I am Indian but I offer nothing in the way of explanatory conditions except the fact that I am the only Indian in the world whose meals, homes, and showering products do not convey the whiff of curry.

I remember the very day that became Indian. Up to my 10th year I lived in the Indian hub of Toronto, Canada. It is selectively Asian and nobody really seems to mind. The only white people I knew that dared to pass usually endeavored towards the secluded barber shop that remained as the sole white entity in an Indian dominated plaza. The white folk usually drove in a Ford, Audi or maybe even a BMW which stood out quite distinctly in a sea of Toyotas and Hondas. We peered for a few seconds then continued to our games of cricket, cards and gossiping. However it was quite different for the outsiders. They took large, quick steps and entered their destination and left in the same fashion. Once they secured themselves in their car you could almost feel a sense of relief, as if they had survived a nuclear war. Witnessing such opposite personas, we wondered how we had become native in a foreign land and they wondered how they became foreign in their own land.

The local park may have seemed as too diverse of a place to mingle but it was exactly where I felt I should be. I most enjoyed the rubber seat that hung from a thick metal bar that I dreamed to sweep over imagining an alternate world that I might cross over if I overcame. I quite liked peering, almost a little to curiously, at the passing families who usually had two kids snuggled in their arms and one in the stroller. There it really didn’t matter where you were from mostly because each family occupied a personal spot in the premises and confined their children to that very area. Usually if the families felt uncomfortable from perhaps my overwhelming glimpse they would flash a half smile and almost whisper “Namaste” hoping to bid their farewell in the coming seconds. It was almost amusing at the caution and hesitance adults felt they must possess around us Indians and the care free demeanor we contained. Parents slowly hinted at their departure as their children started playing with us. We never felt mistreated or as if they were being rude, we simply shrugged it off and continued playing. But even so, it was quite obvious that I was the first hospitable Indian, not taking in account of how others treated us, and I hope Sanathan Mandir will please take notice.

During these moments, white people differed from us only through their rare appearances and hasty movements. They liked to taste our cuisine and try our famous and apparently only dishes of naan and curry. They seemed to enjoy our presence in a distinct Indian area, such as restaurants and cinemas as the territory was apparent. The light hearted approach they took towards us when trying to pronounce our authentic cuisines suddenly felt as ease, as if we could finally coexist. Perhaps the unspoken ground of our city was what derived the haste. Only they didn’t realize it. The Indians never felt any distance, we felt knitted and crotched together. I belonged to them, they belonged to me, we belonged to each other.

However change was inevitable and within weeks we arrived in a new area, new culture, and new mindset. I left Toronto, the land of the browns, as Indian. When we landed in Ft. Lauderdale, yours truly, started to fade. It seemed that I had undergone a culture shock. I was not Krishna of Little India anymore; I was a little brown girl. I found it out in numerous ways. In the immigration line as well as in my surroundings, I became an obvious brown- warranted not to mingle or smile.

But I am not disastrously colored. There is no great grief bundled up in my lesser body, nor pulling upon my heartstrings. I am not bothered at all. I do not contribute to a society who feels victimized by a society which exemplifies more than one dominant religious group. Even in the hectic and often grueling days and challenges presented before me that is my life. I had realized that our universe turns towards those who separate themselves from such petty distinctions regardless of some white, yellow, black or brown. We contribute to one coloring box regardless, and I am too busy sharpening my point to be used first then worry about such insignificant matters.

Someone is always connecting me to terrorist acts. It fails to catalogue resentment within me. Terrorism represents a small and selective group of people within our human race. The population of such people mostly derives from Islam to most, and I am Hindu, although I thank you for your educated guess. This common misconception which gives me an extra sprinkle of individualism says to me “correct them”. Those who were mistaken say “you’re all the same”; and the generation before us said “we hate each other”. I am in the midst of a 5k run, the finish line is slowly piecing together visually and my incentive to peer at my competitors has never seemed so slender. Misunderstandings have shaped an image of whom and what I am to others. Ironically I had no way to enlist another judgment, I had no choice. However, there has never been a brighter day to conquer. All to be gained, none to be lost. It is exhilarating to know that I will always be “randomly selected” at airport security lines, that I will always have this stereotype of an obviously “smart Indian” to live up to. I gain nothing but joy amongst the idea of being put as a second choice when applying to IV league schools, where the onlookers don’t know whether to feel accomplished or failed.

The position of my white neighbor is much more problematic. No jobs are lost when the final decision rests within a white and me. No eyes are rolled at our flamboyant and often extreme ways of celebrating traditions. The idea of binding to our roots has never seemed so exhilarating as the game of adapting.

I do not always feel distinctively Indian. Every now and then I often drift towards Krishna of Little India, Toronto before Coral Springs. I feel most Indian when splattered against a strident backsplash of pure colorlessness.

For instance in Florida, secured within my carved temple ramparts, I feel Indian, cultured Indian. As if we are somehow the majority once more, where whites are a minority and we felt nothing of it. Among the body of white people, I am a distinct but petty freckle, swallowed by a sea of more significance. I am heaved upon and over swept, but through it all, I remain myself, I remain Indian, I remain Krishna. When overcome with struggles, I shall resurface, I shall always resurface.