Through My Looking Glass

As I close my eyes, trying to go to sleep, a song slips through my mind subtly. “Kshyama sundara, kera kedara bhoomi…” the lyrics say. Naturally beautiful land abundant with palm trees; the literal interpretation almost seems to ruin the serenity of those words. But for practical purposes, those are the translations. The song describes Kerala, my mother place. As I lay in bed, thinking of that song, riding in a houseboat and going through the backwaters of Kochi, I was envisioning a paradise that was my home; my only nest in this vast world.

When I first came to America, I was a curious nine year old who was happy to come to the States just to see snow. I was naïve enough not to notice my “American” cousins’ hurtful comments or the alien glances I received from my “would-be” relatives. Naïve enough not to notice how different my new house was or how my family tried hard to adapt. After all, I didn’t adapt, I lived.

Of course I can’t say that nothing hurt me. When Annie, my new “American” friend came over, I showed her my dolls that I had preciously brought from India. She glanced at my Barbies and asked, “They have Barbies in India?” I was taken aback. Annie was Indian, she was from Kerala and she visited Kerala every single summer yet, I was confused and a little hurt. But nothing made me ready for my next experience. Another one of my NRI (Non-Resident Indian) friends visited my house unexpectedly. I was reading a book when she came in. She looked astounded and said, “You can read?” I was a keen reader and that hurt me greatly. I was nine! Of course I can read! I remember my silent shocked nod clearly. “Do you have books in India?” she asked again. That did it for me. I, being someone with a horrible temper, threw my book at her and ran away. I haven’t looked at her normally to this day.

I used to wonder ‘how?’ How can people see so many things in my home that I can’t see? Am I blind or ridiculously biased? Where is the blindfold that covers my eyes? Where are the covers on my ears that ‘protect’ me? Is my whole life a lie? Is my paradise just a figment of my imagination? A general American views India as a poverty stricken country lacking basic amenities; a country that is only known for its religious and political strikes, rallies and fights. People think that I’m lucky to be in America. I am, don’t get me wrong, but my life isn’t built on the fact that I am in America. I would have still gotten a good education if I was in India. Kerala’s literacy rate is a 99% just like the U.S’. A country doesn’t change anyone’s future. It’s a person’s own management that matters. So why am I lucky? Yes, I get to be part of such a melting pot of ethnicities and be exposed to so many different things. I get to be part of a truly cosmopolitan country and I’m proud of that. But then again, India is a country of many religions like Christianity, Hinduism, Islam, Sikhism and Jainism; religions that make up 25% of the world were originated in India. I’m not saying that poverty is not the main problem in India, I’m not saying that there aren’t any large fights but isn’t there all that in America? Aren’t there homeless people living on the sidewalks of Philadelphia yet aren’t there people who make more than a thousand dollars each day in America? There are in India too. Opportunity is everywhere; it just depends on where you look. Every NRI, per say, shouldn’t go back to India saying, “I don’t need to live in a foreign country. I have opportunities here,” but every Indian should accept the value of their heritage and their culture, and add it on to that of their adopted country. So why can’t they? How do they see all that in their own home? Perspective was the only answer I got.

A 14-year old second generation Malayalee once asked me what I do in India. I was a little confused. I mean, how can I answer that? I “live” in India! So I told him that I do everything I do here. As a reply, he asked me whether I had a computer in India. I did but that was not the point. I spend a lot of time online nowadays but I didn’t in Kerala. His reply to that shocked, and even scared me. “So do you catch bugs for fun?” he had asked sitting on my living room couch. I didn’t punch him in the face right then only because my parents were in sight. That remark to me felt like wounding a deer with a sharp dagger; it pierced through my mind quickly leaving behind a throbbing wound.

Before I knew it, I was living in the Land of Opportunities as though this was always my home. I felt like I could find answers and analyze everything. I thought that if I arrange everything in my head in a systematic way, I can find the answer to how and why. But all around me, I found an uncanny sort of prejudice. I realized that it was the Indians, my neighbors, friends and family, who were ashamed of my paradise. That houseboat in the backwaters of Kochi was just another poor place infested with mosquitoes and bugs. Malayalee children begged their parents to let them go somewhere like Hawaii instead of going to Kerala. Yet Hawaii was almost exactly like Kerala except for the people. There, my NRI friends said, “almost” was the keyword. But why? Again, after trying to analyze it as much as I could, the only answer I received was perspective.

“I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States Of America…” I recite everyday staring hard at the flag of America hanging on my classroom wall. Sometimes, I wonder if I understand the meaning of those words. Recited like a memorized chant, the words blend and rub, wearing each other out. Somehow, every time I say that pledge, I think it’s my responsibility of reminding other NRIs of the pledge they or their parents repeated a long time ago, “India is my country. All Indians are my brothers and sisters. I love my country…” Somehow, I feel like it’s my responsibility to pull them into that houseboat and show them the beauty of the words, “kshyama sundara kera kedara bhoomi...” Perspective is a very important thing but sometimes one perspective hardly shows anything. If only everyone would be willing to understand other perspectives, even my paradise would be a better place.