Born Confused (34 page)

—Shampoo comes from the Sanskrit? my father asked incredulously one etymologically enlightening breakfast along the way.

—More specifically, from the Hindi word
champee,
meaning to massage, I told him.

If anyone was going to be an expert on Indian history—whether of fact or fable, war or word—it was going to be me.

The day of the conference I was ready. I knew that India had twenty-five states (and seven union territories), almost two dozen major languages (Hindi being the one primarily spoken by about a third of the population), and that Hinduism was the religion practiced by about four-fifths of the peeps (other religions included Islam, Christianity, Sikhism, Buddhism, and Jainism). I had Gandhi’s birth date down (October 2, 1869) and that of his assassination (January 30, 1948). I had the names of the four principal castes (Brahmins, Kshatriyas, Vaishyas, and Shudras). And a bindi.

Gwyn had a messenger bag (newly purchased) of records (my father’s) and a level of determination in her eyes that frightened me. And a bindi. We were taking the train in, staying at Kavita and Sabina’s the night, and then my parents were going to join us for brunch in the city—after giving me and Karsh some quality time together (with an auditorium full of people, they’d neglected to notice).

—Do I really look all right? Gwyn asked me for the—what comes after gazillionth?—time.

She didn’t look all right. She looked, in SAT-speak,
pulchritudinous,
and I had to remind myself that looks weren’t everything at universities. I thought. In the fresh painted day she was a sun goddess, a street she-Surya, her beauty rendered still more blinding by my birthday outfit. My mother had agreed to lending it to her, chappals to dupatta, figuring I shouldn’t be caught two times in it. But I suppose it
was
a pretty memorable getup: Even in New York City,
home of the fashion fringe, heads were turning like tops as Gwyn sauntered by.

I was in a paisley shirt and jeans—but now that I knew paisley was linked to India (based on the mango pattern from Indian shawls) I’d convinced my mom it was traditional enough and gotten away with it. In truth, there was really nothing Indian about it (as the Made in Taiwan tag attested to) but I had the facts now. I could have been in a calico, cashmere, or seersucker tube top, a chintz bustier; cummerbund, dungarees, jodhpurs, khakis (yes, like Karsh and Radha that fateful day), or even pajamas—all these words of South Asian origin—and had backup for it. At least I was comfortable on the outside.

I had to not be intimidated by Gwyn. After all, we were technically entering my territory, right? So the club had turned out not to be; my mistake. But I’d always been smarter in school than in social situations, and this was not only a school we were treading towards through the Village streets, but a renowned university. Even she’d said she needed me to be legit there. But to tell the truth I was nervous.

As soon as we slipped through the arch and were crossing Washington Square Park, I began to look for him. Subconsciously at first, I suppose. I felt like I could feel him around already. And it was a thrill being in his land—this is where he went to school and thought all those thoughts and spun and ate and dreamt. And did drugs, I realized, as we passed a grove of shadowy, whispery men clearly selling. But my folks wouldn’t believe this level of unsuitability of him even if they saw the most suitable bong before them, and his lips attached (superglue mishap, of course).

A definite buzz was in the air as soon as we slipped into the foyer of the Modern Culture and Media building, where the conference
was being held, hosted jointly by the South Asian Studies and Women’s Studies departments (as the banner declared). Kavita met us at the auditorium doors and promptly chided me for being MIA and on IST, was I an ABCD about my ETA or what, much to Gwyn’s perplexity; she tried to work in an EFC to no avail (she didn’t speak NRI—nonresident Indian).

When, program in stamped hand, we broke on through to the other side, I nearly gasped. We stood at the higher altitude of an auditorium that sloped to the podiums. There stood a woman who looked like she was from India but spoke with the Jersey accent I’d thankfully been spared due probably to my parents’ slight Indian lilt.

There were at least a few hundred seats. And they were full.

We made our way to our reserved trio and sat. I began to seek out Karsh, but was soon lost in the maze of people. I glanced at my program to make sure he was listed on it. Sabina’s name was under a section called “Appropriate Behavior: The Disenfranchisement of Identities Via Media Subterfuge”; Karsh’s, way below, just after DJ Tamasha’s (who I now discovered was really named Shailly) under “DJ—Shaman or Sham: The Perks and Pitfalls of Nonverbal Communication.” All the titles on the program had colons and a second title. And there seemed to be a lot of women on the panels, and in the audience, too.

South Asian Identity. Were all these people that confused, too? I wondered, gazing now at the row upon rows of rapt and far from daft faces. The auditorium was packed with Indians, mainly ABCDs (if the sari-clad woman with the Jersey accent was any indication), some neo-hippies, and even preppies. I was again struck with the question, as I’d been at the club: From where had they all Athenalike sprung? Well, I suppose from the club. My heart began to pound at the thought of speaking in front of them. It wasn’t at all what I’d imagined—I’d been picturing classroom size, like at Lenne
Lenape, maybe twenty little Indians. And then there were two hundred.

I was lost already, and according to my program, we were still on the introduction. When the panels began it got even worse. They were all in English, but with these really specific multisyllabic words that meant nothing to me in this context, or any. I had no idea what they were talking about but I was pretty sure they did, which amazed me. Maybe I wasn’t even monolingual after all; it was like this whole other language was being spoken—one I’d gotten a whiff of through Sabina and Kavita, and even Julian and Dylan: Diaspora and Discourse and Dialogue. Representation and Appropriation. Grassroots, Hegemony. Colonialized, Collective Unconscious, Community. Sociocritical, Semantic, Semiotic. There was a lot of “activist consciousness” being tossed around, too.

And “people of color”—that was fired out there a ton as well. At first I thought they meant black people but then the sari-clad woman said
We as people of color
and I realized she meant we, as in us. I’d never thought of myself as a people of color. It made me picture the Muppets or Teletubbies or those commercials where the green and red M&Ms talk to each other.

Gwyn was wearing her best-behavior face, but I could see her eyes skatting wildly over the aisles in search of Karsh. Kavita was making little grunts of accord or disaccord under her breath and looked as captivated as if she were at the Cirque du Soleil. Other people in the audience emitted a lot of knowing
mmms.

And everyone, I mean
everyone,
said South Asian. South Asia was, by the way, Bangladesh, Bhutan, India, the Maldives, Nepal, Pakistan, and Sri Lanka. The term itself was even the topic of a debate about whether it was a positive (unifying identity that acknowledged differences) or negative (effacing term that omitted significant political, historical, economic, and religious discrepancies) one.

The power of a shared term, an endearment. That I could relate to.
Rani.
And even if it effaced our perhaps even insurmountable differences, it had softened me, like butter left on the counter; unintentionally.

Now Sabina took the podium and went into a revved-up thing about the appropriation of South Asia by the popular media and that most coffeehouse chai doesn’t even really have tea in it but chai means tea and what was
that
all about (which made Gwyn sigh disillusionedly). But now it was going in one ear and sticking there. Because when Sabina stood, I saw him. He’d been in her blind spot but he was in plain view now, and Gwyn gave a little gasp and tugged my wrist. I smiled back at her, too; I couldn’t help it.

He was slouched back in his seat, elbows on both armrests and eyes peering out over steepled fingers. Beside him, straight out of a comic book, was a pixie girl wearing what looked like a pair of swim goggles on her head and a zip-up vinyl jumpsuit. Her face was a mesh of angles, like a Picasso but pretty; it had to be Tamasha.

The DJ duo vanished out of view again as Sabina began to pace, gesturing wildly at an equally enraged and opinionated familiar-looking woman named Upma Abichandi who, according to the program, ran the South Asian Women’s Shakti Collective for Gender Conception Reform (whatever that meant) and who definitely got her hair cut by a hairdresser with issues; it spiked up, blue-tipped, serrating the very air as she violently shook her head. They both seemed really mad and I didn’t know why, like people on the subway in the morning before they have their coffee. But we weren’t on the subway and it was late afternoon already.

Kavita was beaming with pride at Sabina, who was onto something about mehendi not being tantamount to temporary tattoo, and how it’s been appropriated by Western capitalist culture. But the mehendi originated in Africa, and so India appropriated it from a
people of color as well, according to Upma, and thus we shouldn’t wear jeans or listen to Queen, then. But Freddie Mercury was Indian, Sabina pointed out, Parsi, and plus, half of these things are made in India anyways if you check the tags. Somehow eventually arriving at: Whatever it was, why did a white girl have to wear it before it was regarded as cool?

—Oh god, do you see Karsh? whispered Gwyn.—He looks so impressed.

—…the most obvious example, Upma was adding.—Being Madonna in her South Asian phase.

—This is my moment, Gwyn whispered.—Do I look okay?

—You are looking fine, Gwyn, said Kavita.—It’s an identity conference, not the spring collection, isn’t it?

—But clothes are a huge part of my identity, said Gwyn. Then, to my stundom, her hand shot up, body following a moment after.

—Excuse me?

A hush descended upon the audience as they stared amazed and prêt à pouncer at the salvar’d blonde before them. Oh no, now they would definitely maim us.

—I just wanna say: Why are you guys still talking about Madonna’s South Asian phase anyways? Gwyn began.—Hello—that’s already ancient history. Madonna’s just done what we all should do. Get into the groove. You have to subvert. Be all that you can’t be.

Upma didn’t look so pleased.

—So what are you saying? she snapped, steeling her gaze right at Gwyn.—How am I supposed to subvert my South Asianness? Tell someone,
Hey! I do Bharat Natyam, I go to temple—fuck you?

—Sure, said Gwyn.—Oh, and by the way, regarding the whole South Asian thing: I don’t think you should worry so much about using the same term. Of course we can’t become the same. You’ll
never be a size zero, and I’ll never be a twelve—you’re about a twelve, right? We can dress the same and still maintain our differences.

She just stood there a moment, every head doing a 180 to check her out.

—What would you know about people of color? Upma sputtered finally.—Do you have any black friends?

—Do you have any white? Gwyn retorted. She gestured at me and then Kavita.—I have South Asian friends.

She pointed Karshwards.

—And him.

Karsh lifted a half-steeple in a tiny wave. A stunned silence ensued, punctured by a quick but thick round of applause, before Upma could huffily continue her spiel.

Gwyn nearly curtsied on her way down. An ear-to-ear grin was glued to her face from that moment on. And me, I was utterly depressed. I thought that at least here I might be one step ahead of my popular pal, but looked like I was, as always, more than two behind.

As the conference continued it occurred to me finally that it wasn’t really about Indian history as it was written, but really about rewriting it by taking a fresh look at race, ethnicity, gender, and a mix of sociocultural questions—as the opening paragraph of the program laid out in bold text; I had been so busy trying to locate Karsh I had failed to notice this.

I just couldn’t believe how far along the desi scene was, not just socially but intellectually, how many people were out there thinking about it. This whole event had so far rocked my world, muddled me still more, and delivered a series of tiny epiphanies, all at the same time. To be honest, I was quite intimidated by the dialogue going on, as well as by the passion and conviction of these people on so many subjects which I, frankly, had never really even thought about.

The litany of dates and place names in my head suddenly
seemed a futile thing. Here were topics I’d never seen in any history book, whether American or Indian or British. A history of a people in transit—what could that be card catalogued under? And the history of the ABCD. Everyone seemed to know about this ABCD thing—that didn’t seem very confused to me! And it was a relatively new phenomenon; it had never occurred to me that things going on now could have a history already. The moments that made up my life in the present tense seemed so fleetingly urgent and self-contained to me: I’d always felt my life had very little to do with my parents’ and especially their parents’ histories (save for the shared place Dadaji and I had created for ourselves)—and that it would have very little effect on anything to come.

But the way these people were talking—about desis in Hollywood; South Asian Studies departments; the relatively new Asian Indian slot on the census—was hummingly sculpting the air, as if they were making history as they spoke. Making it, messily but surely, even simply by speaking. I was feeling it, too—a sense of history in the making. But where did I fit in to any sof it?

And how come no one had told me? How come I had to gatecrash, ride on the salvar-tails of my Bombay-born cousin to even be let in on any of this?

Shailly/Tamasha was speaking now, an ironical amount, on transcending borders through the unspoken word. She talked about Outcaste and the Asian underground and some brilliant barbedhaired London DJ who Madonna had personally called up (and who, frankly, she really seemed to be crushing on).