I thought that moving to India with a decent command of Hindi would serve me well in situations of conflict or tension: the ability to understand what I am being told and asked, the sense of trust built when you speak the same language as another. However, a legacy of colonialism and the realities of economic mobility and class have come into play when I make the decision to speak Hindi, English, or a combination of both. When your Hindi is fluent but tinged with the accent of a language learner, it is difficult for people to place exactly where you are from—not quite from here, but not quite not from here either. With my North Indian ethnic origins, when I speak in Hindi I tend to be perceived as an Indian who was maybe educated abroad or from the South of India, resulting in very curious comments from strangers. Amongst a group of white American friends, I was mocked as their “translator.” If I had 100 rupees for every time someone has asked if I am Malayalee, from the state of Kerala, I might have an extra month’s worth of stipend.
My ascribed identity is in flux—a fluidity that has turned me into an object of curiosity and revealed to me the realities of stereotypes in India through the way strangers interact with my various selves. Indian bachelors do not have the best reputation among authority figures—whether that is landlords, the police, or even just society at large. And when you have dyed hair and several piercings like I did for several months of the Fellowship, I seemed to only double down on the negative notions associated with bachelors. This has resulted in several situations where police in Gujarat have searched me for alcohol, as it is a dry state, or where, when I am getting any sort of administrative work done, I am treated with a kind of disposability.
At first, I navigated these situations in Hindi, thinking that a local language would ease the tension. Yet that only reinforced the disrespect or haste with which I was treated—officers or people talking in the informal command form: “open the bag”—“bag khol,” “bring this paper back signed”—“sign karke wapas la.” Being spoken to in this tone gets exhausting very quickly, and the main reason this was happening was that I was being perceived within the bounds of Indian norms.I then thought to myself: what if I pretended that I didn’t know Hindi? Lean into the act of a clueless foreigner? India is a country known for its hospitality towards outsiders; by actively portraying myself as an outsider, I could be granted the grace that is often offered to foreigners—as opposed to the indifference shown to the average local. Yet I would still know enough about the language and culture to understand if I was being taken advantage of.
This concept is known as code-switching—switching between languages or language modes based on context—and I decided to actively use it, playing into the privilege that is ascribed to my American identity, intentionally, knowing that the consideration given to foreigners is partially a result of the economic disparity between the U.S. and India, and a general reverence for things that are foreign. When I revealed that I was American, officers who had asked me for alcohol left me alone. People became curious—some even expressed pride at how “our people have made it there”—and almost everyone insisted on treating me to a snack or drink, leaving me with some unsolicited advice about life in India. Personally, taking advantage of this lens that Indians seem to apply to foreigners from the West felt wrong—but it was also a tool to get by.
In April, my phone was stolen from a train. I was taking a weekend trip from my host city Anand, Gujarat, to Mumbai—a journey I had gotten quite accustomed to, as Mumbai became my urban escape whenever I felt bored in Anand. I had just woken up when my phone was snatched from my pocket. I was in shock—everything from my contacts to banking, maps, and communication was gone, all in one of the biggest cities in the world. At first, the experience was jarring. It seemed like the staff at the station had no patience for my problem. It was early in the morning, and in a city as big as Mumbai, phone thefts are probably a common occurrence. I was speaking in Hindi, and it felt like I was burdening the officers by asking for help—reflected in their tone and annoyance at having to deal with this so early.
I was confronted with the lethargy of bureaucracy when that bureaucracy considers you insignificant. I logged into iCloud on the officer’s phone—I saw my iPhone travelling in real time, away from the station. Yet that active lead was again met with indifference. I was angry—here was concrete information about where my phone was, and nothing was being done. I decided I had had enough of speaking in Hindi. I pulled out my American English, instantly revealing that I was a foreigner. They asked where I was from, and I said the U.S. There was an immediate shift in how they interacted with me—an urgency emerged, even more apparent when contrasted with how they treated a local person whose phone had also been stolen around the same time. What had been mutual indifference now became a stark contrast, highlighting the privileges allotted to foreigners.
We were then sent to a unit of the railway police at a different station. There, I continued to play into my Americanness. The officers bantered with me about the American elections and even invited a colleague to come see that they were serving a videshi (foreigner). This colleague promised he would personally track the phone for me—a promise not given to the other person whose phone had been stolen. Both officers then probed whether I knew Hindi. Letting go of the act, I spoke in my fluent Hindi. They were shocked, and lavished praise on a way of speaking that would have otherwise been met with the same ennui and indifference I had experienced earlier.
Though this was the urgency I had wanted, it felt bitter and unearned. A peer who had just experienced the same fate was made to wait and spoken to in a ruder, informal tone. Unfortunately, how you are perceived holds significant weight in institutions that are meant to serve us all—like the police. It’s a reality I knew growing up in the U.S., but one that was still disheartening to confront.I left the station with a twisted sense of hope—knowing that my phone would probably be found, but most likely because of the effort being made for a foreigner with an iPhone.
After managing the rest of my trip with a cheap burner phone and returning to Gujarat, I got a call a week later saying they had found my iPhone. When I was asked to come and collect it, I said it wasn’t possible as I had work and was moving to Delhi soon, but that I might be able to in a while. My perceived privilege once again crept into the dynamic: “Aap ke liye toh yeh aana ka kharcha kuch hoga nahin na?” (“The money to come isn’t much for you, right?”), the officer on the line said. This whole ordeal concluded with yet another reminder that one’s perceived class, no matter how authentic, shapes the way institutions respond—or don’t—to your concerns. “Agar main Hindi mein baat karta, shayad mera phone nahi milta.” (If I had spoken in Hindi, I might not have gotten my phone back.)
