2024 Creativity Award
Click on the image above to view the recording of Kiran reading his essay.
Indian-ish: Finding A Way Back to My Identity
by Kiran Bhatia
I used to revel in the smell of my grandmother's freshly cooked pooris, the aroma of the hot oil and the sight of her famed mint chutney warming my heart when we visited her suburban New York home in the summer. Every afternoon, my grandmother, my Dadi, would make pooris that I would excitedly fill with keema and leftover chicken tikka. Every night, she would read to me the Ik Onkar, watching with pride as I celebrated and reaffirmed my Sikh faith. I never felt prouder of my Indian heritage.
Yet, as I returned to school that fall, a mere fourth grader, I was not greeted with the same celebration of my identity by my peers. As my teacher warmly asked my peers and me to explain our heritage on the first day of school, I felt excited to say that I was a proud, biracial mix of Asian and White, celebrating the cultures that had become so engrained within me. But as I announced to my class that I was Asian, I heard snickering and saw confused expressions on the faces of my classmates; even from some of my closest friends, I heard, "Really? Indian? You? I heard people remark how surprised they were, saying, "You must not be that Asian." Then the teacher moved on to the student next to me as if nothing had happened. I felt humiliated and ashamed. I thought back to the afternoons with my Dadi spent devouring her pooris and the nights I spent learning more and more about the history of our Sikh faith. I loved my culture so much, yet that seemingly escaped my most trusted friends. I thought I had let down my dad, my Dadi, and every Indian family member who I loved and looked up to. I had failed them, I thought.
For years after, I didn't identify as Asian. I ignored it; I wanted to spare myself the embarrassment and disappointment of hearing the surprise of those around me. Suddenly, I felt Indian in name only, as if the only thing that connected me to the beautiful Indian customs of my Dadi was a birth certificate. It wasn't until one day, as I watched an Indian soap opera with my Dadi that she liked, that I finally told her what had been weighing on me for years: "I don't feel Indian. I don't feel like I belong." I described to her the hurt I felt when I heard the surprise in my friends' voices when I told them I was Indian, how disappointed I felt that I was unable to communicate with her in any of her native tongues and how angry I was that my fair skin confused my connection to my Indian heritage. I felt Indian-ish at best.
"Pota," my Dadi told me, using the traditional Punjabi word for grandson, "You can never allow others to define who you are. If they don't see you as Indian, that doesn't make you any less Indian. No one can take away your culture from you. Only you can make the decision to celebrate and love the traditions that make our family so strong.
Hearing my Dadi's words, I shook my head at my silliness. I was Indian. And no one could ever take that away from me.
Now, when asked about my ethnicity, I declare that I am a mix of Indian and White, stressing the indelible mark my Indian heritage has left on me and the family stories that facet of my ethnicity tells. I declare my Indian heritage to others with pride. But it took years of struggle to get there, not just with the world around me, but with my own confusion about my identity. But that's the beauty of Asian-American identity: my heritage is a story of resilience and strength, just as my Dadi helped me realize.
Yet, as I returned to school that fall, a mere fourth grader, I was not greeted with the same celebration of my identity by my peers. As my teacher warmly asked my peers and me to explain our heritage on the first day of school, I felt excited to say that I was a proud, biracial mix of Asian and White, celebrating the cultures that had become so engrained within me. But as I announced to my class that I was Asian, I heard snickering and saw confused expressions on the faces of my classmates; even from some of my closest friends, I heard, "Really? Indian? You? I heard people remark how surprised they were, saying, "You must not be that Asian." Then the teacher moved on to the student next to me as if nothing had happened. I felt humiliated and ashamed. I thought back to the afternoons with my Dadi spent devouring her pooris and the nights I spent learning more and more about the history of our Sikh faith. I loved my culture so much, yet that seemingly escaped my most trusted friends. I thought I had let down my dad, my Dadi, and every Indian family member who I loved and looked up to. I had failed them, I thought.
For years after, I didn't identify as Asian. I ignored it; I wanted to spare myself the embarrassment and disappointment of hearing the surprise of those around me. Suddenly, I felt Indian in name only, as if the only thing that connected me to the beautiful Indian customs of my Dadi was a birth certificate. It wasn't until one day, as I watched an Indian soap opera with my Dadi that she liked, that I finally told her what had been weighing on me for years: "I don't feel Indian. I don't feel like I belong." I described to her the hurt I felt when I heard the surprise in my friends' voices when I told them I was Indian, how disappointed I felt that I was unable to communicate with her in any of her native tongues and how angry I was that my fair skin confused my connection to my Indian heritage. I felt Indian-ish at best.
"Pota," my Dadi told me, using the traditional Punjabi word for grandson, "You can never allow others to define who you are. If they don't see you as Indian, that doesn't make you any less Indian. No one can take away your culture from you. Only you can make the decision to celebrate and love the traditions that make our family so strong.
Hearing my Dadi's words, I shook my head at my silliness. I was Indian. And no one could ever take that away from me.
Now, when asked about my ethnicity, I declare that I am a mix of Indian and White, stressing the indelible mark my Indian heritage has left on me and the family stories that facet of my ethnicity tells. I declare my Indian heritage to others with pride. But it took years of struggle to get there, not just with the world around me, but with my own confusion about my identity. But that's the beauty of Asian-American identity: my heritage is a story of resilience and strength, just as my Dadi helped me realize.
