From shame to acceptance

The Indianness in me

As a child, I hated being called an Indian. I shamed and laughed at Indian accents and jokes and would find people wearing kurtas and oiled hair on the street extremely unappealing. I hated oiling my hair, and would only let mum oil them when I knew I would wash them. It didn’t help that when I didn’t care about my appearance much or wore an unattractive scarf, I would be referred to as “Bhenji” - which I am not sure what it means but I think it means to look like someone from the village. Another name that I have heard super degradingly has been “bhadala”, also no idea where it comes from but was always used for unattractive looks. I remember being told that once when I wore my favourite dress, made of knitted wool in multi-colours.

I grew up with the idea that being Indian was bad, backward and unattractive. I lived in Dubai for seven years as an adult, which didn’t help my identity. I remember being offended when called an Indian. I also think it spills over to the fact that my mum, although born in Tanzania, had lived her young age in India and was always bullied by being called “an Indian.” (and the people bullying her, like my aunts, were of the same ethnicity).

Years later, when I was living alone in a tiny little house in the streets of Namanga, Dar-es-Salaam, my landlady asked me when I was leaving for India. It triggered me so much and I was extremely offended. I almost screamed and defended myself as how Tanzanian I was. At that moment in my life I was questioning my identity to a huge extent. Who am I? Where do I belong? What culture do I connect more to? What is comfort food for me like? There were a lot of questions and no answers.

Travelling in India for more than a year taught me otherwise. I fell in love, with a person and a few places. I fell in love with more people and the circle I formed. I assimilated and I did not want to come back! But I had to. Life teaches us in very funny ways.

My identity now feels stronger. I am a Tanzanian of Indian Origin. I have no shame in telling my Tanzanian friends, “I am muhindi” because I literally am! I love kitumbuas and kitenges, and I also absolutely love dosas and wearing saris.

But a real change has come, from within. I felt this when I noticed an Indian woman on the local bus recently. She was dressed in a very beautiful simple kurta, her hair oiled and back, tiny gold jewellery, a nose ring and a bindi (the red dot on the forehead). I noticed her and thought of how beautiful she was. I noticed and thought of how long and black her hair was. I noticed that she was dressed like the kind of woman we would make fun of as a child, but I now see the beauty.

I am proud of my growth and I am proud of all the different cultures I come from.