On a warm, sunny evening in mid-February, I found myself pacing somewhat aimlessly up and down the platform of a small train station just outside of Mysore. I was sent by Eleanor and Europa (co-Fellows and travel partners on this weekend getaway) to investigate why our train had ground to a halt after travelling the gargantuan distance of 4 kilometres. For the first hour of our mysterious delay, the mood was light as the three of us laughed about the weekend’s escapades, but as time went on and Eleanor’s flight from Bangalore loomed larger, we needed an answer. Thankfully, just as I had given up hope, the train began to move. Now, if you know me well, you’re familiar with my love of a (usually harmless) prank. Buoyed by relief that Eleanor would make her flight and we’d all be back in Bangalore by dinner time, I enlisted the help of a kind stranger in concocting a mischievous plan.
In what I was later told was an Oscar winning performance, said stranger disappeared into the carriage to tell Eleanor and Europa that he had seen me stranded on the platform as the train left the station. Eleanor, convinced I was gone forever, rushed to my rescue and found me giggling in the train’s vestibule. Europa, who hadn’t budged, had a different reaction.
“You’re white,” she smirked. “Everyone would’ve helped you.”
“Not necessarily,” I replied, slightly wounded. “I didn’t have my phone or anything.”
“You’re white. People would’ve been lining up to help you.”
Living in India is the first time I’ve seriously thought about the color of my skin. That’s not entirely true–in high school and college I took classes on race and frequently reflected on the privilege I carry in the context of America’s systemically engineered hierarchies. As the product of extremely progressive parents, I feel well-versed in the mechanics of social stratification and narratives of oppression that have shaped our global history. I’ve often thought about how my whiteness affects the way people perceive me as a dominant majority, but not since spending time in India, have I had to think about the inverse: being viewed, in the literal sense, as a minority. As strange, different, and “other.” As something worthy of a photo. Like India’s famous endangered tigers, a mythic beast of popular imagination seen by few in the wild. That was a joke. Mostly.
Navigating the complexities of this unfamiliar terrain, I find myself longing for the simplicity of Dora, the beloved American children’s TV character. With the help of her trusty map and best friend Boots, she goes on epic adventures and conquers uncharted territory. Inspired by Dora, I have created my own map, a series of “locations” (moments, stories, experiences) that have informed how I understand my whiteness in India.
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- At the Kali Temple, Pagavadh. Watching a possessed woman part the thousands strong crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea. Along the way, she grabbed people and screamed in their faces. Please Maa Kali, don’t let her pick me. All 6’3 of me makes me an easy target.
- At a University outside of Bangalore. As thrilling as it was to be a guest judge for a social impact poster competition, I can’t think of a single reason for the invitation other than the fact I am white. Especially since my fellow judges were twice my age and had triple the professional accomplishments.
- At my HO’s School. The children scream every time they see me coming to play duck-duck-goose. I think this is as close to feeling like a celebrity I’ll ever get.
- At Museums and cultural sites. Every time I have to pay the foreigner price, I wince a little. I totally get why it exists, but that doesn’t make the outrageous markup any easier. Why can’t they tell that I’m an eighth Gujarati?!
- In my office. I usually feel underwater at the haphazard and chaotic state of affairs and relative absence of structure, time, and organization. I’m told that this is just how Indian NGOs work. Does that mean that my frustration is just an unhealthy projection of my inculcated western standards of professionalism?
- At my apartment complex. My neighbors are always looking out for me. There’s a never-ending flow of food, advice, and help with whatever challenge I might be trying to deal with.
- At the home of a director/actor/chef friend. Of the few times I have overpromised on my spice tolerance, eating a bowl of otherwise white alfredo pasta laced with an exquisite number of green chillies takes the cake. The laughter that ensued haunts me to this day.
- On a bus(s). I’ve seen my life flash before my eyes on two Indian buses. Once, en route from Chandigarh to Ajmer the driver threatened to kill us all. Another time, I almost passed out from heatstroke on a non-ac bus that was trapped in a landslide while traveling from Pathankot to Dharamshala. In both cases, I hoped my whiteness would save me, or at least earn me pity.
Of course, many of these “locations” reflect the broader experience of being an outsider, to which whiteness is simply shorthand. The color of my skin marks me as someone who doesn’t belong, and therefore should be subjected to a different kind of treatment. This goes both ways. I experience extraordinary kindness and joy (see 3 & 6) and inconvenience and dread (see 4 & 8). But the ones I wrestle with the most are 2 & 5. It feels like I am subjected to a certain kind of privilege, largely undeservingly, by a country with a deeply complicated and traumatic relationship to whiteness. How much of the way I am perceived and treated is a symptom of colonial hangover? The British–white people–brought extraordinary damage to India, most notably through partition which split the country into three, led to the largest human migration in history, and the death of more than a million people. Their map of India is in no small part responsible for the legacy with which I am currently contending. Maps, as it so happens, are one of the best ways to understand the impact of systemic racism. They reflect the power and privilege of their makers, usually white people, and throughout history have been used to allocate and restrict resources. In Washington DC, where I grew up, maps determine access to school districts, access to parks and green space, and public transit that favor historically white communities over black ones.
That said, it’s hard to make a perfect map. Maps are, by default, imperfect because they reflect individual and human biases, prejudice, and privilege. For this reason, I like to think about maps not for what they literally represent, but for where they can take us. I am confident that the map I am building throughout my time in India will help me better navigate my whiteness here and anywhere I go in the future. My whiteness map is full of so many lessons, I think my favorite of which is that humor (even the self-deprecating kind) goes a long way. And of course, a map is only as good as the friends you have along for the adventure. Shoutout Eleanor and Europa.
In the immortal words of Dora, “Chalo. Let’s go!”
