Brown Enough
Caught between two worlds.
I grew up loving everything about India. The culture, the food, the music, the movies, the clothes, the language.
When it was my birthday, I wanted lenghas. When it was Christmas I wanted jewelry. When a movie finally came on VHS or DVD, I had to watch it.
A lot of my childhood was surrounded by family, family’s family, and even their family. I knew my cousin’s cousin’s cousins and treated them like my own cousins. So, when family parties happened, I was excited to get dressed up and see everyone.
On school day mornings, my Dadi would drive my brother to school, my parents would be at work, and I would be at home alone for twenty minutes. Those twenty minutes were all mine. The Ishq CD went right into the stereo (Mr. Lova Lova, anyone?), the volume turned up way too high for 7am, and my nine year-old self danced her heart out to the only music she loved.
On Saturday mornings, I wanted aloo paranthas. Sometimes besan bread. And always chaa with biscuits.
On Sunday mornings, my Dadi drove her ‘lil crew of Bijis to the mandir. I used to go with them. My Nani went to the gurdwara. I used to go there too. My Dadi’s and Nani’s friends complimented how well I did mattha tek. Getting karah parshad was my favorite part of going.
My elementary school put me in ESL classes because while I was born and raised in the US, Punjabi was my first language. I don’t remember actually needing the classes. I went because I was told to. I also happened to be the only Indian kid in my class.
Just as I started having crushes at school, I overheard my parents chatting with my aunts and uncles about how “the boy’s family is very important, you know, it’s a marriage of families. We’ll make sure we find someone really good for Shailla.”
In middle school, a friend came over to work on a science fair project. My parents offered her dinner. She accepted because it was late and she was hungry. I can still feel the nerves that rushed through my body. It was the first time I had a friend over who was offered Indian food. And not just any dish, my favorite. Daal and roti with our family chutney recipe of ketchup, spices, onions, and carrots.
She grabbed the roti off the plate with two fingers and tilted her head sideways to look at it. My heart dropped as I watched her look at it like it was from another planet. She had a look of confusion and aversion on her face. After one bite, she asked if we could take her home.
My friends all got to go to the mall with each other. They also went to school dances. I wasn’t allowed to.
Kids at school made fun of Indian culture with dumb questions like, Are you the dot or the feather? Does your dad own a 7/11 or drive a taxi? Why are your arms hairier than mine, are you sure you’re a girl? How come you don’t smell like the other Indians?
I caught on quickly. Anytime someone would make fun of Indians, I’d laugh too. That’s them. Not me.
I stopped listening to the music, watching the movies, and only spoke the language when necessary. Even the food wasn’t cool. I didn’t want daal and sabji, I wanted burgers and pizza.
As I got older, my cousins shared that they were bullied for being Indian in high school. I was shocked. That wasn’t my experience at all, and we’re similar ages. When they shared with me what people used to say, I felt something heavy settle in my body. The people at their schools said the exact same things as my friends at school.
I noticed myself struggling to remember basic words in Punjabi. It felt like I was losing a piece of myself. My mom and I made it a point to bring Punjabi back into our conversations whenever we could.
Once I moved away from home, I found myself craving Indian food. My mom gave me some of her homemade masala and instructions on how to make some of my favorite dishes. Cholay, gobi, daal, gajjar. How did I ever reject these dishes?
My third trip ever to India at 29 with my mom reminded me of how connected I feel when I’m there.
I started blasting the music again. Sidhu. Diljit. Karan. Jasmine. Icky. AP.
My friends beg me to make them Indian food.
My mom and I are plotting our next trip to India together.
I don’t feel nearly brown enough to claim my roots, but at the same time, I feel too brown to claim anything else.
When my mom and I talk in Punjabi, the words don’t always come easily.
But they’re still there.
And so am I.