— ✍️ Ankita Maiti

We often see the narratives of NRI kids in foreign countries like the US struggling with their dual identities — how they feel alienated as a brown person in a predominantly white country or, on the other hand, how they are unable to connect with their own culture in more authentic and meaningful ways. In a way, their state-wise identity isn’t as highlighted. No matter if they are Punjabi or Malayali, their identity is simplified or homogenized to just “Indian.”

But when we shift the lens to our own country, the state-wise differences become more evident than ever. Sadly, as soon as people realize you belong to a certain part of the country, the stereotypes and snide remarks follow suit. Some stereotypes might not be harmful, but others are eroding the social fabric of our nation.

Stereotypes like, “If you’re a Bihari, you are uneducated or you like to eat paan,” or “As a Punjabi, you must love to drink alcohol and you’re loud all the time.” The experience of belonging to a certain place isn’t the same for everyone. While there might be some common factors, everyone’s experience of their own identity is going to be unique to them.

This article is about my interstate identity, differences, and belonging. The first half of this article is dedicated to all those times I was “Bengali enough”. My parents were born and brought up in West Bengal but settled in Gurgaon long back, which led to me being born in Gurgaon.

In other words, I became a “Probashi” “Probashi” (বা সী ) is a Bengali word that refers to a person who lives outside of their native Bengal, often in a foreign country or a different part of India , which singlehandedly ruined my life.

When people ask me where I belong, just saying “I’m from Bengal” doesn’t cut it for me. But I also can’t say, “I belong to Gurgaon.” Neither of the two statements give a full picture. Because if I’m a Bengali, then how come I can’t write Bangla, and if I’m not, then how can I speak Bangla?

Some common experiences from my childhood, shared with my other Bengali friends (who live in the northern regions), included getting judgmental looks over our non-vegetarian food habits, people pronouncing our names wrong (if “Maiti” — my last name — is the hardest word they’ve come across, “Mukhopadhyay” is sure to send them into a stroke), getting bullied because we are not fair-skinned like our North Indian counterparts, and, worst of all, enduring “black magic jokes,” which are just not funny.

One anecdote that particularly stands out was when a classmate of mine in third grade came up to me and said with a deadpan face that she saw a video of Bengalis eating savagely with their hands, implying that my people and I are uncultured. I did not know what to say to that, so I stayed quiet. I guess that is where it all started for me. I was suddenly made conscious of my multifaceted identity and the judgment I would face for the rest of my school life.

University/college life was somewhat better, as the crowd was more diverse. I had more representation, but the stereotypes still carried forward just the same. I often observed that kids from other states were quick to find their own people and retract into their groups because the general public and their racism was a nightmare.

Now, coming to the lesser of the two pressing issues. This part of the article is dedicated to all the times I was not “Bengali enough”. When I don’t eat fish or hate roshogolla, people around me don’t miss the opportunity to taunt me for it. Once or twice is fine, but it has become a running commentary in the background of my life. My friends often come to me with questions related to my culture. When I’m unable to answer some of them, they are quick to say, “Oh, how can you call yourself a Bengali?”

Suddenly, I’m supposed to be a certain way, eat a certain way, like and dislike certain things depending on my state-wise identity. If I don’t perform accordingly, then I’m told I’m not who I claim to be. These people make it a point to rub this opinion in your face as if I’m going around committing identity theft in broad daylight.

All I have to say to them is, “Go get yourself a certified Bengali and make sure they come with an authenticity stamp.” The way I see it, my state-wise identity is just a social construct, like gender, family structures, social classes, etc.

At the end of the day, when I’m asleep, I’m not consciously aware if I am a woman, just like I’m not aware if I am a Bengali. So, these labels are not serving me; rather, they’re for people around me to categorize and put me in one of the neatly organized shelves.

On a personal level, I’ve always seen my multifold identity as an advantage. It gave me a wider perspective of the world from a young age. I had exposure and access to twice the amount of literature and media (from both states) compared to my other North Indian friends. As a whole, I want to say we got exposure to two different cultures in limiting capacities, which helped us belong to neither fully. At times, we got teased and bullied for our identities, and other times, our identity itself was denied to us.

So, NO, while I navigate the myriad of problems and challenges that come with my dual identity, I will not let you shame me for who I am. I will not let you make me question who I am. Can anyone’s identity ever be contained by a single word? I am a complex person with my own rich, vivid inner life and its intricacies.

In short, being a Bengali, Bihari, Malayali, or Odia is not a cosplay, and you’re not my audience. Why must I entertain you?

Go get a life now.

- Ankita is an english literature graduate, now working as a social media manager with a keen interest in human driven stories.

Disclaimer- The views and opinions expressed in this article are solely those of the author in their personal capacity. They do not reflect or represent the official stance, policies, or position of The Mooknayak or its editorial team.