'More Indian Now Than Me'

[Guest guest]

[by Sanjna N. Singh, The New York Times Tuesday, November 23, 2004]

 

I had been an avid photographer for some years, my camera my conduit

to mysterious worlds lurking beyond my chipper existence on the Upper

East Side. One summer found me in Jackson Heights, Queens, a

neighborhood that seemed out of touch with the modern India where I

was raised, but one I was eager to explore.

 

I started to photograph a family that had emigrated from a small

village in Punjab 20 years ago. They had arranged the marriage of

their 23-year-old daughter, Kamal, to a boy from their hometown who

would be arriving shortly to start his life, and hers, in Queens.

 

I was disturbed that a young Indian-American girl would so easily

acquiesce to an arranged marriage. The family, in turn, was horrified

that I, a 26-year-old Indian girl, remained as yet unmarried. This

could only be interpreted as a shocking lapse of parental duty. They

kindly offered to find me a spouse. I politely declined.

 

As India past and present collided, incongruously, in Queens, I

couldn't help but think of my sister's wedding in Delhi a few years

earlier. In India, my sister and her boyfriend had dated for 10 years

before getting married. In New York, Kamal had met her fiancé only

once.

 

I was in the grip of a bizarre reverse culture-shock. How, I

wondered, could you live so long in New York and not be the slightest

bit American? They were bemused at the apparent contradiction: an

Indian woman … photographer?

 

I photographed the wedding, and fun — under the strict eye of Kamal's

father —was had by all. Despite our differences, we bonded. But I

emerged from my first foray into Indian life in America slightly

disappointed. I hadn't known what to expect from Jackson Heights, but

perhaps at the back of my mind I was hoping to find people like me.

 

I was part of the fortunate generation of Indians, born into a

democratic country whose colonial presence was happily a memory. My

family were freedom fighters in the struggle led by Gandhi, and by

their grace, I grew up in relative comfort. But despite my

advantages, I saw no avenues for creativity in the conventional

lifestyle of office worker, then faithful spouse.

 

Overwhelmed by the prospect of forging a new path in a regimented

society and enticed by the offerings of a prosperous America, I

decided to taste that life for myself.

 

I moved to New York in 2001. There I didn't think of myself as an

immigrant, because for me, the door leading back to Delhi seemed wide

open. Yet as I entered my eighth year in America, I was forced to

recognize that this open door grew more illusory with each passing

year. As I drifted further from my own country, I started to feel the

need to grant space to my Indian self, right in New York.

 

A few weeks after the wedding, I found myself amid a very different

group of Indians, a group I thought would share my sensibilities. I

was invited to a chic Diwali cards party on the Upper West Side.

Diwali is the autumnal festival of lights, and traditionally a time

to illuminate one's home with diy- as — earthenware lamps — to

welcome the goddess of prosperity. Perhaps in her honor, it is also

traditional to gamble at card parties.

 

In retrospect, showing up in my favorite 'Jefferson High Alive

in '85' T-shirt wasn't the best idea. Everyone else was dressed

beautifully in the latest Indian styles, the women in flowing, two-

piece silk salwaar kameez, the men in kurta pajama. I immediately

felt 12 years old. Nibbling a samosa, I perched awkwardly on the arm

of a sofa, trying to contribute to the conversation. But as the topic

turned to husbands and mothers-in-law, my interest waned.

 

I made my way to the cocktail table (mistake No. 1), then went to

join the guys playing cards (mistake No. 2). They were sitting in a

circle, cheerfully tossing poker chips into the pile, and I envied

their unconscious abandon, which contrasted so starkly with the

carefully cultivated gentility I had just parted company with.

 

By the time I returned to the edge of the sofa, having lost all my

money, it was clear that I had nothing more to add to the party. I

didn't have a boyfriend/husband who was a broker/banker, nor did I

have a duplex with two bedrooms (one for when his mother comes to

visit). It dawned on me that these women, most of them born in New

Jersey, seemed more Indian than I.

 

Disconcerted, I put on my coat and slipped out.

 

Outside, I breathed in the air of a million misfits. Once on board

the subway, I read a line from the latest in a series of poems posted

on the trains: "If you think you can grasp me, think again. My story

flows in more than one direction." Sometimes those things are just

written for you.

 

(Sanjna N. Singh works for HBO Studios. She is also working on a

documentary about the rights of South Asian and Arab immigrants after

9/11.)

 

Source: The International Herald Tribune

URL: http://www.iht.com/articles/2004/11/24/arts/web1124india.html