Desi Manifesto Blog: The Forum for South Asian American Men

Soon, I’ll look like this, only darker. Thanks, Culturopedia.com.

[Blogger: S.I.] I have become the common man’s compendium to India. I am a professor, pocket lexicon, concierge, and Lonely Planet guide. And, like any good coolie, it is a burden that I embrace with open arms, toothless smile, and shoulders yearning for yet more cultural baggage.

I realized this the other day, and I wondered, despite my unwillingness to be “that guy,” how did this happen?
Perhaps my apprehension stemmed from my mom’s didactic nature (as she is apt to remind me every day of my life, she’s a physician and professor at a well-known institution). Whenever she mingled with non-Indos, the conversation would inevitably turn towards something about India.

As a little kid, I observed her at parties, sharing the wealth of how a certain spice in the finger foods reminded her of a dish her mother made. Except in India, these spices are much more fragrant and flavorful. Or how we understand the plight of minority ethnic groups, because the British owned our country until 1947. Yes, both black American and white American with Irish roots, it’s true, and that means we have more in common than you’d think. Are we talking about art? Alternative medicine? Religion? If you have a topic unrelated to sports, my mom can tell you about India.

I knew my Mom meant well, but I couldn’t stand how guests became passive audience members. So I made a mental note: I was never going to harangue my company with tales from the mother land. And for years, I kept the Indocentric dialogue to a minimum. Until the audience found me.

Since my exit from college, I spend a lot more time around a less diverse crowd. My bosses and co-workers (white—I know, shocking), neighbors, friends of my new friends, etc. This new crowd of people is distinctly unaffected by the “PC to a fault” trend at many liberal arts colleges (not that those people are more racially aware, they’re just better at hiding it on the outside), and unlike college, they did not have forced exposure to Indos. With this crowd comes the assumption that the brown guy knows everything about the Brown land, the Brown people, and the religion of Brownism. So, while it’s not my official job title, and I certainly don’t get paid extra for it, I find that my second job is as a cultural liaison.

If someone wants to eat at an Indian restaurant, I’m Zagat. If someone’s looking for a yoga recommendation, call me Bikram, and do I know of any good places (no, I don’t, but I want to try it sometime)? I’m also the Ebert of Bollywood as well as president of the Kal Penn fan club. And if people recently ate Indian food, they often envision that I can identify what they consumed with descriptions that include “spicy,” “orange,” “chewy but not meat,” and “potato.”

At first, I found this to be an unwelcome intrusion. I didn’t want to be the gateway to India or anyone’s cultural quota for the month. And just because something was Indian didn’t mean that I liked it. And though I couldn’t say it, I wished people would stop asking me. Or so I thought.

A few days back, I had lunch with my bosses at an Indian restaurant, illuminating both the dishes and traditions. And as I brazenly devoured my Mysore masala dosa by hand, disregarding Western manners, I found my bosses asking about Indian languages, and I divulged the whole Aryan Invasion theory. Upon reflection, I came to the realization that 1) I’m old like my mom, and 2) after all this time, I’ve come to enjoy my role as the Indian diplomat.

I appreciate the masses assuming I possess a scant bit of knowledge about the lives of mud people and asking me any questions they have, from insightful to daft. What’s the alternative? Imagining I don’t know anything or am too afraid to discuss what makes me “different?” Should I be embarrassed about it?

How would I rather have folks getting their info? From half-baked burnouts updating wikipedia? From callous articles on the “Odd News” section of major news providers? From the sensationalistic reporting that’s common these days? Do stories about men marrying dogs do a better job than I would?

Does it make sense to get mad at people who don’t understand the culture, especially when they’re trying to learn? Or should I scorn their ignorance, thereby isolating myself and making my roots even less accessible and harder to understand, in effect saying “I have WMDs” for any frightened “patriot”?

Or would I rather people be content with their ignorance, so sure in its validity that they never question it, ranking it with gravity, the sunrise, death, and taxes?

I’d rather have people asking potentially dumb questions over believing dumber assumptions. The latter is much more dangerous for everyone. And this way, I get to enlighten people on my terms, my way.

While it may be the brown man’s burden, it’s one we sign up for when we wish people understood us. First, we have to do some understanding of our own, even if it’s to fathom how other people can make such bold, and incorrect, conjectures about us. We often do the same, and this street goes two ways.

So, I am the best Indopedia I can be. And, always the good coolie, I’ll accept the miniscule glint of edification in people’s smiles and the fading xenophobia in their nodding heads as a tip.