Shivana Naidoo

Hindu Voice UK, April 2006

The question of whether a person still is an belongs to their country of origin after their family has spent multiple generations away from the 'motherland' is something that a lot of us are going to end up asking ourselves as years pass by. This article presents the feelings of a not second, not third but fifth generation American Indian who went to India for the first time to do some volunteer work. It is re-published here courtesy of Indicorps, an organisation that encourages overseas Indians to actively participate in India's progress.

You look Indian!" She exclaimed in surprise, as I shared a basin with her, washing hands clean before our meal. My worn salwar-kameez outfit and rich brown skin had deceived this IRMA student up until I opened my mouth and revealed my American tongue. I did not realize how good it made me feel. I had succeeded in tricking a native desi into believing that I was one of her own kind. I marveled at how, in America, being mistaken for an Indian, a FOB ("Fresh Off the Boat" Indian) I daresay, would have been an insult. Now it was the biggest compliment I could have ever received.

I did not ever think, in even my wildest dreams, that I would be here in India. Nor probably did my parents, grand parents or great grand parents (5 generations ago) who boarded a British boat off to the uncertain land of Guyana back in 1838. I wonder why they left in the first place. Were they tired of the dusty crowded streets, of dodging camels, street vendors, and cow dung? Were they hungry for something new and different - some white gold, British-promised land, with some sweet plantains on the side? Or were they simply poor, thirsty, and walking barefoot for miles to the shore where a ship awaited to give them something more hopeful than begging for a few paisa? I wonder why they did not return back to India after their 5 years of indentured servitude. Did they learn to love the Amazon rainforest and manatees swimming in black waters? Did they not miss the food and the culture and the chaos? Or did they simply fear the same things that I did? That they were no longer Indian enough to return. That living across the ocean had washed away their essence. A white wolf dressed in brown sheep skin.

Over the past few months I have sang the Indian National Anthem countless number of times. As an American, I cannot help but become a little nostalgic for the country of my birth. After singing Jana Gana Mana for the 12th time, I made the careless comment of telling one of the children, with whom I worked, that I missed 'my country.' Without a moment of hesitation he replied in surprise: "Isn't this your country!?"

India. Is India my country? After nearly 2 hundred years, 2 oceans, 3 continents and thousands of miles of separation from this country, is it still mine? Can one claim a nationality, a civilization, a culture? Does a tree say it belongs to the seed from which it has sprung?

After being welcomed with open arms into the houses of strangers, after being fed ladoos from the hands of widowed older women from Ramapir NoTekro, after being thrown head first into a Navatri Gujarati Garba, I have learned that in India, there is no question about the idea of belonging. Belonging is a given. The people of India come from all walks of culture, religion, and life. The essence that is inside of me is the same as that in the initial seeds of India that were planted on the fertile soil of Guyana. A child still belongs to her mother no matter how old she has grown, how far she has travelled, or how long of a time she has spent separated from her care. After a few months, I have learned that I am still a child of India, and that my mother still recognizes me as her own.

"You look Indian!" She exclaimed in surprise, as I shared a basin with her, washing hands clean before our meal. I dried my hands and smiled at her and replied: "I am Indian."

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