I am 10 and I am smiling uneasily as they point at
my forehead and laugh, their stares pinning
me to the ground and wiping my pride in
being an Indian right off my face.
I do not wear bindis out in public anymore.
I get angry at my mother when she asks why.
I am 13 and I am out with my parents after going
to the temple; I’m wearing a pavadai, something
that my grandma and mum - no, my amma -
picked out for me with love and care. When
I stumble across my friend, the look in her eyes
when she sees what I am wearing makes me want
to tear it right off. When I get home, I do.
It is only the beginning, you see. You, white skin,
pale girl, narrow nose, hair straight and soft
as spin silver. Me, dark skin, dark eyes, hair wild
and wavy and unruly. Me, with a culture that chokes
me daily because of you.
You laughed at me, white girl. You mocked me, spat
at me, looked at me with contempt and scorn. You
thought my bindi was a joke. You thought my gods
were a joke. You thought my traditions and symbols
and religion were jokes.
5 years on and you, white girl, are wearing coloured
plastic bindis sold in Urban Outfitters. You have an
Om tattooed on your ankle, never mind how
much of a religious symbol it is to us. You have
Ganesha’s face on your shirts.
You reach out, white girl, (your hands give me
nightmares; they have taken my identity right
from under my feet) and call my deities
mythological figures, you say myths are
just a word, you’re reducing them to stories,
you’re justifying what you do and all I can do is
sit here and watch because
THAT IS WHAT I HAVE DONE ALL MY LIFE.
Because this is just another step in a war that
I was in before I even knew how to fight.
You, white skin, white girl, able to wear my culture
like a second skin without worrying about
its consequences - why not wear my skin, too?
Wear my brown. Wear my shame at your laughter.
Wear my disgust with myself, with my curry
smell, with my mehndi.
Wear my annoyance when someone asks me if I
speak Indian - as if a country with over 200
LANGUAGES can be simplified to Indian.
As if anything about my country is simple.
Precisely 780 languages, more than 2000 dialects and 86 different scripts... No nothing is simple about my country, Jaan .. Or the country right beside mine, Pakistan. We might have two different names .. but all of us and our mothers and grandmothers wear their bindi proudly .. The married woman wear it as a symbol of their marriage every day ... we girls wear it to honor the elders and the traditions and culture we are brought up in .. they come in different shapes and designs .. they match out clothes .. our salwaar-kameez and lehenga and saree .. Because they are forever incomplete without the bindi on our forehead or the ones beside our eyes and on our chins.
Nothing about our countries is simple -- not even the design of our basic mehendi patterns and the various rich and homegrown spices in our karee and paneer/chicken tikka ..