Brown skin? Check.
Brown eyes? Check.
Black hair? Check.
Father from Kerala? Mother from Goa? Check, check.
Born in Goa? Check.
In the vaguest sense of the word.
My Hindi is atrocious and my ability to speak either Konkani or Malayalam; non-existent.
I rarely watch Indian movies because I hate the song and dance routines in most of them.
Some might say, I’ve been possessed by the demon called ‘Westernization’.
And they might be right.
After all, I’ve lived 18 years of my life in Singapore and since 2009, I’ve been residing in Australia.
I love certain Indian foods and some parts of Indian culture, the same way, one who is not French, thinks some parts of French culture are cool.
So, can I still call myself Indian?
When I hear about China or Pakistan misbehaving on Indian borders, initially I think, “Nuke the *insert unkind word here* to hell!”
My rational mind of course later tells me, that this line of thinking is silly.
Does this feeling of rage make me Indian?
When I hear about, Pranav Mistry and Sixth Sense, I’m like, “Yeah boy, represent!”
Does this feeling of pride, that one of ‘my tribe has done something amazing’ make me Indian?
Right now, I can’t really answer my own questions.
But I believe you need to know where you’ve come from, in order to know where you’re going.
I’ve come from a nation that has a rich history.
I’ve come from a nation, whose thinkers, inventors and seafarers have had a great impact on the world.
To me, the sensible thing to do, would be to carry on in their wake.
Because while I might struggle with the question, whether I’m Indian, there is no doubt that I’m of Indian origin.
Once wrestled a giant chiwawa for the love of Maria Sharapova. True story, she swears. Oh, and he’s a journalism student with a second major in English & Creative Arts at Murdoch University, Perth.
Image Source: [http://www.flickr.com/photos/mahidoodi/322037776/]