⋆ Second Gen Desi ⋆

Reading Time: 13 minutes

Most people are familiar with America, but if you drop California, there really is no need to worry about being too specific.

Hollywood. Santa Monica. The Golden Gate Bridge. Yosemite. Lake Tahoe. UC Berkeley. Stanford. UCLA. Disneyland. Malibu...

Some people dream that one day, they would be lucky enough just to set foot in one of these over-hyped locales. But me? Not so much…

Despite spending 15 years growing up right in the middle of Sacramento and the Bay Area, going to school at a UC, and pursuing a PhD in the City of Angels—living smack dab in downtown LA even, for 2 out of the 5 years I called La-La Land home—I was Cali’d-out!

Don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t have wished for any other kind of location for my childhood and adolescent upbringing. Every single situation, obstacle, and opportunity I was in, faced, or received was because of my life in Cali.

But having lived in the Golden State since I was 7—all the way through 27—I was itching for a change.

No, dying for one.

Circa 2000. Sis and I having fun in the Cali sun. We moved into a new development, supposedly near a really good school district 😂

While Cali did give me quality friendships that have lasted many moons (yes, the number of solid friendships I have I can count on one hand) and access to a top-notch education (if you were to ask my Dad, haha), there were plenty of things it didn’t provide me with, like:

✶ a sense of community – despite the sunshine, most people in Cali I’ve come across are cold compared to other places…

✶ memorable adolescent experiences – I never had those nights in high school where I snuck out, or those “I-got-wasted” college outings…

✶ a strong connection to my cultural roots – we lived nowhere near extended family. Our life at home was rocky with my Mom’s mental health, so we rarely had guests over…

✶ a sense of home – I lived in Nor Cal. I lived in Los Angeles. It was comfortable, and it was what I knew, but never did it ever feel like home…

One could argue that this isn’t California’s fault—just the luck of my circumstances and the people I ended up interacting with, but being in California certainly didn’t help 😅.

I naively thought I would be leaving California on my terms, but the coronavirus pandemic had other plans. After leaving SoCal in late March 2020 with a bitter heart, and spending almost 3 months recovering from the vitriol of the world in the comforts of Tulsa, I did end up coming back to ‘home that never felt like home‘ for a little less than a week.

So I was able to say good-bye, but in a way that I never imagined.

The real reason I came back to SoCal before leaving for Milan was bureaucratic. I had to go in person to pick up my work visa, because despite being 2020, some things still haven’t caught up with the times—especially if it concerns governments 🙄.

I also had to reunite with my household items, clothes, and car I left with a dear friend, J, who lives in West Covina. So along with settling documents for my trans-Atlantic move, I also needed to figure out what exactly I was bringing with me on this move.

Definitely no the car, so selling it was an urgent matter on my to-do list.

My first “day” back was actually a Monday evening after a harrowing American Airlines experience where social distancing protocol was thrown out the window 🙄. Despite having to spend $60 on a Lyft to get from LAX to West Covina, and dealing with a bitchy case of hanger, I was able to check-in to a cozy Airbnb guest suite (very cozy, I mean, literally fit for just ONE person) after fetching my car from J’s house and chatting with him and his wife for a bit. I was extremely exhausted when I arrived, as I had to unload three large suitcases and multiple loose boxes packed with things I had no time to properly organize when I was fleeing Cruella’s place at the end of March…needless to say, I fell asleep very quickly that night, even if I was staying in a guest suite meant for a barn mouse 😂.

Tuesday brought with it a packed morning. I had my visa appointment allllll the way in Century City, and so I left bright and early to make sure I could avoid any issues.

I arrived at 8am in desperate need of coffee, and I was not too enthusiastic about paying for parking before paying for a cuppa. The visa process was not bad, but definitely a time sucker. Only two women were working at the time, and I was the only “guest” there. Using the guise of “COVID”, I found the policy to enter the tiny visa office to be more ridiculous to me than usual. I mean, walking through an archway metal detector just to pick up a piece of paper? 🙄

After shelling out $30 bucks for parking and leaving 1.5hrs later, I managed to get back on the road towards DTLA and came face-to-face with traffic, of course. I got in touch with my friends J and P (one of my closest colleagues even though she was technically a Business Admin), since I had plans to meet with them both for lunch, like the good old days.

Back when I was a PhD student running around in a fervor, my lunches with P and J would be a somewhat constant in my busy days. P often craved for fast food on Figueroa, while I’d pick up something from Trader Joe’s nearby. We’d then either eat inside the fast food place of P’s choice, or “out at the tables”. The latter was my favorite, since it was at a sheltered corner of campus not too far from my lab building, with wooden picnic tables underneath shade from plenty of trees.

Our lunch meetup was a long one, but I tried to savor every minute. It was definitely the last time I’d be seeing P, since I had plans to have dinner with J and his wife later in the week. The three of us were able to enjoy a nice lunch at our ol’ spot, even though the environment around us was chillingly quiet—sure, the campus was usually quiet during the summer, but adding COVID into the mix made things feel a little more eerie…

After lunch, it took me about an hour to return to West Covina. I had an itch to go for an evening run, and wanted to see if my foot—recently recovered from an Achilles’ problem—could handle running up some East LA hills while it was possible. I also wanted to see if I could hit my highest mileage in months (40 miles) before getting aboard a plane a week later!

So, I ended up going for the run. I decided to run up some steep hills, and was met with some fantastic views. Little did I know that my decision to run in a large circle around the neighborhood versus my usual “out-and-back” routine would lead to something else.

A guy in a car at a stoplight to be exact.

In the past, I would have completely ignored any man calling me over from a car, and I would have been annoyed out of my mind by their advances, but with everything about to change in my life, I decided to play into my vulnerability.

After taking out my earbuds, I realized that the guy was wondering if I was running track at the local college.

He was “inspired”. He wanted a running buddy.

If that was what he really wanted, then I didn’t see an issue with exchanging numbers and meeting at a local, public park the next day for a run together. I’ve always preferred running with company, so I had no problems.

I had no fear either, but I stayed cautious.

After my run, I drove to Sprouts to buy a few groceries and dinner for the night. My phone was bombarded with texts I wasn’t so sure to be flattered or insulted by:

You’re so pretty. You’re Indian? I love Indian women. You’re 27? I knew it. You have such a great body…

But since I was trying something new—giving people the benefit of the doubt—I didn’t want to think too much of the situation. Instead, that evening I had a nice, warm vegan mean with a side of kombucha, a hot shower, and fell asleep in a great slumber.

The next day was Wednesday, meaning running around to attend to more errands and doubting my plans to meet up with the “Running Guy” multiple times during the day. J recommended we run near Cortez Park, after I asked where would be a “safe”, public place to run.

And being the person that I am, I went out for a mid-day run in the scorching heat to get used to the neighborhood near and around Cortez Park.

Stop to smell the gorgeous Californian flowers.

I finished five miles during that session, and later in the day, messaged Running Guy to confirm our meeting point. He suggested that we meet at Shadow Oak Park after I brought up Cortez, and I didn’t feel so sure until after confirming with J that it was indeed “safe” as well.

I soon learned that Shadow Oak Park was made for plenty of people to enjoy in broad daylight—especially the views of the great beyond from lil ol’ East LA:

When Running Guy finally arrived, I told him I was planning to finish up the day with 4 miles during this session, bringing my total for the day to 9 miles. The descent was no problem, but 2 miles back up hills was troublesome for me. I kept pushing myself by repeating over and over that this hill work would pay off…eventually.

Running Guy however, was pooped. He said so at the beginning that he was not a runner at all, but wanted to “get in shape”, despite playing other sports like basketball.

When we finished the run, we chatted for a bit and all seemed normal. He seemed disappointed by the fact that my time in Cali was temporary, even though I told him the day before that I was only here for a week. Despite telling me to “drive safe” as we walked over to our individual cars, I’m not so sure his following actions were supportive of that…

As I started driving away from the park, my phone began to buzz. I had a weird feeling in my stomach, and I wasn’t so sure about glancing over to see who it was, even though I fully knew.

When I had a chance to park, things got creepy…

No, I think it’s just you that’s “curious” 🙄

As soon as he had the nerve to invite himself over to my Airbnb, I knew this situation was ridiculous. Even though I had done nothing wrong however, I still felt a tinge of guilt. But why?

Perhaps it was because the first time I met a guy under a slightly flirtatious context. I felt embarrassed, but there was no reason for me to be. I called up one of my more “experienced” friends, and she gave her two cents plus some.

I felt better after confiding with her over the phone, but I still felt violated in a way. Maybe it was the onslaught of text messages coming in all at once, or the idea that perhaps he was a guy who wasn’t forthright with his intentions from the start.

I’ve told the story to a few more of my friends, all with different reactions. Some laughed at the fact that I would agree to meet a stranger within 24 hours to go running, others reprimanded me (as if they were my mother 🙄), saying I shouldn’t trust guys at all.

I listened to their words and let them flow in one ear and out the other, because their opinions really had no influence over me at this point in my life. This was an experience that I went through involving social interaction, personality dynamics, and body language, and to be honest, it felt like a warm-up lesson for what could await me in Italy 😜.

Thursday morning definitely felt weird after the situation that took place the night before. Fortunately, I had a cleaning scheduled for the car in Azusa, so it would get me out of the WeCo area. I shouldn’t have allowed the situation with Mr. Creep influence my choice about not running that morning in the neighborhood, but I didn’t want to take my chances. I convinced myself that running in Azusa while the car was getting taken care of was a good use of time (they had the car for an hour and a half) and I would be able to run in a new-to-me area.

The gray, cloudy skies seemed a little depressing for mid-June, but I loved it. The humidity was still atrocious, but I’m a sucker for a dark, foggy sky.

The car was ready after two hours, so I immediately picked up lunch and fell asleep in a nice nap once I got back (to my temporary) home. When I woke up, I had a hankering for vegan diner food, and knew that I should seize the moment now, because who knew what Milan had to offer in that category?

I was able to take the car out to the local Covina Tasty, where I “treated” myself to a veggie burger and a vanilla soft serve with butterscotch topping—the kind that hardens into a shell 😝.

Not sure if my nostalgia for childhood summer days in NorCal or more-recent memories of hopping around to a new restaurant every weekend in LA for the past five years made me push to get such a simple meal, but it was just what I needed that evening.

On Friday, I wanted to venture out of WeCo again, this time going to Alhambra. Back in my first year of my PhD training, a number of my classmates lived in Alhambra due to it’s affordability, safety factor, and vicinity to campus. I was more enthralled by the bright lights of the deep city, so I never gave cities like Alhambra a chance.

But running here on Friday made me feel nostalgic for those times six years ago…despite the battles I was internally struggling with at the time, I remember the people I met and the activities I participated in fondly.

My run through Alhambra was a quiet one, but seemed oddly empty on the streets because of the extended, semi-stay-at-home order situation. After my run, I walked around the park where I started and watched some of the wildlife (ducks, haha) before driving off for a refreshing treat.

My destination of choice was a corgi-themed cafe called Cafe Der. I would have calculated my steps regarding pictures, what to order, and how to describe the food for an Instagram caption if I was still running a food blog, but those days were coming to an end.

Over the past few months, my looming next chapter began to influence how much passion I really had for my “passions”, especially food and running—I still love those things, but my heart didn’t have the desire to keep things as they were.

Just like with everything else 🤷🏽‍♀️

Sunday was calm, but things already started to feel bittersweet. By the time I woke up around 9am (after multiple instances of waking up and forcing myself back to sleep), it was blistering hot. I still wanted to go for a run though…my 40 mile goal for the week was so close I could taste it!

Knowing I’d be leaving California, and the US, indefinitely the next morning, I felt like I *had* to venture out nearby. One last hurrah of going out to a restaurant, taking pics for the ‘gram, and bringing home dessert like old times? Why not?

After dropping off a few more items for donation, I picked up a smoothie from Jamba Juice to cool down my body before setting out to run. I picked a “park” in Arcadia thinking I’d be in the mood to check off one more cafe visit in the area after my run.

Running in Peck Park was a horrible decision on my part, due to the unbearable heat, but I somehow managed to crank out a decent amount of miles.

Peck Park in Arcadia…so hot and dry…how did I run here?

I couldn’t fit all my miles for the day in this blistering session, so I vowed to finish up in the evening when things felt cooler. I also had to coordinate with J about dropping off the car at his house (again), since I was selling it to a third-party vendor for convenience.

Before going by J’s house, I made one final stop at Sprout’s to pick up some food for dinner and snacks for the morning—-one last time in the car, driving out to get ready-made vegan hot bar food and kombucha. I was secretly going to miss that little piece of freedom.

After settling that and saying a final good-bye to my dear friend, I tied up my running shoes again and finished up the week with a 4 mile out-and-back. I felt so much lighter and faster as I finished up these miles…running against the backdrop of a Californian sunset is one thing I’ll miss about the Sunshine State. I’ll admit that.

I left the AirBNB around 11am the next morning. I took a pricey Lyft back to LAX, with my three large suitcases, a rollerboard, and a handbag in tow. On the other hand, I held nothing in my heart for the place I was about to leave.

You know it’s time to move on when your childhood home no longer belongs to you. When your parents have uprooted their lives to live somewhere else. As much as my Dad says he wishes I could stay with him forever, I can see he has nestled into the lifestyle of an “empty nester” quite comfortably.

You know it’s time to move on when you have no friends left in the city. When they’ve moved as far north as Sacramento, as well as across state borders to places like Vegas and Austin. Now I was the one leaving them all miles behind, by choosing to start a new life in Milan, but they had all left me earlier. It was another sign that California and I were ready to split from each other.

And, you know it’s time to move on when your heart has already found a new place to fly to. When spending hours walking along Wilshire, running down Figueroa, and strolling down Pico no longer sparks joy. When visiting new restaurants on weekends, potentially running into celebrities, and getting lost in famous neighborhoods is more of an inconvenience than a priority.

Yup, my final week in La-La Land and the Sunshine State had served its purpose. I can’t predict where I’ll end up in the future, after Italy…if there is an after Italy. Will I call Cali home again? Who knows, but I knew that the time to say good-bye was now.

Reading Time: 5 minutes

This was a post I wrote back in February 2018, and it was featured on Brown Girl Magazine’s website. It was a piece I put my heart into, so I wanted to give it a home here on SGD, where it fits perfectly.

For six years of my life, from the formative years of 18-23, my soul had disappeared. I’m not sure what was left in my weak, thin shell, but I carried on, day by day, in tortured isolation not knowing any better.

In the years that I needed a mother the most, I was losing her to schizophrenia. I spent my years in middle and high school playing a live version of Minesweeper, and no matter how many times I adapted to the rules of this challenging game, something always set her off. It would have been easier to follow her bizarre rules and give in to her unrealistic demands like my father did, but I put up a fight and collected wounds as a result.

*I’m not sure what was left in my weak, thin shell, but I carried on, day by day, in tortured isolation not knowing any better.*

My mother began to stay up late into the night, her eyes glazed over a fluorescing TV screen, constantly rewinding 30 seconds of a Dora the Explorer episode and scribbling into her notebook the messages she was receiving. We would have shouting matches too, almost like siblings, and my younger sister coped by retreating to her bedroom and locking the door. I was losing the strength to keep up, and the schizophrenic side of my mother was winning.

Fighting her was proving to be worthless, but internalizing my emotions seemed to be something I could manage—something I could control. Assigning myself a daily calorie limit and keeping a detailed food journal may have begun as “a fresh start” and a way to “regain control” of my dysfunctional environment, but the numbers soon began to take a hold of me.

There is a way out: July 2015 -> February 2018

The amount of calories I allotted myself each day was barely enough for a toddler to be sustained on, and I was forcing myself to divide that number up into meals throughout the day. It was a challenge turned obsession, and it was the driving force of my isolation. In college, my roommate was out with friends playing soccer on the intramural team and returning at 2am from a frat party, while I swallowed two pills of melatonin and was in bed by 8pm, pressing on my concave stomach in vain thinking it would stop the hunger pangs.

My morning ritual required measuring tape and a mirror. I never worried about my arms or wrists, but when it was time to examine my lower half, I double and triple-checked the circumference of my thighs: upper, middle, and right above the knee. My hands would land on my hips and I would sigh over the weird dips and curves they seemed to make.

An eating disorder may have overshadowed my life, but depression was laced through it. There was one day in particular I collapsed onto the kitchen floor, tears falling down my cheeks, but not feeling one ounce of sadness. Perhaps it was my body’s mechanism of trying to release something that just wasn’t there. My stomach grumbled from the lack of food inside of it, but I lay on the floor motionless. I was under a rain cloud I could not take cover from, and I could not shake it away.

There is a way out: August 2015 -> December 2019

When something causes you to become so inert that your insides are physically, mentally, and emotionally wiped clean, it’s hard to imagine coming back to reality. For six years, my good days included saving enough calories for a meager 300 calorie dinner, or being able to treat myself with a protein bar alongside black Splenda-sweetened coffee for breakfast. In contrast, I experienced too many bad days waking up at 4am and consuming my daily intake in cereal and yogurt because the feeling of hunger was too strong. Too many moments of hunger-fueled anger and regressing into a child, shivering on the couch while my Dad feverishly worked to prepare the only meal I would allow myself to eat for dinner.

I consider myself to be an optimistic person, but I never thought a full recovery from an eating disorder could ever be possible, and so it was hard to believe that my epiphany happened gradually in October of 2015. I came across blogs and Instagram accounts of young women who had chosen recovery, as well as scientific articles describing the necessity of weight restoration, refeeding, and intuitive eating. I was intrigued, and curiously thought what would happen if I embraced recovery…

When I did embark on recovery road, it was as if an alien had entered my brain and everything was on autopilot. I found myself willing to eat double the amount of the daily calorie intake I was used to, but as the months went by, I realized I was going to be hitting road bumps very soon.

There is a way out: May 2015 -> December 2018

2016 was rough, and now being weight-restored, I didn’t feel like I could justify eating “crazy” amounts of food. I felt tight in everything I wore, and I wanted to blame it all on water retention, but most of the pounds were real and necessary weight gain. And while I felt like I was constantly battling myself in regards to food and body image, I made one of the best decisions in my recovery journey and sought out therapy. I was lucky to find a therapist and group therapy that focused on recovering from eating disorders, but it seemed like the battle would never end. Oftentimes it seemed like my body image was the worst it had ever been, and it left me doubting my decision to recover. I had days where I “missed my old body” and looking at pictures—even from months prior—left me feeling so upset with myself.

But eventually, I was able to grow. People, and my relationships with them became more important. Laughs over lunch replaced calculations. Attention was something I used to crave, but not verbally request, and while it feels nice to be thought about, it is no longer something I desire. I can look at myself in mirrors and reflective surfaces and be content with what I see. The moments I harangue myself over the thickness of my thighs or the curves of my hips are few and far between. Take it from someone who never thought she’d be happy with her hips, who doesn’t have a nurturing relationship with her mother, and feels disconnected from her Desi heritage in most aspects: a complete recovery from an eating disorder is absolutely possible. I may have had what many still refer to as a “white girl’s disease”, but it made me a stronger brown woman.

My fellow SGD ladies (and gents)—if you pictured yourself as you read this, my heart goes out to you so, so much. Reach out to me. There are ways out of this. Just don’t give up 🧡

Reading Time: 7 minutes

Written April 15, 2020

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India, is a massive country, no secret there. It’s the second most-populous country in the world, and literally defined as a sub-continent.

A behemoth beauty Bharat be…

Unfortunately, I’ve only been to one area of India in my entire life (Tamil Nadu—South Indians where you at?!), although multiple times in my life. That is the tradition of a SGD: you go to the motherland with your parents and siblings, perhaps every two years or so, and stay with grandparents for a couple weeks—months if you are young enough and can afford to miss school for that long…

A quick look at (part of) the sub-continent…

Traveling to India is also a strenuous ordeal. Many SGDs and their families live in countries on the other side of the globe…unless you’re in Europe, or so lucky enough to be “nearby” in Singapore…

Even my Dad, who is a pretty tough guy, has recently found his yearly trips to India to be a source of sheer exhaustion and stress. A lot of that is centered around trying to fit seeing 20+ extended relatives and friends within a time frame of days. Trying to avoid hurt feelings, missed shopping items (can’t forget to bring back Grand Snacks to the States!!), and getting sick…it all adds up. No wonder trips to India are rarely seen as a vacation for many desi families🤷🏽‍♀️ .

In a recent trip however to India in late 2019, my Dad, sis, and I discussed that maybe it was time—now that we were all older, and the number of people to visit has grown smaller over time (due to life, to put it gently…)—it would be worth trying to visit other parts of the country.

Unfortunately, time wasn’t in our favor yet again. We found ourselves with many commitments as usual, and not too much time to fit in extra excursions. But unlike in the past, we did step beyond the households of perimas and peripas. Even though we were still restricted to an area close to our “home base” (Chennai), we made an effort to have our “mini” vacations with stops at the following:

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Marina Beach

Beaches in Southern India are unlike beaches in Cali…for one thing, something called humidity dictates everything.

For the three weeks I was in Chennai for Dec. 2019/Jan. 2020, running wasn’t a huge priority for me, but when I did get the chance to run, I tried to race with it 😉.

Unfortunately, humidity levels close to 100% and temps of 80 degrees Fahrenheit by 8am just doesn’t sit well with me. And being one out of three women running that morning out of like, hundreds of men? It felt super awkward, not gonna lie.

Although, I did see a significant speed increase in my pace! I was hesitant to look around me because desi men (and women) are known for their stare-downs, so I just ran until my legs gave out and the humidity was too much 😅.

The best time to visit is in the early morning, of course. Given that Chennai’s population is 7.088 million (2011, Google), the likelihood of having a “normal”-sized crowd is only likely to happen before 7:00am strikes.

But not everyone is so keen to wake up that early…

Boy, would I have loved to see how Marina Beach looks now in the time of corona lockdowns…

Tirupati

Tirupati is another city in Southern India, located in the Indian state of Andhra Pradesh (so, not Tamil Nadu, but we drove here from Chennai!). The drive there and back is a little over 6 hours roundtrip. The reason we visited was to pay our respects at the Tirumala Venkateswara Temple. In Tamil, my family’s language, temple = Kōyil (கோயில்).

A lot of devotees come from all over India (and the globe) to visit the auspicious கோயில். So much so, that there are dedicated travel bus and van services that are designed with a full-day itinerary package. I traveled with my Dad, sister, cousin, her husband, and uncle, so we were able to book a decent-sized van.

Our driver was a mad man. We left at 6am, and nearly shed a full hour from our morning half of travels 😐. Meaning, there was no doubt that he was speeding at *many* points during the trip.

We were lucky to have made it one piece, and our first stop was at a local “canteen” for breakfast. It was simple, carb-packed fare of idli, sambar, rasam, chutney, vada, etc. but no protein meant I would definitely get hungry later…

We were warned of the high altitudes as we made our ascent into the mountains. The கோயில் is located in the Tirumala Hills, which is part of the Seshachalam Hills range ~2,800 feet above sea level 😱. The hills have seven peaks, representing the seven heads of Adisesha, ” King of all Nāgas and one of the primal beings of creation” (Wikipedia).

The secenery is absolutely gorgeous. We spotted all sorts of wildlife—including monkeys and warthogs!

When we got to the top, we were dropped off at a meeting zone away from the கோயில். We could see that even at 9am, it was packed. Because everything in India usually takes place 30 min+ after the call time, we really didn’t assemble and head over to the கோயில் until around 10am or so.

The “guide” gave instructions on what you were allowed to bring (no video cameras, etc.) and dress etiquette in Hindi, Tamil, and Telugu. Then we had to fight for our place in line to enter.

Things got crazy soon after.

I never thought I’d experience the feeling of being crushed against hundreds of bodies in a holy place, yet here we were. I am so glad we went before the covid outbreak…and I’m also glad they temporarily closed the கோயில் to the public, because those crowds mixed with a virus….nah 🙅🏽‍♀️.

It reached the 90’s (Fahrenheit) by the time afternoon rolled around. My sister and I were exhausted—too sleepy to eat at the canteen even! We thought that after our second meal stop we would head straight home, but alas, the driver wanted to stop for coffee at another roadside canteen. I however, had the appetite for more sleep, not coffee!

The drive back was also slower compared to the morning, due to increased traffic flowing in and out of Chennai. Needless to say, sleep was enjoyed that night once we got back!

Mahabalipuram

Our “semi-relaxing” stop on this trip was a vacation-from-a-vacation-like detour to Mahabalipuram, a coastal town approximately 1 hr south from Chennai, in the Chengalpattu district of Tamil Nadu.

We stayed in a beach resort that had direct access to a private section of beach, and it was meant to serve as our getaway from the city life of Chennai.

The entire resort on the inside was air-conditioned, so it was extremely refreshing compared to the hot, humid weather in JANUARY! Funny thing was, the temperature difference was so extreme that every time we came back from outside, our phone screens would immediately fog up!

Mahabalipuram was definitely not immune to crowds. My sister spent most of the weekend of our visit indoors, while my Dad and I made the brave trek outdoors in the late afternoons. The crowds were unbearable for us too, so we decided just to “hike” near Roya Gopuram, but in reality, we wandered off somewhere and tried not to fall over great boulders!

In the evenings, the weather would cool down significantly, making it an awesome time to go to the beach. Compared to Marina Beach, it was quiet, serene, clean, and not cluttered by people! There were the frequent pariah dog visitors, however 😉

Oh, speaking of dogs, there were plenty all around! Pariah dogs are an indigenous breed in India, and prowl the streets in search of food. They are hungry, cautious souls that I wish I could hug, but they can get pretty vicious when they feel threatened.

Still, even when watched from afar, they made sure to make my heart melt 💔

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The good ol’ TN will always hold a sacred place in my heart, as it is the home of my family and ancestors, as well as the roots of my culture, but I don’t want to limit myself on future trips to only visit Tamil Nadu out of obligation. I don’t restrict myself in the same way when I visit other countries, so why should it be any different in this case?

Have you ever visited India? Which part?

Reading Time: 9 minutes

Written June 30, 2020

Shoutout! – Thank you to my amazing friend who happens to be a talented graphic designer, Chrizz, for her cute line sketches in this post! She runs a number of art-related accounts on Instagram (check them out and give her a follow—@csayart @writer_christina) as well as runs an Etsy shop called Royal Garden Prints (@royalgardenprints). Support small business and an unbelievably gifted artist!

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I don’t know if I’m overthinking this, but is it not weird that when it comes to dating, love, and sex, the question of race is something people openly express their opinions on, without remorse?

“White guys are just not my type.”

“Asian guys are not that cute.”

“I can’t see you with a black guy.”

I’ve always been surprised by how easy it was for my friends or close acquaintances to have these phrases roll off their tongue. The fact that they could say these things and not bat an eye, yet quickly be the first ones to share social media posts on civil rights protests seemed strange to me.

If you have a “preference” for the race you want to date, is that not implicit bias? Isn’t that in the most literal sense, racism?

As a 27-year-old SGD, I’ll be honest and say that my (romantic) experience with men is non-existent. I consider myself a “late bloomer” when it comes to matters of romance. I’d like to think I’m not the only one, but seriously, how many women are going to be frank about their romantic lives, or lack of one?

An eating disorder consumed the formative years of my life, inhibiting me from participating in experiences that young women and men normally have with meeting in college and getting a whole chance at the dating thing. In addition to my eating disorder struggles, I was challenged with depression, low self-esteem, and never-ending anxiety. Mental illness is a downer— I didn’t have much energy to spare on anything else besides thinking about the calories I consumed and scraping by to get through the day.

Growing up as an SGD also brought upon confusion when it came to these matters. Cultural norms and expectations (mostly assumed by me) made me doubt how I should approach boys, dating, and relationships. Having no open conversations about intimacy and what constitutes a healthy relationship made concepts difficult to comprehend—something highly prevalent in desi culture, but for me, was emphasized due to my mother’s mentally unstable behavior.

My mom, who was consumed by her own mental illnesses, made sure to make my sister and I believe that boys and men were dangerous. That in order to protect ourselves, we needed to avoid them at all costs. Keeping her strong words in mind, I grew up treating boys indifferently. Their feelings didn’t matter, and I had all the right to be rude to them since they were already vile and unworthy of respect. Sounds pretty harsh looking back, but when you’re repeatedly told as a child that boys have the worst intentions and to stay away from them, you do it. Or at least I did.

Avoiding boys was never a problem for me. It may have also contributed to my low self-esteem to some extent, leading me to question why a guy never asked me out in high school, or why I haven’t had my first kiss when every single person I know and their grandmother has already been there and done that? Most of the time, I’ve been able to look at the whole situation in a comical manner, and while I’ve had my moments of being hung up on this never happening for me, I like to think that everything leading up to this moment has made me become a stronger and more confident woman, while learning to be less abrasive when it comes to giving guys a chance.

The casual coffee date (with romantic intentions)—something I never experienced.

These simmering thoughts eventually led me to give Bumble a try, the dating app that is supposedly more “empowering” for women since women make the first move in messaging men. My sister first suggested it, after having a conversation with her one day about feeling more confident with the idea of meeting people….in a romantic way. I was not into the idea of dating via swipes, until I downloaded the app, made a profile, and went “active” the day after I submitted my PhD thesis.

For about a week, the app made my commute to work pass by quickly. It felt weird swiping on guys, as if I were browsing through a catalog. Every other man’s profile seemed much like the earlier one: one pic with a bottle of beer, one pic at a sports event (as an attendee, not even participating in the sport…), and a pic with a group of girl “friends”. My nervousness started to melt away, and it was replaced with plenty of eye rolls.

When the SuperSwipes started coming in (an opportunity for men on Bumble to get the attention of a woman and indicate their supposed interest), I decided to give those guys a shot. If we want to get down to race, two white guys and one desi guy used this method to get me to message them initially.

The age of dating apps seems too insensitive in my opinion, but on the other hand, what other choices do we have to meet people? Especially if catching up on lost experiences is an issue?

Despite giving it my “best” shot, all three ended up ghosting me—messages started out formal and polite, but they were eventually spaced out by longer intervals of time. I didn’t have the patience to see if Guy #1 would get back to me after “bragging” about all the things he had planned for the weekend, or if Guy #2, despite touting his avid love for running was indeed looking for a running partner. And Guy #3? Yes, I get it, you love books, but can we talk about something else? I appreciate a good novel from time-to-time but man, my brain is fried after reading countless journal papers for work!

Then there was Guy #4, probably the most decent guy I met through this app. He didn’t SuperSwipe me, but I swiped right on him since he said he was vegan, and I was impressed by his abstinence for smoking and drinking alcohol. He extended the time for me to message him first, so it seemed like he was interested in hearing back from me. A sign of flattery that made me feel appreciated.

If we want to get down to race, he was black.

He replied at a normal rate, and seemed to have a nice attitude (and personality based on his messages), but by the time I starting messaging him, I was getting fed up with the app, and the idea of dating overall. I also was approaching my defense/thesis presentation day, and I was low-key stressin’. He suggested that we meet up some time when I was free, at a vegan restaurant somewhere in LA, and I suggested in a week after my defense was over.

I was able to freeze my account for the time being, but once that week came and went, and I finally became a PhD, I didn’t want to return to the app.

I could have taken the initiative. My defense was done, I had passed, I could have gone out of my way to message him back and had at least gone on my first “date”. But, I got ahead of myself. I got scared.

I was afraid that if I met him, we might have had a good time. What if we bonded on all things vegan and fitness? What if we enjoyed our time together so much that we wanted to meet up again and again? What if it got so serious, that bringing him up to my parents was the obvious next step? Despite the supposed shifts going on in our society—the idea that interracial dating is now “okay”, is it really?

Regardless of race, we all want to be loved ❤

I’m not going to harp on myself too much for what I eventually did, which was ghosting the poor guy (truly hoping he found a lady that was ready for whatever was to come ❤). At the time, I did what was right for me. I gave the app a try, and realized I wasn’t ready. I needed more time to focus on myself, and really think things through. It’s been almost a year since I quit the app, and I’ve had plenty of time to reflect and ponder over these thoughts and feelings…some that have been internalized since childhood, and obviously needed to be explored and broken down.

The utopian goal would be to look beyond color or culture, and to have everyone in your inner circle and beyond to accept you and your partner as the dream package. But we must be real. As much as people are taking issues to the streets and demanding change, change does not happen overnight.

When I head about Sudha Ragunathan and her daughter’s story, I was unfortunately not surprised by the reaction that resulted from the general public:

Sudha Ragunathan is an accomplished Carnatic vocalist, singer, composer, teacher, and philanthropist from my parents’ home state of Tamil Nadu in India. A little more than a year ago, she and her daughter Maalavika were targets of bigotry and hatred due to Maalavika’s choice to marry a man of African-American descent by the name of Michael Murphy. The fact that both Maalavika and Michael were accomplished in their own right (both the holders of medical and graduate degrees, respectively) did not stop unwarranted racial prejudice and rumors from circulating—including those that assumed the Ragunathan family converted to Christianity 🤦🏽‍♀️.

Please then explain the very obvious South Indian wedding that took place…

After looking into the story more, I was more in shock by the fact that many of these absurd comments came from people who still abide by patriarchal beliefs—that we “cannot lose our girls to men of other races, cultures, and religions”:

I have no doubt that if I were to be in an interracial relationship in the future, my millennial and younger peers would not take issue—we are the generation of disruption and change. For us, this is something not worth losing our minds over.

But, especially in desi culture, our parents exist. Our grandparents, aunties, and uncles exist. Many of us want to keep them happy. We don’t want to argue or be the target of gossip, yet we don’t want to be restrained and restricted by rules most often based on patriarchal ideals.

I see where their opinions stem from, and that’s fear. Those that spew words of hate and bigotry are afraid that they are “losing” one of their own to another side. That future generations that stem from this couple and others like them will lose the connections to their of desi culture, and that centuries of traditions will not be passed down.

And I understand why many elder folks have this fear…I have this fear for myself. Yes, I’m desi and I’m proud, but there is so much I need to learn as far as being a Tamil Brahmin Iyengar desi and the traditions of my ancestors. I’ve seen the sadness first-hand in my grandfather, a devout Hindu scholar who dedicated his life to the Lord for the latter part of his life, when discussing the changes of the world with his sons and daughter-in-laws. I could understand his melancholy over the idea that younger generations did not have the time nor desire to understand their roots well enough to pass on to future generations. I could see why my elders worry about our culture fading away.

But the idea that interracial marriage promotes the idea of leaving one’s culture? That could not be further from the truth. What needs to be understood is that the responsibility that comes with passing on traditions, language, auspicious celebrations, etc. starts initially with the parents and familial support group, but when that child becomes an adult? They are that—a living, breathing adult who hopefully has the desire to pass on their heritage to their own children, if they choose to have any. The hope is that us second gens are confident and willing enough to learn what we don’t know, and that who we pick or don’t pick for a life partner does not influence our choice to keep our own cultures alive.

For me, I am happy being independent most of the time. I love pursuing my passions, having the freedom to do as I want and go as I please, and not having to worry about compromise. If the day ever comes that I meet “the one”, I hope that doubt and fear doesn’t plague me to the extent that it did with my “learning experiences” from last year.

Although I have lived so long as a solo bird, part of me wonders what it would be like to have a deep, intimate connection with another person.

If I am confident in myself, my abilities, the passion for my culture and the desire to pass it on to a future generation (if that so happens), then who my partner is, where they come from, and what they dream of shouldn’t matter—as long as they have righteous intentions and a good heart.

Reading Time: 8 minutes

When it comes to community—be it extended family, parents’ friends, aunties, uncles—I believe most SGDs have varied experiences.

Some have stories upon stories about how suffocating the desi community can be—the toxic gossip, the extreme competitiveness among parents that permeates down to the kids, the nosy aunties, the façade of it all—it can understandably be overbearing.

Before her mental illness took hold of her, my mother was part of a large desi community in Oklahoma. I vaguely remember the large, clean houses with the faint scent of sandalwood, the festivities we would be invited to, and the amount of times I ran up and down staircases alongside a bunch of other brown rugrats. I was a wee one myself, and I had yet to comprehend the politics that governed a raw desi immigrant community.

My dad used to tell me there was a reason we moved to a more “desi-barren” area of NorCal in late 1999. He was trepeditious about the desi communities in the Bay Area and associated counties. He wasn’t so sure if he wanted his young, elementary school-aged daughters to grow up in cutthroat territory. But he also wasn’t so sure about exiling his family from the community altogether. Did it really have to be all or nothing?

As I grew older, I began to see second gens of other cultures find solace in the company of others like themselves. I may have lived in a “desi-barren” area, but there were Filipinos galore! I immediately learned that second gen Filipinos were off limits—if a new kid was Filipino, they would find a group of Filipino friends within an hour, no joke.

For a while, I thought my sister and I were the only South Asian kids in our entire school—a very real memory for most SGDs. When I learned there was a girl of Punjabi descent around my age walking around the same halls as me, I made it my mission to make her my friend.

Remember, I was quite the exuberant third-grader 😉 .

I spotted her playing tether ball with who I gathered to be her best friend: a skinny pale girl with a pout on her face most of the time. I bravely approached them both and stood by the side of the pole, waiting to play whoever won.

When Miss Punjab won, I took my place as we punched the ball back and forth. Despite not being immersed in desi culture at the time, I still had a clue about…some things.

“Have you seen Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham?” I asked excitedly. The movie had come out quite recently, and my question seemed to bring about a smile on Miss Punjab’s face.

“Yeah, it was pretty cool! Shah Rukh Khan is great!”

Of course, bonding between two SGDs involves SRK.

It didn’t look like her pouty-faced friend was a fan though. Over the next few days at lunchtime recess, I would join both girls at the tether ball courts, not really invited, but assuming that I was now a friend—especially Miss Punjab’s.

Perhaps I was naive thinking that our meeting on the playground would extend to hanging out at each other’s houses, our parents meeting and coming together for Diwali, and instill in me a sense of belonging—that perhaps I would be able to grow up with a friend who shared the color of my skin and seemed to like me.

But I was fooled. During one of these tether ball sessions where I had awkwardly invited myself, the pouty pale girl had had enough. Without warning, she stopped the game and growled at Miss Punjab to follow her to another area of the playground. Miss Punjab obliged, and despite pressing my luck with this “friendship”, I knew this was a blatant, planned act of rejection.

————————————————– 𝕊𝔾𝔻 ————————————————-

As I grew older, I realized bringing “new” people into our house would only set my mother off. It didn’t matter if they were desi, not desi, blood relatives, or close family friends…no one was ever truly welcome into our cold, dark, isolated home.

I found solace with a few neighborhood kids, two of whom became my greatest friends to this day. But none of my friends were desi. A good or bad thing? I don’t know, but that’s how it was. When we made our trips to India over the years, extended family sometimes inquired about our association with a desi community abroad, and were surprised to learn of our lack of participation in one. They couldn’t comprehend it.

It wasn’t until I was about to finish my undergraduate that I had my first independent encounter with an inclusive desi community. When I first came across Bay Area Solidarity Summer (BASS), I wasn’t sure what to make of it:

At first, I wasn’t sure about applying. It seemed weird for me, an almost 21-year-old fresh out of college to be gallivanting around with naive high school kids…but perhaps, maybe this time, despite all of the past disappointments of trying to find my community…this could be my chance?

When late July rolled around in 2013, it was time to set off to Berkeley. My Dad volunteered to drive me down from our home in the North Bay to drop me off, despite his disrelish for Bay Area traffic 😅. Normally, our trips to the Bay would be exciting for me, since they would be an excuse to visit an exuberant cousin who we were only able to associate with outside our home. This time however, I felt a little nervous and doubtful of what I signed up for—I wasn’t sure if this purposeful mixing of young desi women of multi-second gen (or first gen) backgrounds would be the solution to my “problem”.

I didn’t hesitate when we arrived in front of an old Victorian-style house in the heart of the city. I was not the first to arrive, but I was one of the earlier ones, and despite feeling tired and nervous, I managed to greet the other ladies who were mingling in the hall and the team of facilitators for the weekend. As other attendees filed in, we soon made our way to the living room of the house, met our facilitators, and gathered together as a total of 15 desi youth to break the ice—with a task that required us to piece together a timeline of South Asian activism spanning 100 years…

We were “put to work” right away! I remember learning so much that day—amazed by the fact that the South Asian community accomplished so much in regards to activism. Something that unfortunately isn’t touched upon in a white-centric school curriculum…
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From that point on, we embarked on a journey that spanned a weekend. Sitting in on workshops, listening to activist leader elders, challenging our stance on sensitive issues, and opening up our hearts to understand what our South Asian elders faced as immigrants were experiences I’d never forget. I learned so much from a group of brave, strong role models in the South Asian activist community…topics that resonate, albeit chillingly, with the racially-intensified events that have happened this year. We learned then and there that our struggles as POC are important, but allyship is just as significant.

Meeting activist elders Ayesha Gill (Ghadar Party) and Ericka Huggins (Black Panthers) was a powerful example of that.

{Left to Right} – Activist elders Ayesha Gill (Ghadar Party) and Ericka Huggins (Black Panthers) sharing their activist experiences with us; group task to understand how to organize and structure movements for social change; learning about exploitative economic models and more just alternatives; understanding how to be allies for our Islamic brothers and sisters, and how to fight Islamophobia/systems of hate
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Despite being thrown into a world of knowledge about the struggles and feats of my South Asian ancestors, the sessions definitely pulled on my energy purse strings. Unfortunately, I was still struggling with an eating disorder during this experience, so despite participating as much as I could in the activities, I could not bring myself to have as much energy as some of the more vivacious, bubbly, extroverted ladies.

Break-out sessions during a music-making for activism workshop.
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Needless to say, I wasn’t very vocal compared to others. But I found kind souls to connect with as the hours carried on that weekend. And the more time we spent with one another, the more comfortable I felt.

Berkeley South Asian Radical History Walking Tour with the BASS ladies, 2013.
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As Sunday approached, I grew nervous because our final activity would be a participant-led session. All 15 of us ladies would have the chance to speak out about anything—what we learned, our own struggles as South Asians, anything. Alumni, past speakers, and past facilitators were also invited to attend, which made our group circle span the entire circumference of the living room floor.

One by one, each young woman from my group spoke up about their experience over the weekend, or the struggles they faced as South Asians growing up.

Networking with community activists and alumni on the final night of BASS.
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I ended up being the last participant to speak. I wasn’t sure how to follow 14 other ladies—especially the vocally excited ones who spoke about their plans to spark activism as soon as they returned home. Or the ones who already had collaborations set up for activist projects. Or the ones who were able to eloquently express their immigrant struggles as first-gen desis.

I could only speak on what made my heart hurt at the moment.

My words were slow at first, but then flooded out—words that pieced together the anger and loneliness I felt after fighting with a mother arrested by mental illness. That the domestic turmoil under my roof left my sister, my father and I unable to seek outside help. That my eating disorder was triggered by years of having to control the uncontrollable.

That belonging to a community—a desi community—was something I didn’t feel until this past weekend.

When I finished speaking, I was met stunned silence, some tears, and hug after hug after hug. There were gentle pats on the back, and vocal appreciation of my courage to share such sensitive information and be vulnerable.

The following morning, we left each other goodbye notes. I opened mine as soon as I climbed into my dad’s car, and my eyes started to water.

It might seem cheesy to an outsider…I’m not afraid to admit that I often try to avoid being cliche even if that means putting down gestures like these as “over the top” or “annoyingly unoriginal”, but receiving these notes from my brown-skinned peers after a heavily informational and emotionally-moving session shifted my attitude…

I didn’t expect to find myself the recipient of 20+ hugs from compassionate individuals. I didn’t expect to find a group of young women who squeal for M.I.A. as much as warm chai on a Sunday afternoon. I didn’t expect to dance awkwardly down the line as my peers cheered for us as we moved to Drake’s “Started From the Bottom”. I didn’t expect to reveal the harsh memories of a broken home to a group of strangers who immediately became supporters.

I didn’t expect to belong.

But, if at least for only a weekend…and maybe a few weeks after…I finally understood how it felt to be part of a commUNITY.

One summer night in the middle of Berkeley in a Victorian-style house, a group of 15 young women, descending from a wide spectrum of the South Asian diaspora, found commUNITY.

To learn more about BASS, check out their website and Facebook page. As a second gen desi, this was one of the best experiences of my life 💜

The Next Chapter

An ABCD with an ED

Tamil Nadu at the End of a Decade

Freedom to Love

CommUNITY