The concept of identity has always been very elusive to me. From ethnicity to spiritual existence, I too have no clue as for how to enter the conversation of identity. There seem to be endless ways of looking at this concept and yet never a definitive one. Perhaps most of us would keep questioning it over and again, like the foolish hamster running on a wheel. With the right food and gadgets and media content to binge on, we would take breaks in between but eventually not finish the pursuit of the identity crisis. Identity being too broad to converge in a singular paper, I would like to rather focus upon the evolution of the concept in my understanding and how I deal within the construct.
Now we all know identity within India is always the starter of the buffet, ethnicity being special. In a diverse country of over hundreds of ethnic groups and origins, in order to understand identity, you must be aware of what group you belong to. The comparison begins post that. You see, with a colorful history of colonization and invasion and communal riots and terrorism, we Indians are forced fed history as part of knowing our very roots! As educative as it may sound, biased opinions definitely changes the course of it. But we sure have a thirst for knowing where our ancestors are from or else it would almost become redundant to win a nasty fight if you are unable to insult your rival’s ancestry and shame their ethnic identity! So no matter the voice of reason or educational purpose or communal, our ethnic identity is our first lesson upon the concept, as a child.
My parents were no different, they proudly taught us about different races, caste, religion at a young age and along with, they introduced to our heritage: ethnic roots. Here, it is important to mention that I belong to a dual heritage-my father belongs to the Kachari tribe while my mother is an Ahom, an ethnic group who migrated to Assam during the 1200s.Now anybody from Assam or with the knowledge of its history would instantly identify both the groups as being different. Here is the big deal- the Kacharis were one of the original group of settlers in the land of Assam and thereby, an ego of being there first exists in the name itself. While the Ahoms although were migrants, had made home in the Brahmaputra valley and ruled it with pride, poise and an iron fist for nearly 200 years. The fact that Assam was secured against the mighty Mughals due to the Ahoms, carried extra credit for the indigenous group and anybody with their lineage. So there it was my parents’ ultimate pride of their individual identity and making sure we never take it for granted. Ironically their pride stance remained limited history only. Brahmanical practices took over eventually and now traces of their heritage only remain scantily amongst rituals and food and dress habits. However contemporary cultural practices have taken over most and so less of tribal roots truly now remain.
So that was my first identity-my ethnic roots. It was in middle school when I learnt about it, so impressionable as my mind was, I decided to share my pride in being a hybrid with my friends. It also made me feel cool, you see? Basically, my knowledge about ethnic identity was limited to heritage only but most cultural practices or even respective languages were no longer in circulation. I was simply happy to show off my parental lineage at any given chance. It is impertinent to mention that my knowledge about caste had just begun to be added to my vocabulary and my parents displayed our ST (Scheduled Tribe) status as a badge of honor that I must flash for my convenience or attention, it didn’t matter. As long as I don’t forget how precious that is. An extremely gullible pre-teen being given something to stand out and show off? I felt so cool for first couple of years. I felt somewhat fancy. This continued for first half of my teenage and so I was furious when discovered that I cannot change my surname legally to Kachari (my official surname is Saikia). I learnt that my paternal grandfather for some reason has changed his surname to Saikia and my father followed and 40 years later, it is nearly impossible to change documents all over. My sister and I were furious as, in Assam Saikia is a common name used by different caste and religion. I decided to rebel instead. If I couldn’t do it officially, I could do so on Facebook. So I took the Tai Ahom word for Miss-Nang and my original surname Kachari and unofficially became Nang Jolly Kachari. I was so proud to finally be able to flaunt both my parental lineage in my name somewhere!
That nonsense was 6 years ago. Now I am simply trying to quit Facebook altogether. Soon..
My concept of identity has been in transition since I was a child. It came in phases. So after my ethnic phase, I had moved to Delhi for my higher studies. The journey to the capital put a whole different spin into my understanding. Like a game changer. I had changed not just cities but also regions. I was a migrant. I was a foreigner. I still am.
The dilemma lay due to the drastic transition. Geographically North East is north east India but for the most part of mainland India, we are merely symbolism for exotification of beautiful landscapes and non-Indian looking features and that we live on trees. As much entertaining as these assumptions are, being a migrant has an immediate question upon your ethnic identity upon arrival. First, it was differentiating between my Assamese identity from the North East one. So few attempted to understand while others remained polite. I tried to be adamant about holding on to what I was taught to flaunt. But I hadn’t expected language to be my first hurdle. My little hometown has a multicultural history and I grew up with Bengali, Hindi, Nepali, etc. So when I arrived in the capital city, my knowledge of spoken Hindi was funny in comparison to the one spoken here. I was often made fun of the way I speak Hindi and called ‘cute’ in between a very serious discussion. I was constantly infantilized because my Hindi was not in par with the way Delhiites did. I became so conscious of fitting in that I began desperately to mimick just so my migrant identity isn’t open for attack. I wanted to blend in without jeopardizing my roots. And so I spent some time on what I thought was refining my spoken Hindi. I would flaunt it when back home. Oh, how naïve my younger self was.
During this entire language negotiation, another area of my identity was in foreplay. This primarily concerns my physical looks. Geographically Assam is located in a monsoon climatic region on the banks of the Brahmaputra river. With equal sun and rain, the skin pigmentation of most people is between dark and lighter shade. But hereditary gifted me lesser number melanin cells and hence, my skin is fair in color. Little did I know that my melanin count would one day be attached to my identity so close. A major stereotype of the North Eastern identity is the mongoloid facial features which are definitely not uniform across the entire region. Therefore, minus the non-mongoloid looks and a fairer skin color, I entered another phase of identity. In Delhi, people didn’t accept my north eastern/assamese identity while back home, often times I would be assumed to be a non assamese entity. I was perplexed!
Allow me to demonstrate my situation in detail. In a typical day during vacation, I would be mistaken to a non assamese and spoken to in either English or Hindi. The frustration somewhat peaks when I would converse in Assamese, but not be replied back in my own native tongue! I felt alien in my own place. To add to it, even when I am with my family, shopkeepers would change their language while speaking to me and whoever is accompanying. Imagine the cringe that fills my throat with rage.
My friends would tell me it’s because I look so non Assamese. Like there is a definitive construct on how to look Assamese! When I started inking my body, a close friend of mine declared that I officially look totally unbelievable to my roots. Most believe to this day, that it is a compliment. To me, it’s another push to my identity crisis. While in Delhi, when answered where I came from I have been told over and again that I am not perceived as a north easterner or even Indian. Bulging eyes and a nervous laughter in the guise of a compliment didn’t help my cringe much. I began to detest my ethnic roots in the process.
Unable to find a footing within my ethnic identity, I began questioning it back. For example, when my parents would use caste and tribal identities interchangeably as convenient, I realized my dislike of the crooked nose Brahman who would arrive for every ritual in the house ever since I was a child. One of my tribal relative who is praised highly for his stringent Brahmanical practices comes to my mind instantly. As a kid, I would always cringe at the starvation and painfully long rituals involved every time someone passed away or got married. By the time I had started University, I began to dissect my own caste, class and religion. With so little tribal practices to hold on to, I have kept aside my ethnic identity on hold for now.
My family takes my identity dilemma as hilarious while I struggle to accept my belongingness without waiting for acceptance. I did figure out a silver lining in the situation though. As I was already assumed as a foreigner, it became easier to avoid judgmental stares while buying cigarettes and liquor while home. I realized that stigma attached to people who smoke or drink is reserved when it is not someone native. The word foreigner itself comes with particular prejudices in the first place and hence, no eyebrow is raised or shocking expressions come my way as I buy my poisons. My younger cousins and friends took advantage of it occasionally. I don’t mind. I had a secret power, I felt.
Transitioning into adulthood is no picnic, any adult would agree instantly. So when I began dealing with the adult realities of life, I realized how much effort it took while mimicking something constantly to fit in. Suddenly none of my identities were acceptable to me anymore. I had finally accepted that it’s okay not to be fluent in a 3rd language. I hadn’t realized how far I had gotten away from my own language while in pursuit of another. I felt alien once again. “Oh sorry, I didn’t recognize you over there. I thought of you as some foreigner!” by a family friend once, didn’t help much. I couldn’t explain my cringe by now. You see, although I detached myself from being defined by my caste, class or even ethnicity to some extent, I definitely didn’t stop receiving my privileges that come along with. There is so much to leave behind, I began to accept the slow process of it all.
As I made my way through perks and pickles of identity, a whole different segment of the concepts opened up to me. I began to learn and understand about sexual and gender identity as well. Without my ethnic roots to limit what identity means to me, I eventually decided to not conform to any. As much love I have for my own culture, not accepting it all blindly was important. I settled onto selective participation within my cultural identity construct whilst coping with not belonging to any singular marker of my roots.
In a country with a fetish for fair skin, I also changed my identity upon meeting people in public. Migrating to a place with a reputation for being unsafe, my paranoia of being attacked only increased manifold. So while interacting with unknown men, for instance in clubs or on tinder, I would simply create a fake identity to avoid being tracked down later. I almost got caught this one time in Hauz Khas when a group of guys began chatting with my friends and I. Now I was wearing colored contact lens and as usual I gave a random identity upon being asked. It just so happens that I was in the influence of alcohol and I announced my French inheritance to foolproof my disguise. Coincidentally there was a Turkish guy in the group who himself had naturally colored eyes, who challenged the authenticity of my eye color. Afraid of being caught, I went to the extent of asking the guy to poke my eye to clear his doubts, knowing full well he wouldn’t. Obviously, he did no such thing but I knew he didn’t buy my nonsense but I was adamant to not divulge any part of my actual identity.
Apart from faking different nationalities, I would often be asked if I am Korean, Japanese, Chinese and so on. The extent of it is ever changing and ever amusing. Most memorable would be the time when a guy on Tinder inquired if I grew up living on trees. It was too golden an opportunity to pass on and I must admit I thoroughly enjoyed it. I told how we really did live on trees, were taught hunting and gathering as mandatory training during childhood and that a caregiver would carry us around on her back till the age of 5! It is astonishing, the amount of ignorance that is attached to the North Eastern identity to rest of the country.
With my own concept of identity in a state of confusion, I gathered how subjectively diverse it is as well. From defending my inherited ethnic identity to dissecting it upside down, I have begun to refrain from particular terminologies of the same when asked where I belong. For example I would say ‘I am from Assam’ instead of saying ‘I am an Assamese’. At a time when religious terrorism is taking over the entire country, searching for an identity just so I could articulate it better for others is no longer a priority anymore. I no longer feel close to my ethnic identity, much to my parents’ disappointment but I daresay question problematic concepts within a construct they wear like a medal of honor.
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