“Try what?”
“To be Indian.”
“I don’t try to be Indian. IamIndian.”
Priti’s eyes turn dark. “Wearing a saree for prom or posting about your Desi identity for brownie points doesn’t make you one of us. It just makes you a wannabe.”
I shrink back like I’ve been struck across my face. Those tears teetering at the edge of my eyelids finally slip out and roll down my cheeks. I’m stunned more than hurt. The headlamps of passing vehicles become muddy puddles of light. I don’t know why I’m crying. All I know is Priti is standing in front of me, Rudra too, and both are looking at me while I’m crying, and that is humiliating.
“That’s enough,” Rudra says, suddenly and sharply. He shakes his head at Priti. “Too far, Priti.”
“Why me?Sheis the one who started making a big deal of nothing.”
“That wasn’t cool,” Rudra says, sounding firmer than I’d ever imagined him being. “Get in the car. Front seat. You’re navigating.”
“No.”
“I didn’t ask you. Don’t forget it’smycar, andI’mdriving, and Ican drop both of you back in Mulund right now.”
Priti stares at him in disbelief for three whole seconds before turning on her heel and stomping to the car. At first, I think she’s going to slam the door after she sits inside, but she doesn’t.
Rudra starts walking toward the tuck shop, and after a moment’s hesitation, I follow him, my head swirling with a torrent of emotions.
I am furious with Priti, but more so with myself for crying in front of the two of them, because the only thing that managed to do was satiate Priti’s malice. Her words keep echoing in my head no matter how hard I try to drown them out as I look through all the snacks on the shelves.
Priti pricked a sore point for me. The rational part of me knows she was wrong and just being nasty to hurt me, but it still stings.
Wearing a saree for prom or posting about your Desi identity for brownie points doesn’t make you one of us. It just makes you a wannabe.
I did both of those things. And the way she said it... it makes me feel so small.
When I first moved to America, I faced my share of bullying for being too brown, too modest, too Indian. But then, in high school, it becamecoolto be Indian. It became cool to wear sarees for prom, wear jhumkas in place of hoops, throw Holi parties instead of Halloween parties, and bring lunch boxes full of homemade Indian snacks and delicacies to school.
I can’t remember the exact moment the switch happened, but suddenly, my classmates were fawning over the intricate embroidery of the kurtas I wore over jeans, voicing how wearing a bindi brought out the brown of my eyes, and in general swooning at the “exoticism” of it all. And perhaps I was finally beginning to realize that embracing the culture I’d been trying so hard to leave behind in India was thein thingnow.
Is it wrong that I started to appreciate my Desiness only when it was convenient, instead of having embraced it all along? Would it be better to never have embraced it at all?
“Here,” Rudra says, handing me a packet of wet wipes. I blink, staring down at it. I was so lost in my thoughts I didn’t realize he asked the shopkeeper for it.
“Th-thank you,” I stutter. He stares at my hand as I rip the plastic off the package. When he notices me looking, his gaze darts away,
“Do you want anything else?” he asks gently.
I look around at the shop. “I’ll have a Frooti, I think.” The shopkeeper hands me a small bottle of cold Frooti. After I pay, we walk back to his car. “I appreciate you stepping in for me. I didn’t expect you to,” I say.
Rudra shrugs. “She didn’t mean it, though, you know? She doesn’t think any of that.”
“I know. She’s not dense. The opposite, in fact, which is why she knew if she said that, it would hurt me most.” I turn to him as we reach the car, letting the cold of the bottle soak into my palms. “I don’t blame her. I’m pretty sure everyone feels the same way about diaspora folk. Even you.”
Rudra pauses with his hand on the door handle. He appears to hesitate for a moment. “I don’t want to lie. Ididthink of you as a spoiled American kid. But you’re not. Not that my opinion matters.”
I smile. “It doesn’t, but thanks nonetheless.”
“And for the record,” he adds, “I don’t think you try hard to be Indian or any of that.” That almost shyness I saw earlier skates across his face, coloring his cheeks. “Your Indo-western style’s pretty dope.”
“Thank you,” I say, and bite my lip. Did Rudra Desai just... compliment me? “Your style’spretty dopetoo.” A small laugh escapes me.
Now,whywould you say that?!
