Desi Manifesto Blog: The Forum for South Asian American Men

[Blogger: S.I.] Why does the old man hate me?

That’s what I wonder every day after work, as I drive out of the commercial parking structure where my employer has rented spaces.

Sure, I’m not part of the normal garage clientèle. But he should appreciate that. Regular patrons take a ticket as they enter the facility, park while they shop, eat, and the like. And upon exit, they hand Garage Uncle their validated ticket, or they pay up. He presses a few keys on his computer, processes the transaction, and raises the traffic arm, allowing the customer to exit. That’s a simple process on its own, but tedious when you have to repeat it hundreds of times a day.

So how am I the bad guy? I have a permanent pass, so he never has to deal with a ticket from me. I’m in and out. He doesn’t even have to move. No transactions, no processing, no change.

And no love. So Cal can be a cold place under the right conditions.

Our “friendship,” if you can call it that, started months ago, when I first received my permanent pass and gained eligibility for the reserved spots. After a day of hard work, I neared the garage exit in my eyesore of a corroded ride, likely invading his otherwise undisturbed gaze. Garage Uncle’s brow furrowed, the red kumkum bindi losing its shape and caked dust loosening from its slumber. Likely, he assumed I was black or Latino. I’m not saying it’s right, but I am assuming that was his thought process.

He leaned forward to snatch my ticket. The stink eye he leveled at me through his thick spectacles changed to one of grudging curiosity as he realized my true roots. No doubt, he observed that I hadn’t shaved in weeks. I nodded more than politely. A fellow Indian, especially one who oversees the place where you park your car, is the kind of friend I wanted to have.

He returned my gesture with the faintest hint of motion. Did I see his head move? No? Upon seeing my permanent pass, he retracted his hand. I think he was upset that I’d allowed him to waste even that much effort. With other cars behind me, I knew I’d have to fight this battle another day. And I exited, sans a few brownie points.

In the few weeks that passed, I made it a point to issue Garage Uncle a courteous half-Indian nod (I’d just swing my head to the right without bringing it back left). I ensured my parking pass was out my window at the ready, saving him the single calorie he’d waste extending his arm. And I was sure to acknowledge him like an obedient nephew. This guy should like me, I’m a good kid. Moreover, didn’t he have to like me? I was the only other Indian who parked in this place.

Garage Uncle had no such obligation. To return my greetings, he moved his head in a perfectly straight vertical motion. I would have called it a nod if it had exceeded more than two inches in length. But not one salt-and-pepper hair on his perfectly side-parted mane moved. So I did not.

A month later, the realities of our emotionally vapid pairing hit me. Why, he treated me like we were complete strangers, like our friendship was nothing more than a business transaction. Or worse. Because I didn’t even have to pay. And the rate my company pays to hold my spot likely doesn’t compare to what the garage would make if I were a fresh customer each day. But, it takes two people, and I decided I’d be the bigger one. I’d be the Vishnu to his Shiva. I needed to preserve the bond that blinked and faded like a holograph of a nationalistic connection, the link he so ably sought to destroy time and time again.

So in mid-August, I rolled up to his booth a bit slower than usual. I lingered, not swiping my pass by the electronic reader immediately, potentially drawing his ire. No matter. Because we’d be fast friends when I said my piece. Finally, he rotated his head three degrees to the left, and that was good enough for me:

Me: “…Happy Independence Day.”

Garage Uncle: “……”

Then, he nodded (fully!) and very nearly cracked a smile. Pleased, I waved as I drove away. Impulsive, presumptuous, liberating. I’d finally made a breakthrough.

And I think that’s where I lost him.

From that point on, he became the only Indian uncle to NOT stare at every car and every passenger that went by. At least, he never looked in my general direction again. Where did it go wrong for us, Garage Uncle? He’d stare at a book. At his screen. Even straight ahead so that I existed only in his most peripheral of vision. The traffic arm raised, and cars idled behind me, their exit hinging on my timely escape, and the crafty old man knew it was too late for me to nod and expect one in return.

I was out of the family that never was.

A chance glance was rare after that. Maybe he changed shifts. Possibly because of me. The uncle that could have been, nearer in physical proximity than any real uncle of mine, yet at this point, farther away than my actual non-garage family in India.

The questions I had for myself were numerous. Why was it so important to me that this guy like me? I wouldn’t care if he were a dude my age. I wouldn’t care if he were a kid. I wouldn’t even care if it were a hot Indian girl. Wouldn’t care as much.

I think somewhere in my brain, an older Indian national represents India herself. Like my parents, someone like him is the closest I have to the motherland, and by extension, the history and the culture. Except he’s not required to like me.

He doesn’t know the intricacies of my knowledge. For better or worse, he judges me by what he sees on the surface: that I am brown, that I drive a shitty car, and that I know when India’s Independence Day is. Why wasn’t this good enough? Or, why wasn’t this “Indian” enough?

I know I’m Indian. By my own standards, I easily make the cut, with knowledge of the culture, history, languages, and religion. That and how sellout-averse I am in speech and in deed put me over the top. But even in my own mind, my definition is more Indian American. It struggles to compare to a real FOB’s perspective. And I suppose the ultimate test for me is acceptance by Americans, by Indo Americans like myself, and by those born in the motherland. Once I pass muster with all three, I know I’ve hit the balance that many of us struggle to achieve.

But is it reasonable to seek approval from anyone simply because he was born in India? We don’t do that with Americans or even other US desis. For all I know, Garage Uncle doesn’t even care what ethnicity I am. Maybe he’s free thinking enough that being Indian alone doesn’t qualify me for better rates and the family discount. Maybe he evaluates everyone person-by-person. Maybe he’s shy. Maybe he doesn’t like customer interaction (though if that were true, why did he never tell me to “Have a nice day” like he did the mini-van driving soccer moms?). Maybe he’s elitist and doesn’t like people who drive broke ass cars. What about me elicits such a reaction (or lack thereof)?

Then, something smacks me upside the skull. I imagine this guy in India. Would he be friendly? Jovial? Warm? Withdrawn? Selfish? Snobby and aloof? Would he be Garage Uncle everywhere, at home, abroad, and on the plane in between?

Because maybe I’m Indian enough that he treats me just like every other brown man in the motherland.

And that’s the best compliment Garage Uncle’s ever given me.