there are parts of my personality
that are traditional and that wouldnt be able to block out the naysayers or criticisms
that came my way. But, today was as good as any day to take a step towards the
person I aspired to be, the life that I desired to live and the world that I craved to
explore. There would always be reasons to not do it, there would always be excuses
to hold me back, but there wouldnt always be opportunities at my fingertips.
So I did it. I made the decision to leave my job and go traveland the response
was overwhelming. My family was supportive from the get go, but especially after
hearing about the savings that I had accumulated over the years that gave me a bit of
a safety net. My friends were excited, and envious, as they started throwing out
destinations that I should set up shop in so they could come visit, stat. And as sad as
my coworkers were to see me go, every single one of them encouraged me to go on
this great big adventure on one condition: I had to share my experience with them so
they could live vicariously through me. As I went through the motions of telling people
and sharing my plan it became clear that the biggest skeptic wasnt society, it wasnt
my family, it wasnt my friends and it wasnt my colleagues; it was me. But with a
little bit of guts, and a lot bit of support, breaking away from the expectations and
traditional path was easier than it looked. Soon enough, I was setting sail towards my
unknown destiny.
43
Chapter 7
A Journey of Dharma
-Priya Shah
"When he insisted on taking a stray dog into heaven, he performed an act of

dharma, showing that goodness is one of the few things of genuine worth in this world
that might take away some of the familiar pain of being alive and being human..."
I read this excerpt in high school in a book I was reading for our South East
Asian history class, and it was this small passage that triggered a realization for many
things that were yet to come. Being a first generation Indian in America naturally
entails complexity growing up as you bring two very different cultures together to
make sense for you. My father was born and raised in India and my mother, who is
also Indian, was brought up in Uganda and my brother and I were raised in Chicago.
We all battled with molding cultures in our lives but all in different ways.
What fascinated me about my Indian culture was this beautiful spirit of history,
complexity and meaning which brought calm to anyone immersed in it. Going to Hindu
temples while growing up and attending family pujas, I never completely understood
all the rituals - no one knew it all - because it was a practice that you continually
learn from, perfect and understand and that inherently brought patience and peace.
You learn there is never just one way to do anything - which opened up this thought
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of What else is out there to understand? And that inner question, in addition to my
mothers encouragement to see the world, is what sparked a journey around the
world which poetically allowed me to arrive to where I am today.
Beginning in high school through college, my travels led me from working in the
slums of India and South Africa, to studying in Brazil, South Africa and Turkey, in
addition to attending conferences in Morocco and Korea, amongst other travels. I
liked to travel places that would trigger a culture shock for me so that I could quickly
heighten my awareness and in turn raise my understanding of human-kind during
every experience. Like for many people, travel triggered a certain awakening and
freedom which encouraged unrestricted dreams of possibility. How can I better
understand the problem of the people of this country? How can I bring awareness to
it? How can I fix it?
Experiencing another culture forces us to continually be open-minded, enabling

us to realize that a single thing can have various meanings, which was a parallel with
my understanding of the world through my culture. This was an interesting realization
for me and I began to seek out these differences everywhere I went in order to
understand people better, be able to connect to them easily in hopes that I would
eventually learn about what other realities existed.
One awakening period for me was when I worked at Mother Teresa's orphanage
for a short period of time. At the orphanage, we ate, played and hung out with
45

children that had been abandoned in unimaginable ways, scarred with body mutations
because of suffering during their few years on this earth and many other stories that
could be thought as beyond possible to any human being. Walking into a space
knowing these stories were written on every child within the room came off
overwhelming - so overwhelming in fact, that one of our supervisors, who was also a
doctor, would continually decline to participate on this part of the trip. He had
visited India many times before and he said this was the one place he could not visit
because as a doctor, he felt he had the ability to fix things - but this, he could not fix
and it overwhelmed him. His explanation lingered with me as I walked into the
orphanage for the first time.
As I walked into the room, it was actually how I imagined it - a large room full
of 100+ simple, white, metal cribs equally spaced out across the floor. On the left
side of the room there was empty space which was used as a play area and eating
area where some kids had already gathered while others laid in their crib, waiting to
be picked up or played with. The range of the conditions of the children was so vast
that it took the group a back a bit as we walked in. Children spanning from 2 to 13
years old carrying every physical and mental disorder you would not imagine were put
into this single warehouse-like room and as a safety precaution, were not allowed to
go outside.
It took a few minutes for everyone to take in the image of the room that was
laid out in front of them before one of the nuns encouraged us to just meet the
46

children and break the ice, and begin playing. It was at the moment I realized the
adult fearfulness was actually stronger than a childs.
After that moment, the day went beautifully - lots of smiles and laughter, kids
running around and a fun atmosphere that overtook the space. Shortly after everyone
was settled, there was this uncontrollable crying coming from a child right behind me.
It went on for a few minutes and finally I asked the nun what was wrong.
He is crying because no one is playing with him, she said.
I looked at the crying child and saw he had no legs and one arm - which may
have been the reason why others would have been intimidated to approach him. I
took him from the nun and carried him to the rest of the children and asked him if he
liked to dance. He instantly stopped crying and nodded his head. I smiled and spun
him around in my arms and like magic, there was a burst of laughter, joy and happy
energy exerted from a child who only seconds ago screamed in such pain and sadness.
It was that small gesture, that small movement that colluded the conspiracy of pain
and sadness of that childs life into a bright light that lasted the remainder of the
day. That was all it took.
I could not sleep on my flight home from that trip. That experience was so
powerful it made me wonder why I did not see this type of impact at home. It was
such a small gesture, yet so powerful - why was it only in India did I see this magic
47

conspire? And then it hit me - this magic does exist back home - if we choose to see
it.
As a society, we rush through life so quickly that we forget about how

connected we are to one another through the most basic and fundamental element of
good in our world. Bringing into focus the incredible little things in our lives can help
us realize how human beings are connected to one another through this basic element
of good. My journeys around the world after that day allowed me to come to a
realization that no matter where you go in the world, good means the same to all of
us - and that is what connects us as human beings. This epiphany led me to an
amazing journey which I would never have expected.
I began sharing my stories with friends and family which led to us looking
through photos of all of our travels. It did not take very long to come to a cosmic
realization, that all of our pictures, no matter what country they were taken in, were
capturing the same moments - a sunset, a smile, a moment of peace - moments of the
simple good in our lives. It was an extra-ordinary but simple realization that led to us
pulling our favorite photos together and their simple good stories to start a blog
which would hold all these perspectives of good. We ended up compiling a set of 54
photos - each from a different country we had traveled to, each with its own story.
Before we knew it, the photos and stories we posted on this blog caught on fast
- everyone loved the photos we posted and amazingly connected to each story we
48

told. We quickly opened up the blog to the public calling for submissions for other
meanings of the simple good to collect even more perspectives of this universal
truth. Within a week, we began getting submissions from parts of the world we never
expected - stories from China, Italy, Spain, everywhere -and stories began flooding in,
all with inspirational moments on the realization of good in their lives. It was
amazing. It was powerful.
The blog was received so well that I knew there was more I could do. I wanted
to bring the movement that was happening in the internet world on the ground, into
the community, in order to bring this digital conversation to life. I decided the best
way to do this is to organize my own art showcase for the community of Chicago.
Within a few months, the first Simple Good art showcase was put together
featuring the most popular Simple Good submissions posted to the site. The opening
reception brought in over 100 people who were all required to bring in their own
picture representing their meaning of their simple good as an entrance ticket. The
photos brought in were also added to the showcase so that participants could see not
only the good from around the world, but also within the room. The evening ended
with so much energy and positive feedback that I knew I had to continue this
movement - and this time it would be in the schools.
Chicago, unfortunately, is known for its gang and violence across a very
segregated city. While volunteering abroad was a passion of mine, I came to realize
49

the same issues I worked with in India and South Africa were replicated in my own
backyard. The same needs were apparent, the same type of poverty was rampant and
the same outlet of hope was needed in my own city. Through bringing an
understanding of the simple good in our lives to youth in Chicago, I felt there was an
opportunity to spark realization and positivity to communities that needed it most - in
the same way I was able to do so in India.
I proposed the idea of a simple good art program for youth. Students would
participate an after-school art program which required students to paint a picture of
their meaning of their simple good. The purpose was not only to provide students with
a creative outlet but to also develop a skillset for students to learn how to appreciate
the little things and to share that with each other. I would provide the supplies and
goal of the program
50

Chapter 8
Becoming a modern Indian woman
- Nikitha Rai
Like many first generation Indian-Americans, I was raised hearing my parents

and relatives stories of struggling through the American dream, and a simple
childhood in India. I remember my mother describing being a young girl in India,
listening to western music and wearing shorts and skirts. Trying to feel like a modern
Indian woman and becoming the antithesis of her own, my grandmother, who had
traditional Indian beliefs on the role of women in society. The Wrigleys gum, Levi
jeans and Michael Jackson music that punctuated my mothers adolescence, also
shaped her desire to define modern Indian women as a Princess Diana-like,
fashionable, western icon.
Yet, my mother was similar in so many ways to the traditional Indian woman
that she strove not to be. She was raised in a time when a womans sole responsibility
was to get married and have children. She was westernized, beautiful, hardworking
and extremely intelligent and yet similar to many women, she accepted an arranged
marriage to a man she hardly knew and gave up a chance at a career to help my
father with his. My mothers representation of modern Indian womanhood was
unacceptable to me. I loved her dearly, but I could not fathom giving up a career to
help my husband or never discussing my Indian heritage with anybody outside of my
family.
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When I was twelve years old, I never understood my mothers aversion to
discussing her Indian heritage with other Americans. I didnt understand the necessity
to publicly distance us from our unique cultural background. I was raised in a small,
Pennsylvania town with an overwhelming Catholic population. We were able to fit
every Indian within my hometown into one school gymnasium; needless to say, the
Indian population was tiny. There were a few cultural meetings every year, for Indian
Republic Day or Diwali, but otherwise there was almost no exposure to Indian culture
for young people. Therefore, many of my classmates and my parents colleagues had
never been exposed to Indian culture. My mother would say, Why do you need to
make yourself seem so different? People will not like you if you are too strange. I
would wonder: The same woman who prayed for 1 hours every day, and cooked
Indian food every day for dinner, was so intimidated at the idea of discussing this part
of herself to other non-Indians.
I grew up with this context of fear of being different and an understanding that
western fashion and western music was better. Still, I was eager to learn about
the land my parents had come from. I started to study Hinduism and reveled in stories
like the Mahabharata and Ramayana. I begged my grandmother for stories of her
childhood in India. I would study the history of the subcontinent and watch so many
Bollywood movies that in a few months, I could sing the Indian national anthem by
heart (a result of watching Khabi Khushi Khabi Gham too many times). When I was 11
years old, my English class read the story Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, a whimsical tale about a
mongoose in an Indian farmers home. When we discussed the cultural context of the
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story, my teacher didnt understand some of the cultural points. I raised my hand and
helped him by pointing out that the elephant statue in the back of the room was
Ganesha and showed him how to pronounce naan. I was excited to discuss these
topics. I had never been able to discuss my Indian heritage with anybody outside of
my family before.
A few months later, after I had entered the 7th grade, my social studies class
did a quick poll of where each of us was born. When I told the class I had been born in
NYC, they were surprised. My friend leaned over and whispered, We all thought you
were born in India. You knew so much about that mongoose story from last year! I
was stunned. I told my mother and she chastised me, saying, What did I tell you?
Discuss that part of yourself and you are different. You should listen to me.
I started to wonder, how could I combine my Indian heritage and American

upbringing? To a young girl barely exposed to Indian culture outside of her family, this
was the ultimate challenge. With my parents steadfast denial of Indian culture in
public, I had to figure out on my own how to find pride in being of Indian heritage,
while also acknowledging my identity as an American teenager raised in the United
States.
I struggled with my identity for years. I considered myself a modern American

woman because I was able to make my own choices about my career path, and I had
chosen a career. I defined modern womanhood as the ability to make choices
53

regarding my life path without worrying about traditional gender roles. With this
understanding, I couldnt reconcile pride in my Indian heritage with being an
American woman, because I felt that have pride in being Indian was denying a part of
my American upbringing.
During my sophomore year of high school, I sat in my AP World History class,

absentmindedly staring out the window. My teacher was lecturing on Hinduism, one of
the major religions of the world. This is going to be easy, I thought as my teacher
began to speak. Even a few years later, I can still remember his first few words
clearly: Well. Hindus are a little strange. They have a caste system, and a couple
blue people. And something called dharma. I dont really know how women are
viewed. Check your textbooks. I couldnt believe my teacher had said that. Did he
not know about the richness of Hindu history? Was he unaware of the path of dharma?
I anxiously debated what to do: Should I raise my hand and correct him? Should I go
along with what he was saying?
I decided to raise my hand. Although my teacher was not very happy with my
corrections, to me this was a moment of self-validation. I explained in class the
concepts of dharma and karma, comparing them to different American sayings like
What goes around comes around. I formed a bridge between their American
upbringing and Indian culture, and in the process, started to chip away at my
reluctance to discuss my heritage. For weeks, I answered all my friends questions
about Indian culture, while clarifying a few misconceptions: Did we all wear red
54

dots? No, we didnt all wear bindis, and we were much more creative than just red
dots. Did anybody actually ride an elephant to school? No, thats why we had cars
and bikes. Did Yoga REALLY come from India? Yes! Did we all get arranged marriages?
Of course not. Did India only have Hindus? No, there were Muslims, Sikhs, Buddhists,
Christians and a multitude of other faiths represented. These were my first few
moments of understanding that standing out was not necessarily negative; my peers
were just as curious about me as I was about their questions.
By my senior year of high school, my friends and their parents felt comfortable
approaching me with questions about Indiahistory, culture, Hindu faith, etc. My
reluctance was in the past. I stressed that my experience with Indian culture was only
one aspect of an incredibly rich, culturally diverse country. I told my friends that the
view I could give them was my take on Indian culture, and I was very comfortable
discussing it with them.
During high school, I traveled frequently with my family. I met more IndianAmericans who were raised similar to mewithout a large Indian population nearby,
and with their own struggles of what to take from their rich heritage and what to
leave behind. I had fully accepted Hinduism and Indian parental values, but I had left
behind traditional gender roles. My mother would often say, todays Indian girls are
able to choose their own paths and I felt a kinship with those women. Regardless of
where we were raised, whether in India or America, Indian women were choosing
different paths. They were choosing to have a career or not to have one, they were
55

deciding on whether or not they wanted familiesthe power of them making that
choice cannot be understated. It was with this new generation that I identified with
the most.
As I came to my own conclusions about myself, I noticed the gradual change in

my family, most notably in my father. When my father was asked the old question,
Where are you from? instead of answering Im from the United States he would
preface it with, I was born in India, but I live and work in the U.S. Watching my
family evolve with their own relationship with their culture was heartwarming. I was
fascinated by those extra five words my dad used as a preface, but moreover, I took
so much confidence and strength from his pride when he said those words.
As I reflect on my journey in becoming a modern Indian woman, I realize how

different my view of modern Indian womanhood is from my mothers. While my
mothers definition of a modern Indian woman included complete acceptance of
westernization, I had created my own. I am a woman, and therefore I choose my
direction in life, however I am a modern Indian woman because I choose to love my
heritage and combine it with my American upbringing. In any path I take or career I
choose, I carry my pride in my cultural background, and I draw strength and
confidence from my choice to not just be a modern woman, but become a modern
Indian woman.
56

Chapter 9
Owning my Indian identity
-Ryan Singh
Alright mom, were about done here right? I hurriedly told my mom as our
familys langar was nearing completion. We were at Gurudwara, or Sikh temple, and
it is customary for familys to host a langar every year, or a preparation of meals at
the Gurudwaras community kitchen. I had been to countless langars growing up, and
the process of buttering rotis and washing pots and pans was pretty well understood
by me, but over time increasingly became a chore that I had to be a part of. I really
just wanted to go to my friends party that he was throwing - his parents had gone
out of town leaving an empty house, which meant that it would be more fun than
anything else happening that Friday night in Long Grove - a sleepy suburb of Chicago.
Yeah just about, why? Are you going somewhere? my mom said surprised, looking up
from cleaning some dishes with an anxious look. Yeah Matts having some friends
over, and I was just going to stop by for a bit clearly trying to downplay the nights
eminent craziness.
Just moments after she reluctantly said good bye, I quickly left the Gurudwara,
hastily ripping off the bandana that I had to wear to cover my head inside, and I
began wondering who was going to show up that night. I started my car and as I was
pulling out of the lot, I caught a glimpse of my hair in the rearview mirror; it was
patted down flat to my head after a few hours of being covered. I spent the rest of
57

the ride combing my fingers through it to make sure I didnt show up at my friends
with a flat comb over. I didnt really feel like explaining how I have to cover my hair
at my place of worship and that, yes, some people wear turbans, and no, I dont but I
wear a bandana instead, and I was there for a langar, which is something like a
community kitchen and a huge social function at the same time Explaining all that
at a high school party would be an uphill battle to reach any sort of understanding. I
really just wanted to hang out, spare the explanation, and win a few games of beer
pong.
When I finally arrived at the party some of my friends asked where I had been.
My bad, I had some family shit I had to go to. And with that, no further justification
on my whereabouts necessary, the night proceeded on.
My simple response made no attempt to let on to the whole truth. It

turns out that that the family shit I was doing that night involved nearly 80 of my
relatives coming from far and wide to congregate together, catch some vibes through
recitation of hymns and religious songs, and then catch-up over a shared meal. Not
only is Gurudwara the center of Sikh activities, but a place where the community
comes together, and hosting a langar is the epitome of family involvement at the
Gurudwara. Its a time when the whole family comes together to pray, cook, serve,
and eat together, but its still just one of the many opportunities my family would get
together.
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Not to mention, I wasnt remotely letting on to the fact that I had come from
Gurudwara, a place I had been going multiple times a month since I was born, a place
where I learned to play tabla, harmonium, sing Sikh hymns, and learned the building
blocks of the Punjabi language. It was a place where my cousins, aunts, uncles, and
other Sikh friends would meet and mingle, play sports, and relive the moments of the
last family party or Punjabi festival.
It sometimes happens that a non-Indian friend will tell me about a family

reunion theyre going to, and sometimes they say its bound to be awkward because
they havent met their family or get along with them. I try to empathize but the
reality around my family life was always much different. Our family bordered on
perhaps too much family interaction. On certain days Id come back from school and
just want to hang out, there would be my aunt and uncle in the living room, drinking
some chai my mother had made them. They always stop their conversation and greet
me, I give them hugs, and Id sit with them because its rude to ditch guests. They
would always excitedly probe into my happenings, how Im doing in school, if I have a
girlfriend, if I can tell my cousin to work out on their behalf, and on and on.
Sometimes gossip would travel through the wire (a network of aunty spies) that my
sister was seen with a boy and this would result in lots of unnecessary grief for her.
Other times, my family would have full-on interventions of some sort, gathering
everyone together at someones house to painstakingly go through the he-said, shesaid of that years main family drama.
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This level of involvement and connectedness is totally warranted, though.
(PIND)My fathers brother and sisters have lived in the Chicago area since the 80s,
and while they once all lived in the same home, theyre now just a short drive away
from one another. This meant relatives over all the time, and that my sister, my
cousins, and I were constantly being raised, advised, smacked, and driven around by a
clan of aunts, uncles, and grandparents. Wed have family dinners several times a
month, attend the numerous birthday parties and graduations that happen with 50+ in
your close family, dance our way through a summer full of Indian weddings, go to
Gurudwara, Punjabi melas (festivals), and celebrate Rakhri, Lohri, and Vaisakhi. All
this in addition to the usual American lineup of New Years, 4th of July, and the winter
holiday season.
These events were ones I learned to love, and after spending my

developmental years as an Indian-American, I finally felt a strong identification and
understanding of them. But there were still many times that I would step back and
realize that this world of Indian family and culture was an intense and mostly selfcontained bubble. Most of us Indian-Americans feel like what happens there stays
there, and that most non-Indians dont get it. I definitely felt like my friends didnt
get it. It was a lot easier to chalk it all up to having some family shit going on.
There will always be some people that just dont get it, dont see the value in
understanding other cultures and ways of being, and will be closed off to the
possibility of opening themselves up to something new and different. While in high
school it was easy to believe that people just dont care about other cultures, and
60

would rather continue buying into conformity that comes with being an American high
school student, Ive more recently been seeing that the bigger issue here is a lack of
understanding myself on my own culture, and the massive agglomeration of cultures,
religions, people, art forms, and lifestyles that come under the umbrella of IndianAmerica, or the larger still Desi-America that includes Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, Sri
Lankans, and Nepalis of the greater South Asian subcontinent.
When Charu Sharma asked me to contribute to a body of work about being Desi
in America, I instantly felt a huge sense of enormity and weight that that title carried
with it. How can I possibly speak on behalf of Indians in America? I quickly came to
the answer: I cant. My perspective is distinctly one of a 22 year old Punjabi male that
was born in America to a Sikh-family and raised in the suburbs of Chicago. Each
perspective is an integral part to telling the entire Indian-American story, to raising
awareness of a growing minority of achieving, hard-working, and vibrant community
that has blossomed in the US - An enormous task that I feel this body of work aims to
achieve.
Meeting more Indian-American students in college is how I came to truly

understand the sheer range of perspective of the Indian-American experience. Hindus,
Sikhs, Muslims, Christians that were anywhere from completely fluent to only knowing
a few words of Hindi, Punjabi, Urdu, Persian, Tamil, or Malayalam so they can make
basic conversation with their grandmas. They danced Bhangra and Bollywood Fusion,
sang ghazals and Justin Bieber. They lived in browntown, or intentionally avoided
61

other Indian students at all costs. They studied everything and anything, sometimes to
their parents dismay. They travel to Indian once a year, or have never been back to
the motherland at all. This was just a small subset of the voices and perspectives I got
to see and be a part of.
For my Indian-American friends that are like me for whom being Indian claims
at least a part of their identity, our own heritage is one we have to continually learn
about and preserve. Because of the vast history and tradition behind us, there seems
to be a large sense of obligation to the culture. In our own ways, we have found ways
to be a part of it, promote it, and carry it forward through song, dance, involvement
in family life, awareness and advocacy. But at the most simple level, sharing our
Indian-American stories candidly and honestly is the most profound, the most sure
way of us carrying the owning our own story and being proud of it. This is exactly
where I struggled in high school, and I think I have now come a long way towards
feeling a strong sense of ownership of my Indian identity.
62

Chapter 10
Sex and All the Questions (Youre Not Suuposed to Ask About it)
- Ailsa Sachdev
Vah-jaiee-nah. I take a deep breath in and push my stomach out. Vah-jai-nah, I

repeat my mantra more confidently. This time, I exhale through the word itself and
my slightly bulging belly restores its original place.
This ritual takes place for a few minutes before I have to give a speech or talk
in front of people. It uses the three body parts, mouth, belly and vagina (kind of),
located in the center of each third of my body: my face, torso and lower body.
I know people usually use this breathing technique without saying Vagina as a
soothing exercise. But the thing is, it doesnt work without my vagina.
Or saying the word Vagina rather.
My sexuality has always been a sanctuary for me and my vagina is a sort of

metaphorical cave I can crawl into and hide from the rain. I know my way of thinking
is vulgar to a lot of people - trust me, Ive been criticized about it all my life but
Ive actually learnt that what I gain from my sexuality is strength and it should not be
a source of shame.
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I grew up in Dubai, UAE, an oddly shaped block on the atlas nudged to the edge
of the Middle East by Saudi Arabia and Oman and taken over by South Asians. I lived
by my Indian familys rules, in an Indian community that was acting like they had
never left the motherland, under Islamic law. There was little room to discuss
sexuality but luckily my family is a little more liberal than others.
My mother first taught me what the act of sex is when I was eleven. My friends
had started talking about it at school but my mother told me to come to her when I
wanted to learn what this mysterious three-letter word meant. The austerity with
which she issued the demand made me terrified of what this sex thing could be. I
would put my fingers in my ears and wail out a song when I heard the word around my
friends. I would come home and complain to my mother.
Do you want to know what it is?
No, I would mutter frighteningly and walk out before she could utter a word.
Finally, there was no escape. I came back home with a mission to confront sex.
I related to the geographical positioning of UAE on a map, pushed to the edge of land
like a pirate on a plank, by two parties. It was time to find out what I was dealing
with. Anticipating the unknown plight of my life post-knowledge-of-sex, my shoulders
were further weighed down by my anxiety than my backpack filled with enormous
science books.
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I didnt even take my Jansport backpack off. I sat on the couch, opposite my
mother and surrendered, What is sex?
My mother handled the talk very well. She was straightforward and her voice
was unwavering. Every word was precious to me. This sex thing and all the words
aligned with the act have been all around me my entire life and I didnt know even
they exist. And every one does it! Why hadnt I heard about this before? I mean sex is
the reason were all here right?
Suddenly, I was shoved off land, swimming in the Persian Gulf and lovin it. My
mother and friends were taken aback by my curiosity and ease with topic of sex. Of
course, like every other teenager in the world, I had the unpleasant image of my
mother and father having sex flash before my eyes but I didnt care. Even though my
friends had been discussing sex a lot, even before I knew what it was, they would
mostly talk about how gross it is. My mother grew more uncomfortable and began
further hesitating as my questions became more specific and sometimes even
personal.
So how often do you and dad have sex?
Oh god, Ailsa. Stop it
What? I know you do it.
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Over time, my friends grew more comfortable with the topic of sex as all
teenagers do. I learned that this was one of those things you DO NOT talk to your
parents about. I still talked about sex more than everyone I knew.
But I had so many questions. Many friends couldnt answer most of them and
my parents refused to get into that sort of discussion. Google in Dubai is censored or
provided many unwanted images of genitals clashing in the most peculiar ways. There
was no sex education at school of course.
Soon, with maturity, I learned restraint like any decent Indian girl. It felt more
like suppression to me. Sometimes my fascination with sex was funny to my friends,
and other times they wondered how such ideas even entered my head. When those
moments occurred, I felt like an ugly, perverted beast in the body of an awkward,
lanky girl. I didnt look and talk like all the pretty girls who were giving blow-jobs by
the age of fourteen. I didnt fit the profile of the girl who should be associated, in any
manner, with sex. The thing is, I didnt want to have sex. I just wanted to talk about
it.
Even when I reached the age of seventeen, I couldnt talk about sex without
guys thinking I wanted to do it with them. All of the sudden, I could see how I
appeared like an easy lay to them.
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Of course, there were a lot of acts of a sexual nature that occurred during my
teenage years but even then, sex was a secret. I was so frustrated with sex. Not in a
physical manner but I wanted to talk about sex positivity. I just didnt know thats
what it is called then. I didnt know other people cared about it too.
But as I said, I learned restraint. These ideas were deposited in the back of
my brain like the dirty pictures that was hidden in a secret folder of all of my guy
friends computers. Because that is exactly what I was: dirty. Every teenager
experiences of a series of emotional paper cuts to the heart and ego. Its only later
that we realize were not alone.
During my summer before Mount Holyoke College, I remember looking at the

course list and seeing this:
Yes.
I wouldnt say coming to the United States was a place where I achieved an
American Dream of sorts. I wasnt enchanted by the whole free country business
because not everyone was open to talking about taboo topics. After all, taboos are
taboos for a reason. In fact, for a long time, most of my friends at college werent
67

only puzzled by my willingness to talk about sex; they were repulsed by it. At least
my friends at school accepted me.
But this class, Race/Sexuality/Style, happened way before those weird college
friends. It was the first piece of assigned reading that made me feel invincible: The
Uses of the Erotic by the queen of the fucking world: Audre Lorde.
There are many kinds of power, used and unused, acknowledged or otherwise.
The erotic is a resource within each of us that lies in a deeply female and spiritual
plane, firmly rooted in the power of our unexpressed or unrecognized feeling. In
order to perpetuate itself, every oppression must corrupt or distort those various
sources of power within the culture of the oppressed that can provide energy for
change. For women, this has meant a suppression of the erotic as a considered
source of power and information within our lives.
My head was the globe, whirling faster and faster with every sentence as if
Lorde herself was spinning my head with her bare hands. There was someone else out
there. Someone like me.
Next week, there were big black penises in our course reader. Ah, life at a
liberal arts college!
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Soon, what people said didnt matter. I realized that, in the US, part of what
made people reject my openness regarding sexuality was because Im Indian and from
Dubai. Everyone had this expectation that I would be mellow and innocent. So when I
got loud and obnoxious, like I usually am, it seemed unnatural and wrong. Like the
time I won the Fake An Orgasm contest in a floral balloon-like skirt and glittery
blue headband! I could see the ocean of shocked faces from the stage. It was
terrifying. White chicks talked shit about me on Facebook videos without really caring
about how Id feel. It would always hurt for a bit but never for too long. My race is
something Ive never been ashamed of.
Also, by then, I knew it was a common topic of discussion and even a field of
study. Even though I never studied sexuality (never say never right?), I took gender
study classes and, in the last semester of my senior year, I started a sex positivity talk
show on the college radio station. I felt like I had gained enough knowledge and
confidence to share my experiences with the world, or at least South Hadley residents
and Mount Holyoke students.
Hi everyone, this is WMHC, South Hadley, 91.5FM and youre listening to G

Marks the Spot with Ailsa.
Thats how I opened my show every Tuesday (except school holidays) from 68pm. I had been running a rock show called Rock and a Hard Place for two years
before that but that simply involved playing music from my I-phone and running the
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station. For my first talk show, I decided to give my listeners a run-down of the best
vibrators and how to maintain them.
The sweetest South Hadley resident decided to call in and ask a question.
Whats the best way to perform cunnilingus? I have a girlfriend and want to
learn how to better please her.
He seemed really shy but determined to become a better lover and I gave him
the best advice I could think of at the time. I made him listen to Lick it by God-des
and She. The songs lyrics are genius and give step-by-step instructions to cunnilingus.
Also, the artists are lesbians so they know their shit. I also told him to make his
girlfriend talk sexily when hes going down on her and tell him what she wants. From
there, its in his hands to listen and give into her every command until shes ripping
the sheets off the bed, or wherever theyre doing it.
I dont know if thats the best advice - in fact Im sure its not but answering
a question that once lingered in the nape of my skull was incredibly liberating. In a
selfish way, it wasnt only because I possibly helped a random stranger and his
girlfriend experience one of the most pleasurable acts of life, but also because it
reminded that I can still ask the most basic questions despite all the research Ive
done and learn more. I guess sex positivity being a taboo has its benefits because it
maintains a sort of mystery that few other things in life retain.
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Chapter 11
Whats In a Name?
-Viraj Shashin Patel
Give your daughters difficult names. Give your daughters names that command the
full use of tongue. My name makes you want to tell me the truth. My name doesnt
allow me to trust anyone that cannot pronounce it right.
-Warsan Shire
Ages 1-21
"My name is Viraj Shashin Patel."

So, Vuh-rahjh?
Sure, thats fine
Viraj, ages 1-3
My world is composed of my mom, dad, and countless family and friends, all Gujurati.
My name is pronounced as it should be- Vee-rahj.
Vuh-rahjh Mahal, ages 3-10
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I am 3 years old and part of the new, exciting exotic Indian family that just
moved into their first house out of their apartment down the street into the upper
middle class suburbs of Chicago. This family- at the time, a father and mother in their
30s with me, their daughter, in pigtails, has an alarmingly large family and group of
friends in the surrounding neighborhoods. Cars line the street every Saturday night
when the family hosts parties and faces unfamiliar to the neighborhood pile in
wearing glamorous clothes and their laughter can be heard late into the night. I learn
quickly that there is a life that happens in the home, where the people look different
and the food smells warm and is layered with spices, and outside the home, where
the people look like the ones on TV and seem to care a lot about things my parents do
not. I make a friend down the street- another girl whose birthday is actually just one
day before mine. We play together almost every day and our parents have cordial
relationships with one another. The girl down the streets father is warm and inviting,
affectionately calling me Vuh-rahjh Mahal. I do not share this nickname with my
mother, understanding that I live in two worlds in which I have two different names. I
am confused by the nickname (nobody else called me anything but Vee-rahj) but
overall welcome and accepted. I feel a sense of pride, whatever that feels like at age
8. I have not been to the Taj Mahal and do not know what it means or why I was being
associated with it, but the nickname exists and I know better than to tell someone
older than me that I am confused by the name. In the same breath, I was
simultaneously welcomed with warmth but reminded that I am an outsider to the only
community I knew at home.
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The Middle Name Game
I am in grade school and, again, it is time for recess. I feel alienated during this
time every day- yearning for the comfort of the library while I do my best to avoid the
girls whose moms let them wear makeup and know how to style their hair. My mom
and dad, instead, think it is more important for me to focus on homework and helping
to take care of my little brother. The fun game to play at recess is the Middle Name
Game, where we guess each others middle names. I dont understand what the
purpose or function of a middle name serves nor what mine is. My mom tells me that
Indian children adopt their fathers first name as their middle name. I feel left out
again at having a fake middle name and embark on a project lasting a number of
months to find the perfect one- I settle on Kruti. My mom indulges it and I spend
hours in my room practicing with my new real middle name- Viraj Kruti Patel. Its
perfect.
The Name Speech
It is freshman year of high school and my first assignment in English Honors is

to deliver a speech talking about my name to the entire class. I realize I know nothing
about it. I ask my parents why they picked the name they did for me- my mom
mutters something about my first name being in a book my dad read in high school,
that it has something to do with a castle, repeats what I already know about my
middle name, and that my last name is tied to the Hindu caste system (something I
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only knew about because we were studying it in World History) and that it meant
that, at some point, our family were farmers. I deliver my speech with pride and a
wholeness I havent felt before. I get an A, pronouncing my name Anglicized the
whole time to Vuh-rahjh.
Learning to Say My Own Name
It is my first year of college. For the first time, I have a community of desi
friends. I feel a seamless connection between my worlds I have not felt before. I can
be my authentic self, perform my culture and ethnicity both inside and outside my
home, connect it to my liberal arts coursework, and grapple with all of the problems
people in their late teens and early twenties must. I say my name out loud the way it
is supposed to be pronounced for the first time in my life. It feels foreign and I
practice a few times, noticing the impact of my English training. It doesnt sound
quite like the way my parents say it but its closer than what it was. When I go home
to visit, my parents comment on how Ive changed and seem more confident and
outgoing. I walk with a new gait and my head held high. For now and for the rest of
college, I say my name differently depending on whether the audience is desi or not.
Your Name is Incorrect
It is still the first year of college. Again, for the first time in my life, I meet
other desi folks who have been raised in predominantly desi communities. They are
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fluent in multiple languages and came to college with a group of desi friends in place
before orientation. They indicate they have no interest in building a more diverse
community and I am frustrated. This is also the first time I am told matter-of-factly,
by a number of people, that I have a boys name and that my name is weird. I am
used to seeing faces of confusion when I say my name to non-desi people, but I have
never experienced shame and confusion around my name from people who look like
me. The same people who accuse me of having a weird name are the same who
publicly gossip about my decision to pursue an English degree and decide I am too
different to belong. I brush off their rejection and build my own rich community,
but their comments sting. My parents assure me that the character in the book Im
named after is, in fact, a woman.
Youve Changed.
I am home for the summer after my first year of college. In my own process of
reclaiming my name, I approach my best friends- all White women born and raised in
the suburbs of Chicago. They are the young women who I laughed, cried, and grew up
with. They mean the world to me and, in our first year of college, we supported each
other and even visited regularly. In a rare moment of seriousness, I talk to them about
my name, excited to teach my newly unearthed and embraced identity as Vee-rahj.
They are confused- How does your name just change? they ask. You will always be
Vuh-rahjh to me. Nothing changes. They recognize that they have been calling me by
a miscorrect pronunciation my whole life and continue doing so. I am proud of myself
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for standing up but I am met with resistance and hostility. The rift between us grows
and I realize that the journey I am on to be true to myself and to the world means I
may have to leave more than just the mispronunciation of my name behind.
Why do you do that?
It is the summer after my senior year of college. I am at a summer leadership

retreat in Seattle for a fellowship program I am in to help recruit folks with
minoritized identities into the field of student affairs. We spend a few days doing
activities to discover ourselves and share our stories. I proudly announce that I have
been accepted into a top program to earn my Master of Education degree and that the
program is known for its social justice focus.
During a lunch, one of the faculty of the program, a Filipino-American man,

asks me casually, Why do you do that? Say your name two different ways depending
on your audience? It is easier, I say. You know better, he counters. I am
flustered- nobody has asked me this question and I am frustrated with my answer. I
have never advocated to take the easy route, but the fight to understand and say my
own name, much less get others to say it, is exhausting. That night, alone in my
room, I cry, releasing 21 years of internalized racism and sexism and cursing the world
for making me too afraid and too tired to have my name spoken correctly, instead
accommodating the comfort of others around me.
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Hold Yourselves and Others Accountable
It is my second professional job, 5 years after my watershed moment in

Seattle. I completed graduate school and my first professional job, where social
justice and inclusion were salient values and I never once had to think about how I
belonged in terms of my name. Even before day 1, the sweet sound of Vee-rahj rang
across the campus and I felt a sense of comfort and wholeness.
In this new job on Day 1, I notice that everyone is saying Vuh-rahjh again, a
name that is now foreign to me. With the best of intentions, and with so much
friendliness, the name gets dropped countless times each day. Each time I hear it, it
is like a little stab in the pit of my stomach. I announce the correct pronunciation
during a meeting. Everyone thanks me, a few apologize, some even practice with me,
and I am drained trying to demonstrate patience and forgiveness. I am terrified of
being alienated so I do not correct often. I am drowning in apologies. For a while,
people are careful, trying very hard to fix something they learned before I even had
an opportunity to intervene. Four months go by and I notice that it is happening
again. Vuh-rajhj, the name that haunts me. A ghost of a timid, passive, lonely girl
who was beat down by the world before she realised what was happening continues to
greet me though her presence is unwelcome. The problem is not fixed and I have
stopped correcting people. I feel invalidated and exhausted by the drain of not only
completing my job but fighting to be acknowledged as myself.
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I make another announcement at an all staff meeting. This time, instead of
offering to help others, I ask everyone to hold themselves and each other
accountable. I am just too tired.
I am less convinced that this will resolve the issue this time around or if it ever
will be. I notice that the people I am closest to are also the ones who say my name
correctly. I wonder if I just need to get over it and accept my name being
mispronounced, if only for my personal sanity. I am angry that I have to consider thia
as a means of self-preservation.
My name is Viraj
A simple sentence, and one that I say every day. These 4 words encapsulate a
lifetime of self-discovery, pain, liberation, shame, confusion, frustration and pride. A
thoughtless part of my identity, and one that I had no choice in adopting but, in 6
short syllables, tells the story of my roots and wings. My namesake, my father tells
me, comes from a character in a novel by the great Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay
(also the author of Devdas).
My father describes the character as ...a woman who faced a lot of pain and
stood up and fought for herself. My father, the man who was raised in a system of
such deep patriarchy that he never learned to do his own laundry until he came to
graduate school, picked a feminist for his daughters namesake. Amazing. My life is
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clicked into focus when I learn of my namesake and I inhabit the spirit of this
character Viraj as I continue to navigate a world where my tongue, body, & spirit
have been manipulated to make their authentic forms unfamiliar to even myself.
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Chapter 12
The American Dream
-Bharat Walia
The year was 1999, the rapper Eminem had just released his first LP, Slim
Shady and while there was much talk about Y2K and other tales of doom and gloom
about approaching the year 2000, I was a recent high school graduate excited about
my prospects to work for the United States Census Bureau. So why would a 19 year old
care so much about the U.S. Census Bureau. To better explain, I was not like the
average American 19 year old, unless you lived where I lived, Albany Park, Chicago.
Albany Park is one of the most diverse neighborhoods in the United States pulling
people from all over the world and when I arrived it was fraught with people from the
Philippines, Cambodia, Vietnam, Bosnia, Albania, Palestine, India, Pakistan,
Bangladesh, Korea, and many other countries.
I had migrated from India three years prior and the immigrant experience for
millions meant performing multiple low wage jobs to make ends meet. So when I
learned that the U.S. Census bureau was hiring and that a placement in the top tenth
percentile of the test that temp workers who conducted the census poll was fourteen
dollars per hour, I realized this would triple my income or consolidate the equivalent
of working three jobs, no brainer right!?! Well I took the test and placed in the top 2%
and was chomping at the bit to get started as a field leader only to then be informed,
that I could not because, I was not a U.S. Citizen and India was on a non U.S. friendly
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list. This created two reactions for me, a logical and a sentimental one. The logical
one wrestled with the labeling of a country who has never been in direct military
conflict with the U.S. and whose relationship in recent years under President Bill
Clinton and then finance minister of India, Manmohan Singh's opening of Indian market
had begun to flourish. The sentimental response fought with why the land of
opportunities and freedom had snatched an economic opportunity out of my hands I
had qualified for.
My family had moved to the U.S. at a time when India was still emerging from a
corrupt system where the way out of extremely competitive situations required
nepotism. The outlook it presented was not nearly as promising as what my Uncle had
attained when he had moved to the U.S. in the 60s and had done extremely well for
himself. He was also our sponsor who enabled our move to the U.S. This was a long
term play for my parents and one they had bet their entire lives over. And that for
their children's prospects. Needless to say they shielded us from all things politics.
Although baffled and irate, I saw few means to change the verdict about the
bureaus decision and life went back to normal which meant multiple low wage jobs
and slowly integrating into American culture, language, and lifestyle.
It was a September morning in 2001 and I woke up to the terrible news that a
plane had crashed into a high rise in NYC. While I, like many worldwide, was trying to
make sense of this "accident", the second plane crashed and the news broke that it
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was a terrorist attack. It was horrifying, terrifying, and shocking all rolled into one big
disorienting emotion. I was in undergrad at UIC at the moment. There were rumors
that Chicago was also an intended target and might be next. I was feeling angry at
those who had committed this savage act and trying my best to keep my feelings
composed to be resolute. In this state, my first call came from my American born and
raised Indian friend Ras. He asked me in a firm and admonishing tone, go home and
shave your beard off. It will not be safe for you to walk around. Ras was a Sikh and
kept a beard as an observation to his Sikh faith. I adorned my tool t-shirt, ripped
jeans, with my chain wallet to appear as American as I could for the coming weeks
out of fear. My friend Ras would be once accosted at a gas station by a hostile patron
and have racial slurs flung at him and almost a physical altercation had broken out.
Soon after the incident, stories started breaking out over the coming days about
violence against people of middle-eastern, South Asian backgrounds throughout the
country. There was an unsettling and confusing feeling of apprehension, alienation,
and being misunderstood and unsafe. How can the citizens of a country whose
principal beliefs are rooted in acceptance, cultural, ethnic, and religious tolerance,
due process, and protecting civil liberties lose their footing in response to this
tragedy.
What I had really woken up to was something that extended beyond the
terrible incident that ill-fated morning. I had woken up to a reality that at its center
required confrontation, understanding, and involvement. The American dream for the
first time showed signs of some vulnerability. I became deeply curious about what had
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made this country so great, what were the foundational elements of why millions
immigrated here, the tall tales of success, the influence it had created across the
world, the power it manifested on decisions that would have global impact. In my
learnings I uncovered that the power laid in the architecture of the constitution and
the people who interpreted and enacted their actions in line with these concepts. The
greatness was a direct output of the principle values as they were being
demonstrated, lived, and willed by ordinary citizens who rallied to a civil war to end
slavery, organized civil unrest for sake of racial integration, fought for equal rights for
women, socioeconomic policy to provide equitable support around healthcare and
unemployment during the great depression, laws that protected minorities,
prosecution of those who abused political power and a press that tackles issues
unfettered.
In the subsequent months as the U.S. government would mount a case to go to

war against Afghanistan and Iraq under the accusation of Weapons of Mass Destruction
I became politically hyperaware and felt the weight of the same power that I had
sensed from a distance once and how it might affect the lives of millions of people in
the countries we were planning to invade. I would become a more active participant
in asking questions. I joined live protests in the streets of Chicago and vocalizing my
concern. I started to understand that the U.S. political system allowed its citizens to
actively participate and create influence in the decisions by speaking to their local
representatives and senators. It had opened a new door of action, one I never knew
existed when I was denied my position for the U.S. Census Bureau. I waited for my
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naturalization as a U.S. citizen and anxiously awaited my first chance to vote in the
Illinois state gubernatorial election in the year 2004. Becoming a U.S. citizen for me
finally meant a new level of accountability that I can create by active participation in
elections, by writing to my congress person, my senator, canvasing for candidates I
supported, donating to causes I cared about. I had found a new muscle I can now flex
to turn my opinions, ideas, beliefs, and position to legislative and policy based
results. Surprisingly the American system allowed me access to those in political
power with relative ease. I had the ability to go meet my congress person at their
local office, write to them, and when I disagreed express my disagreement by shifting
my support to other candidates.
Parallel to these events was my continuous education in American pop culture,

movies, music, understanding American phrases and the numerous gaffes I committed
in broken attempts to get them right. Moments when I was the only person who was
unaware of who Elmo or the cookie monster is, or Zack Morris from Saved by the bell,
any of the Dr. Suess books were, what a homecoming dance meant, what timeouts
were, American football or baseball looked like.
In 2006, I decided to work for a candidate running against an incumbent for

U.S. Congress in a District outside mine. The experience brought me closer to
understanding the nuances and intricacies of what the ground level campaigns of
these elections looked like and getting to know what the candidates were made out
of. What they aimed to accomplish and the support they had to garner to get where
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they needed to get. Needless to say all of it rested on the people who turned up day
after day canvasing door to door, donated dollar upon dollars, hosted fundraisers,
made countless phone calls, all driven by the conviction of their beliefs. I realized
they were not these distanced figures that ruled from a high throne of power as they
had made to appear once by my parents or to be shielded from. In fact, they were
looking for active participation and conversation and support from their citizens.
As I write this in the year 2014, I realize that becoming an American for me
personally has been not only going way beyond understanding the cultural nuances
and integrating linguistically and aspiring professionally but there is also a whole
another sphere which at its core propels the most important components of our lives;
the taxes we pay, the countries we go to war against, the economic opportunities
that we create as a result of local, state, and federal policy, the education system
that is made available in our districts and state funded Universities, the rights
afforded to exercise as they conduct their daily commerce and the general pursuit of
happiness. That ultimately there is a sense of accountability that the system is as
good as the components of its system and the Government of the people, by the
people, and for the people as efficient and glorious as the people in it. It is
incumbent on every citizen, born and or naturalized to continue to aspire to live out
these values to the highest standards so what made this place so special for me, and
you, and everyone else can pass this along for generations to come.
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Today while economic opportunity has flourished for me financially and
professionally, I serve on Board of my Universitys alumni association, act as a liaison
between the state and my school for lobbying efforts to continue State funding as an
important channel of support for inner city students like I once was that could afford
higher education, serve on the board of community organizations that provide
integration and professional support for career mobility for Asian Americans, and the
state advisory board of a non-partisan U.S. Global Foreign policy non-profit that
influences legislators on why foreign aid and responsible international involvement
remains crucial is the United States wants to continue playing the kind of role it is
capable of playing in the highest order of responsible global power center.
So thank you to the U.S. Census Bureau for denying my opportunity because it
taught me an important lesson that the American dream is only but a dream unless we
wake up each morning to fight to make it a preserving reality and that makes me feel
American every day.
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Chapter 13
Say
-Aparajita Sen*
I am what they call a probashi Bangali - someone who is Bengali only at her
roots, someone who for all practical purposes identifies with the race and culture, but
has never been imbued in it. Ma, grew up in Calcutta while Baba studied under a tree
in his village until fourth grade. He was sent to a boarding school after and later,
joined a medical college in Calcutta. He was a quiet, persevering and diligent
student, not really in the popular crowd, but graduated top of his class. Sometime in
1983, my mother was apprised of this 'gold medalist' boy who was being considered by
the family as a potential match.
--
Ma and Baba spent almost five years together in medical school before I was
born at the fag, sultry end of May, a few years into the marriage. Ma went to Calcutta
for the delivery and since she had a slipped disc condition, I was born by Caesarean
section, almost under-weight; in the same nursing home where all of my maternal
cousins were born. Six weeks in, I was taken to Pune and there I was raised for the
next 18 years of my life. Given the immense physical pain my mother underwent to go
through her first pregnancy, being bedridden throughout, I think my parents were
exhausted to try for any more children.
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Growing up, every summer meant a month in West Bengal. Three of the four
weeks were spent in the two story mansion in the heart of central Calcutta, near the
Esplanade, amidst all the hustle and bustle of everyday life. And then, we would take
the overnight train ride from Howrah Station for a week or ten days, to the village
where Baba grew up, where his parents still lived. A bullock cart would be sent for us
to the closest station, which was a few miles from our destination. Here, too, every
summer the entire family would assemble - my paternal grandparents, who were
farmers, their five children and their children's families. Baba is the third of four
brothers and they have one sister, my Pishimoni. His eldest brother I call Boro Jethu
and his second eldest brother I call Mejo Jethu. Mejo Jethu's son was the one I played
with the most. Like me, he was also an only child and he was five years elder to me.
From the crack of dawn, when we woke up during those ten days that we were
together, we'd run around in the fields, chase the bullocks, feed the cows, feed the
geese, feed the hens and create all other kinds of nuisance. This one time I remember
wanting to shower flowers on the cows in the shed. I had collected wild flowers in a
basket. I went into the shed, wanting to pour the flowers on the cow's head, and then
she butted me. Scared, I ran for my life. My brother, who was waiting right outside
the shed, chased me to the pond and pushed me in. I still hold a grudge against him.
The summer would fly by and as soon as the monsoon set in, it would be time
for school again.
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One winter, when I was in fourth grade, we went to visit Mejo Jethu's family
over the break. During the day, our fathers talked about the news and read
newspapers while our mothers spent time in the kitchen, preparing our favorite
sweets and savories. Mejo Jethima had spread out some dried mangoes on the roof
and she asked us to go check on them. My brother and I, we ran up the four flights of
stairs, to break out into the brilliant sunshine. The mangoes being dried for aachaar
were there; there were no evil crows in the vicinity. We stole a piece and each ate
one. At some point, while laughing and playing, he started tickling me and at some
point, his hand was inside my sweater. Someone from another roof in the
neighborhood saw us. Embarrassed, I ran downstairs with the pretense of being
hungry for lunch. I heard him lock the door leading to the roof when I reached the last
flight of stairs.
The next spring, my Pishimoni's eldest son was to be married. The entire
paternal side of my family had assembled in Bombay for the event. My brother and I
were in charge of stealing the groom's shoes and playing other childish pranks. All of
us stayed in a guest house during those days - Pishimoni's house was not big enough to
accommodate the entire extended family. He threw a tantrum that it would be fun to
sleep together. My parents acquiesced. We talked about school and movies till we fell
asleep that night. I woke up in the middle of the night, aware that there was
something strange between my legs. The moon shone brightly through the window as
everyone else slept peacefully, tired from the festivities during the day. I lay still,
trying to understand what was going on - what his fingers were doing at the place I
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peed from. Yet, I had never felt that way before. After what seemed like an eternity
of pretending to be asleep, I pushed the covers aside and ran to the bathroom.
A couple of years later he joined a college that was an overnight bus ride from
home. He began visiting every few weeks during some school break or other, always
staying a couple of days at our place as my mother prepared all the foods that he
loved, trying to make a home away from home for him. As she cooked, we watched
television in the living room. I would voluntarily sit as close to him as possible so that
he could reach me, yet far enough for my parents not to suspect anything. I began to
look forward to his visits. I began dreaming of his touch, the way he squeezed my
developing breasts. I wanted and craved his touch. I felt myself becoming wet with
these thoughts when he was away. I started to gratify myself with the thoughts of his
touch. By now, I knew factually that what was happening wasn't completely correct
but in some sense, no one had ever paid me this kind of attention.
When I was 15 and he 20, he paid us a surprise visit, one cold night in January.
I was sitting with my friends in our neighborhood and he came up from behind me and
hugged me, slipping his hand inside my sweatshirt, under my bra. At that instant,
something me that revolted. How dare he touch me even in front of everyone else?
Had I no dignity? I sprung up and called Ma, pretending to be surprised that he'd come
to visit for the weekend. Inside, a disgust was erupting in me - disgust for me, for
him, for my parents, for his parents, for everyone who was involved yet so oblivious
to this. The next time he wanted to touch me that weekend, I looked him in the eye,
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thinking - why do I have to stop you when you should have enough sense to stop
yourself. I said no and walked out the room.
--
At the age of 22, graduate school invited me to Boston. After spending four
years studying engineering in Delhi, in one of the most diverse technological schools
in India, Boston blew my mind with all the people from the scores of cultures from
around the world that walked the streets here. Despite being in such a lively city, I
had managed to isolate myself emotionally. I felt stuck, alone, unable to understand
why I felt stagnant. I maintained a jovial facade for my parents; I had never been able
to confide in them and they made minimal effort to understand me. I left it at that. I
delved deep, trying to make the most of the many new and interesting opportunities
that presented themselves to me. I tried hard to convert my new-found
acquaintances to friends. It seemed like everyone had their own circles and I could
at best be an observer and casual tag-along.
The next spring, I traveled for an internship to Europe for three months with
some classmates. I took off to see the beauty of France, Turkey, Switzerland, and the
Netherlands all by myself. Traveling felt like running away from reality. Discovering
and learning new things kept me engaged, interested and happy, at least on the
surface. But once the internship and travels came to an end, I dreaded my return to
Boston. I had no option but to face myself. After running at a relentless pace to keep
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myself ahead, life had finally caught up with me. I had hit rock bottom and there was
nowhere to go from here. I finally decided to go ask for help.
In India, talking to a counselor or therapist is considered very taboo, even

looked down upon. Here in the US, I was on my own with no one to judge me or stop
me. I had all the freedom to help myself, or not, in any way that I wanted. In many
ways, the distance, from everything and everyone I had known for the major portion
of my life, was emancipating.
Over the course of the next year, my therapist helped me wade through the
entangled mess that she termed my hard wiring. I slowly understood that I had
subconsciously allowed people to trample on me, to take me for granted. That that
feeling had stemmed from those formative experiences and neglect throughout the
years. I had never known what it was to love myself, value myself, have self-esteem,
to be proud of myself. Painstakingly, I began to learn all of these things. Sessions with
my therapist left me raw each Friday. It felt like I was stripped bare to my core,
slowly learning to cover up and nurture myself in care. I was teaching myself to be at
peace with myself, more than two decades after I knew the concept of me. I wanted
to yell at my parents, ask them just how they could only ask if I was still a virgin when
I finally did tell them that I was abused and not even ask once if I was okay, how I
coped all those years since. I fought with maintaining facades of productivity and
being completely broken inside. The past year, with all these internal struggles, left
me stronger, with a clear sense of identity, purpose and integrity.
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--
September 2014
It is becoming chilly now and the leaves are starting to turn. When I wake up at
6am, I can see that even though the first rays hit the Charles later and later every
day, the persevering crew is in their rowing boats, pulling through stroke after stroke
as they prepare for the Head of the Charles Regatta.
We have moved to a new place. The view is not as nice. The river always stays
a murky brown instead of switching hues of blue with the moods of the sun and sky. I
see people running by Storrow Drive and a part of me wonders why Ive stopped
running. It is also a new semester. I am teaching a course for the first time as well as
taking a pathology course. I have found hardly any time for research in the past few
weeks which surprisingly is not irking me. I find that I would rather spend time
reading up about my pathology tutorials and assignments than dedicate an afternoon
to research. I am beginning to worry about what I really see myself doing ahead. I had
felt that by now Id be established enough and knowledgeable enough to be able to
lay down the map, but apparently not. While I want to do good work, while I want to
get this project working, while I want to get those papers out, a part of me doesnt as
well. Graduate school has become too comfortable. I am very used to this pace of
life, this freedom and this peace of mind. Im glad I chose to come here. I wouldve
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been a very different person if not and possibly, still carried on to make the same
mistakes Id made throughout the time I came here.
But, I am thankful and incredibly lucky. The past year and a few recent events have
helped me, maybe, find, what seems to be a core. While I tread carefully around it,
wary yet hopeful at the same time, I hope I dont spoil things for myself. I think I am
stronger, more level headed now. I like the path Im on.
~*~
Footnote:
* Name changed to protect authors identity
The story is named after the song Say by John Mayer.
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Everything comes to us that belongs to us if we create the capacity to receive it.

~Rabindranath Tagore
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