Youth: The Missing Dandiya
When I was eleven, I lost my favorite dandiya stick before going to garba, the Gujarati folk dance that especially comes alive during the festival of Navratri. At the time, losing this dandiya stick may not have been significant to me but little did I know that it would become a reminder of who I am today.
[Left] The author(L) and her friend in traditional Indian attire.
I grew up in a Gujarati household in suburban Atlanta. From a young age, I was exposed to Indian culture with my yearly trips to India, learning Gujarati, and participating in Indian camps. I remember being enveloped in festive lights and eating sugary laddoos with my cousins during Diwali.
A good bit of my childhood was spent at the Gujarati Samaj, the community center in Tucker, Georgia. From garbas and Diwali dinners to camps and competitions, I was there a lot throughout the year. Personally, the Samaj was more than just a center that held cultural events—it was where I first conquered my stage fright by performing in a singing competition. Not only was it the first place that I went to for garba, but it was also a second home to my grandpa who spent his time volunteering there for years.
As a child, I was not ashamed of my Indian stuff. I would proudly take my Parle Kream Chocolate biscuits to school and make it a point to share them with friends at lunch. For show-and-tell in elementary school, I often brought my Indian Barbie dolls with their traditional Indian attire and jewelry.
However, as I got to middle school, I began to break away from my Indian culture. Middle school is a stressful time in our lives as we step out from the innocence of elementary school and become more aware of our surroundings. I, too, began to grow conscious of my Indian identity and how I stood out from my classmates. Being in a predominantly white school, I felt compelled to fit in as much as possible. Oreos began to replace the Parle Kream cookies in my lunch box. I began acting and dressing like my classmates with the latest cheerleader bows, Abercrombie skirts, and Ugg boots. I stopped going to garbas, and now I went to the temple only once a year around Diwali. Soon my fluency in Gujarati deteriorated, as I started speaking only in English even at home.
It wasn’t until my sophomore year of high school that I finally embraced my Indian identity all over again. It started by going to garbas again. Walking into the Gujarati Samaj hall after several years, it really hit me how much I had missed being there. A feeling of excitement rushed inside me as I heard the rhythm of the teen-taalii (three clap version of the garba dance). The familiar loud chatter of several conversations going on at the same time, along with throngs of revelers dancing in circles with a trance-like euphoria around the portraits of the Gods and Goddesses pl-aced in the center of the circle, brought back a flood of memories. After pushing away my culture for several years, it felt good to be surrounded by so many other Indian- Americans who had been raised like me.
Being at garba made me realize how the other Indian teenagers there were just like me, and that we had all gone through this identity struggle at some point in our lives. From then on, no longer did I force myself to conceal my culture. Rather, when the opportunity came to embrace it, I did. In fact, that day at garba served as a turning point in my life where I stepped back into light from the life I had been forcing myself to live—as one who was diffident about her ethnic roots.
Since then, I gravitated towards meeting fellow Indian-Americans. I started going to Holi events in March, garbas in October, and Diwali festivals in November. I started stepping out of my comfort zone in school as well. In fact, for International Night at my school, I performed a Bollywood dance with a few other South Asian girls. That was the first time I started embracing my heritage at school since my elementary school days. I wore a chaniya choli and performed a dance to the popular Bollywood song Prem Ratan Dhan Payo in front of hundreds of people.
In my junior year of high school, I had the opportunity of becoming International Club President at my school. I knew that this club could really help people like me who were once afraid to show their ethnic background, and that the most important part of this position was for me to help people embrace their culture. Soon I began to organize cultural events such as El Dia de Los Muertos, Three Kings’ Day and Lunar New Year to help members from different backgrounds feel more confident with embodying their multi- cultural identities.
Personally, my favorite memory of that club was discussing a Diwali Night with the members and making a list of all the different Indian foods the members wanted to try! Recognizing that non-Indians took an interest in my culture made me realize that I shouldn’t have been afraid to accept my identity in the first place.
If there’s anything I’ve learned as I have grown into my identity as an Indian-American, it is that you shouldn’t live with the fear of what people will think about your culture. Instead, be willing to step out of your comfort zone and educate non-Desis who may not know much about Indian culture whether it’s through inviting them to Holi or a Diwali party.
Recently, when I was cleaning out my shoe closet last month, to my surprise, the missing dandiya stick from my childhood reappeared right in front of my eyes. Even though I had pushed away my culture for several years, recovering the missing dandiya stick stood as a reminder that just like that beautiful memory from my childhood, my Indian heritage would always come back to me in the end.
Pooja Patel currently works at the U.S. House of Representatives in Washington D.C. She is very passionate about advocating for humanitarian causes and runs a self-care/wellness blog in her free time.
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