Diddler-fiddler, Diaspora-ducker

Ever been snubbed by fellow-desis at a local shopping mall, restaurant, gym, or even in the modest corner of your neighborhood elevator? I have often wondered, like you, why anyone should ever cold-shoulder anyone, and with desis in particular, why an element of superiority interferes, when in essence, at some level or another, we’re all seeking that wee shred of familiarity or a sense of a shared heritage.

Although, I must say, if it weren’t for my own attempts at being amicable and striving to break the ice at awkward “I’d-never-talk-to-YOU-at-a-Mc D’s-even-if-it-were-in-Timbuktu” instances, I’d have been at the receiving end of such rebuffs more often than you’d imagine. The great American hamburger and fries combo meal doesn’t, as it were, bring vegetarian, lard-conscious desis together. They’re more ashamed to admit their qualms and fears about meat and animal fat in front of their indigenous comrades than their (in some cases, far-fetched) friends across Yanksville.

Of course, there is a thin line between ignoring someone and shaming them, and it’s only reasonable that despite sharing common ground, all desis have the right to express their culture in forms they deem suitable. However, in a land where we make close to 1% of the millions of American populace, it is not unreasonable to expect a show of solidarity, if little.

I live amid an ocean of desis in an already desi-dominated Chicago, and every day is a new learning experience. There are incidents that remind me time and again that more than being bound by nationalism, it is where we are, to be able to uncover or recognize that bond that is more important. For instance, when I take my little one to a tots’ fun time session, I am forced to turn away when the desi moms start crooning out in their cheery voices, “Chubby cheeks…teacher’s pet…very fair…” - a rhyme like that could be veto-ed for the politically incorrect nature of its possible connotations in an actual American toddler group setting. Yet, blissfully unaware of this, the show goes on, and I cringe, feeling inflicted with a tinge of violation. So, I wonder, is this about trying to “fit in” or just trying to do be fair and fine given the time and place we are in?

And then there are times when I find myself exhibiting typical Indian sentimentalism, when my attempts of greeting or even recognizing the presence of a desi go unnoticed. That’s not to say I’m customarily on a befriend-everyone-spree; but I like to socialize and schmooze and on occasion, study incongruity when it’s around. And let’s get real - I do like the little thrills of synchronized eye-brow-raising that comes from just being with another normal desi woman when the lady at the American spa refuses to crank up the heat, leaving our feet to soak in tepid (or, to use an Indianism, “mild”) water. Or the way in which, when dining out at Indian restaurants with our American buddies, the mention of “tandoori” elicits a peculiar manner of attuned head-bobbing and shrugging from the desi waitresses as they lock their eyes with ours.

Does it mean that I don’t really conform to the white preferences and proclivities I have acquired and flaunted over the years of living here? Or that I weep and wail when a desi woman looks right through me in a public place? No, certainly not. But that’s not to say I don’t enjoy a little gloating when my Indianness is discerned and validated through lesser-known or even humdrum social touchstones that are unique to desis alone. And it certainly bothers me when fellow-desis fail to accede our very rich, common background, and say, would rather hit the treadmill than do yoga.

And well, I’m immensely annoyed when fellow-desis skip the Hindi phonemes and rattle off hurriedly in an inevitable Apu-esque tone while conversing with a Hindi-speaking desi cabbie or vendor, just because an American is in line behind them.