Amer Zafer ’23
American Desi
The word “desi” comes from the ancient Sanskrit language, meaning “country.” Much like the words Latino, Hispanic, and Black, Desi is now used to describe a group of people that identify with a specific race. The word “Desi” is now a loose term for the people in India, Bangladesh, and Pakistan, as well as the rest of the Indian subcontinent and the diaspora around the world. I never really felt a connection with that word as a kid, as I was simply a brown boy growing up in the melting pot of New York City. The subway system fused the cultures all throughout the city, with ideas from countries all across the world. This was what American culture was all about in New York City—my friends and I were first generation children of immigrants from countries all over the world. We were all finding a sense of identity of our American-ness, but our cultures made us blossom with different tones, where we questioned who we were. Was I American or was I just another desi? Was I neither one of them?
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I had not been to India for over ten years.
I remember stepping out of the Emirates Airplane to the fresh scent of Mumbai in the beginning of July. The smell was overwhelming for me. For as long as I could remember, the smell of India was a distant memory, as I’d been only once, when I was six. The memories began to diminish as I grew older, and I slowly forgot about this nostalgic scent. Of course, I would get an occasional reminder every time I entered the Indian supermarkets in Queens, but it was never quite the same.
Ten years later, there I was again, in the city where my mother grew up. I took it all in with a big, deep breath. The smell of Mumbai came with feelings I’d only felt when I was six years old. The smell is difficult to describe; it mimics the aroma of an Indian jewelry store, where the gold is polished to a crisp. Spice and flavor, and the humidity of monsoon season. We landed right in the middle of monsoon season, where the rain pours heavily every day after months of it being completely dry. It was not an ideal time to arrive, but it was the only time my whole family was available to go on this trip, so we didn’t care. We were prepared to navigate the rains of Mumbai with our family in India. Coming back to the country of my heritage made that more special. To me, the air alone seemed to have more history; the land of my ancestors, after a long absence. I was much older now, and I was ready to appreciate everything I would experience for the next 30 days.
As we made our way through the airport, Mumbai looked especially gloomy. I helped my mother gather our belongings from the baggage claim. It was the first time in a long time that I had been around so many Indian people; while that may sound a bit unusual, I was so accustomed to being one of the only “desi” in the room. But now, I could easily blend in with everyone else, without looking like an outcast. Outside I saw my two uncles waiting for us. One teared up upon seeing us. I was now taller than him, and almost a man myself. The meeting was emotional, as none of us truly realized that so much time had passed, and how much had occurred in the ten years we had been gone. Wiping tears away, we loaded the car and began driving back to our home town of Thane, a small city outside of Mumbai. I was still jetlagged from the eighteen-hour flight, but somehow I managed to stay awake and admire the sights while driving by during the thirty-minute drive. India is indeed a very crowded place, and I found it to be very beautiful, and much like New York City— millions of people living, breathing, and living busy and vivid lives against the backdrop of a historical city. The small food vendors, the rickshaws zooming by, and even the random cows on the street; there was something going on in every direction you looked. Perhaps that was why I was able to fall in love with that city so easily, you could never be bored in an area so full of culture and with so many stories to tell.
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I never realized how absorbed I was within American culture until I arrived in India that summer. I listened to Hip-Hop, dressed in streetwear, and did not uphold cultural traditions as much as I should have. I feared I’d become “whitewashed”, a phrase used by many to describe a first generation child who has lost touch with their cultural identity. Maybe it was half true, and I was ignoring a significant part of who I was. I realized that in order to grow, I had to let India inside of my heart.
The thirty days I spent in India in the middle of my sixteenth year of life truly humbled me. I woke up to dozens of mosquitos every morning, and walked in the pouring monsoon rain in order to get breakfast. My great aunt offered me a hot cup of chai and freshly made Indian bread, known as chapati, with an omelette every morning. It was a very modern version of a classic Indian meal, made for a more westernized generation. It was interesting to see how Indian culture had become such a hybrid between American and Indian ideologies and traditions, and how things have changed since the last time I was there. I was used to stop signs and traffic lights back in New York City, where that system seemed to work flawlessly. In India, overpopulation has caused traffic to be intense, and most streets lack traffic lights, which made walking in town pretty hectic, to say the least. In spite of all that, we managed to endure the large crowds, the cows, and the lack of space in order to see the country. The street food was absolutely beautiful, made in the daily heat of a busy Indian sidewalk everyday. The flour, vegetables, and spices all mixed and combined in a blanket of centuries worth of Indian history. Pani Puri is a common Indian snack, as the fresh chips with flavored water either met you with sweetness or intense spice. Some streets were so locally popular for their street food, traffic would often come to a halt until the drivers would get some food. Even the McDonald’s in India is a combination of the regular American cuisine with Indian culture, with items such as “Maharaja Mac” (King Mac, or the Big Mac). That was one of the small things I fell in love with while I was in India, to see how a culture changes, over years—to see a culture seemingly absorbed inside of itself integrate westward notions and reassert itself in a new way.
In America, where the combined cultures are mixed and complex, it is so very different than India. The culture in India has taught me how to perceive my own identity, how I should combine the innate Indian aspects about myself and the culture where I’ve absorbed American traits. Instead of choosing one or the other, I should accept both and create something unique from it, much like the food I ate in India.It sounds silly, but I imagined myself like my own version of an Indian McDonald’s—American made, yet everything about me had the accents and outlines of Indian culture. Growing up is perhaps about not choosing either American culture or Indian culture, but rather accepting and learning ways to combine these two ideas and seeing how they can coexist inside of me.
Visiting the places of poverty in India opened my eyes to the life my parents had worked so hard to give me. I was driving towards my father’s childhood village in the countryside for five hours, looking for a small settlement that was located in the middle of nowhere. Looking out the passenger side window, I saw miles of rice fields and the workers who tended them. Many of them resembled what my father looked like when he was young. The sun beat down as they continued their labor for the day. Men and women wore worn clothing with holes, and children ran around in the mud with no shoes on. This sight was enough to move me, as I realized how privileged I was to grow up in my neighborhood in Queens. It was also another thing to recognize the conditions where my parents grew up, as I finally realized the life they had gifted me. My father moved from a rice farm in the middle of the vast countryside in India, and through what seemed to be like magic and a little bit of luck, he ended up in the global capital of the world, New York City. He did not know much, and like my mother, he only knew how to work hard. That is what all it took to make it, and that idea brought me to tears.
On my last night in India, my uncle took me on a late night ride on his motorcycle, where we cruised the local streets of Mumbai. I sat behind him as he sped through the streets, passing by the town. I closed my eyes and I bathed underneath this vibrant Mumbai moonlight. I enjoyed my time in India, and spending time with other Indians. I realized that growing up, that was a feeling I never really appreciated. I was glad to connect to it again, and it helped me embrace my culture. As we continued our ride, I realized I would miss the smell. I took a deep breath. I left for New York the next day. I knew the next time I visited India, that comforting smell would be there, as would stories to tell, food to eat, and lessons to learn.
I learned to love being an American Desi.