My two months working and living in Delhi, India helped me discern a crucial part of my immigrant identity. Throughout my life, I have been raised with the cultures of both India and America in mind. Going into my summer internship, I felt that I belonged to both worlds and could handle living in India without too much trouble.
Boats rest at a stop within Kerala’s scenic waters.
Upon my arrival, that illusion of belonging rapidly fell away. The sidewalks were packed to the brim with a conglomeration of people and shops. The streets were full of vehicles honking furiously and speeding past one another. The smells were pungent and the air thick and heavy with the blistering heat of the fiery sun. This was not at all what I remembered India to be like, and I saw that I had been heavily sheltered in my early upbringing and subsequent family visits to the country. I had stayed in comfortable homes, gone to the most scenic spots, and had never been exposed to the realities of everyday urban life. The rest of my summer went along with this notion of estrangement. Though I endeavored hard to adjust and came out of the internship satisfied with my overall contribution and growth, I could not shake the sense of alienation. There were always subtle but extremely telling signs of separation. For example, the other American interns, with their light hair and skin, often got long stares from passerby on the street. Meanwhile, I looked just like most of the natives in Delhi- dark haired and brown skinned. Surprisingly, I still got stared down when outside on my own. There was something off in my mannerisms- whether it be my gestures, expressions, or movements- that the locals could pick up on. They could somehow sense that I was not really from India.
Though I would miss my time in Delhi, I was somewhat relieved upon my return to the United States. I was expecting to seamlessly fall back into a world that I thought I certainly belonged in. I started my senior year of college with the usual routine of classes, extracurricular commitments, and sports games. Though I was happy and doing well, I felt oddly disconnected from my American friends. I now sharply discerned all the little influences of India in my daily life. There was the regular and painful longing for some good Indian cuisine (an elusive presence in the standard American college cafeteria). Next came the surprising disappointment in seeing American films without the extravagant dance numbers and melodic tunes that are staples of Indian cinema. Even the eerie emptiness of the large and open American roads irked me, as it was a world away from the narrow, crowded and vibrant frenzy of the Indian streets. These subtle nuances combined to create a strange but definite nostalgia for my country of birth. I saw that even in the United States, I did not belong with certainty- there still was and always will be a part of India deep within me.
A kitchen entrance at one of the SPYM juvenile centers.
These realizations have led me to conclude that the gap between India and the United States is profound, and I will never belong in either world with full certainty. Instead, I exist in the middle, as an immigrant: that is who I am, and I am at peace with it.
