"Oh my GOD!" I screamed. You could tell she was trying very hard to hold back her laughter. I, on the other hand, was trying my hardest not to cry. "God damn!" Another white sticky strip revealed a thick patch of black hair.
I hadn't the foggiest idea why I was sitting in the beautician's flat-turned-beauty salon getting all the arm hair ripped off my tanned arms. I just wanted to get my eyebrows threaded and maybe a facial if it wasn't going to be too expensive. But as I was about to get off the barber chair and hand her the wad of rupees my mother gave me earlier, she grasped my arms and clicked her tongue disapprovingly. In Marathi she told me that I wasn't planning on leaving here until she waxed my arms. Her eyes never left my arms as I told her in my broken Marathi that I didn't think it was that bad. Suddenly my sister chimed in that she was glad to have someone point out my 'monkey arms'.
Ten minutes later I was cursing and hooting loudly, while my sister kept a steady hand on my shoulder and the beautician ripped away at the one thing that kept my arms warm from a gentle breeze. To distract me, the beautician began to pepper me with questions about my life in America. 'Boyfriend?' she would say in skeptical English I rolled my eyes and she laughed. 'No boyfriend,' I told her, 'too busy with my career.' She huffed a little and continued to slather my arms with wax. I told her that in America, I was trying becoming a journalist. It was hard work, and because of that I didn't have time for a boyfriend--or in her case a husband. She smiled at me and stared hard--almost examining me.
She thought I was in India visiting because I was trying to find a husband. Her son was around my age. Working in Pune as an engineer but currently in Goa preparing for a New Year's party. It was the awkward pause in the air--her son. Me. My age. My citizenship. Our unmentioned perfect fit. No deal. No way. And it's very simple why: me and her son are two very different breeds of Indians.
There are a new breed of Indians walking around in the motherland. They are the generation Y of India and quite honestly, they terrify me. Partly because I don't give them the ample amount of time and energy to listen to them. My fault. But partly because this new breed of Indians just distances me farther from a people I'm supposed to feel connected to. Their fault.
This new breed of Indians are the complete opposite of the previous generation of Indians that immigrated to the U.S. (what I like to think are my parents). I'll call them, Generation Y Hindustanis and they are an incredibly proud people. They love India--deeply-- the way I love chocolate. It's a flourishing passion-- for a country that is so incredibly eclectic it puts those documentaries you might catch on the Travel Channel to shame. This pride extends to every facet of their lives-- from their education to their iPods (Yes iPods in India. None of my new gadgets impressed my cousins this time around). To these Indians there is no turning cheek to the motherland. It's mama after all and I can't blame them, but I have every right to be baffled by them-- especially when they come to the U.S. bearing the same attitude.
My parents came to this country starving for a change of scenery. They were reluctant at first but came from a family without luxuries and therefore brought with them a curious eye to the States. They tried pizza for the first time, found the similarities between Mexican grocery stores and open bazaar markets back home. They met new people who wore 10-gallon-bucket cowboy hats and spoke with a twang that my mother later admits she couldn't understand. They listened to a Dolly Parton tape (and still do).
Mom told me later that she and my father had plans to go back to India. But then they had children (a pretty great pair of them if I may say so myself) and everything changed. Suddenly they didn't see strange accents or odd-smelling food--they saw schools that held more computers than my father had ever seen growing up. They saw clean water, streets and homes. And wonderful neighbors who's children could play with their own. They saw potential in the U.S. something today's Generation Y Hindustanis don't see in the U.S. anymore--or perhaps ever did see.
America's Generation YMy mother's friend from India recently came to stay with us. Her daughter, son-in-law and granddaughter are living the States right now, but plan to move back to India within this next year. Fine. Dandy. But then I hear from my mom's friend that this small family has been living in the states for almost a year, completely void of everyday items. For example--they don't have any furniture. They sleep on the floor. They refuse to let their two-year-old daughter play with anyone but Hindu, Indian children. You've got to be kidding me right? I wasn't aware of any of this. Before our friend came to stay with us I would often talk to her daughter and ask about how she was enjoying living in the states--"Horrible" she would tell us over the phone. "I can't wait to go back," she would tell us in a whiny tone.
Horrible? This coming from a woman who has spent the rest of her life in a third-world country? Where toilet paper has yet to be popularized? Us? Horrible? What's the deal here? I pegged her right then and there as a Generation Y Hindustani. After our guest went back to her daughter's family (and eventually back to India) my parents began to rant about the Indians who come to American today. "Spoiled brats" says my father. He recalls meeting a new employee at work who came straight from India and was planning on living in the States for about two years (or perhaps indefinitely). "His first car?" my dad asks me, "A Lexus! The man was driving a Lexus!"
(dallas morning news) India's Generation Y
The American dream is gone when an immigrant couple purchase a brand new Lexus as their very first American car. What happened to those Indians who were poorer than dirt back in India and worked to the bone to get here? Where are those Ellis Island immigrants that came to the states, had a kid and then thought, "This is where I want to raise my child,"?Is it us? Did the US loose all that shimmer and gleam it had back in the day? Has it drifted from that Land of Milk and Honey reputation? I can't say--but i can say that Indians now see Paris Hilton and mini skirts when they think of the US--and that can't be good for our reputation.
Generation Y Hindustanis don't dream of minimum wage like the previous generation of immigrants did. They live in the motherland right her in the states--they don't have to leave India while they stay here temporarily. They come they eat they leave. They are like in-laws to the U.S. And that's shameful. They toot their horns at us, and tell us (first generation Americans) we aren't Indian--they tell us that we are the foolish ones for going to school here and eating hot dogs--for celebrating Diwali and Halloween in the same month. Generation Y Hindustanis snuff their noses at us. And it's a damn shame too--because I feel sorry for them.
I remember in college how the study abroad office would remind students to appreciate, respect and integrate into the new countries they were going to be living in. But are we then pegged as flag-wearing republicans when we ask foreigners to do the same for us? There is something incredibly wonderful about this country and I take great pride in the fact that I live here. But I don't like seeing immigrants--more particularly Indians treat us like a doormat. Live properly if you live here--sleep in a bed (especially when you have a kid). Try unique foods, be open to diversity, change and adventure.
I urge this new breed of Indians to shrug aside the image they may have of the US (French fry eating, Britney Spears freaks) and take in their surroundings and realize how completely easy they have it today. Perhaps it's that India isn't the same as it was when my parents left. It's far more Westernized for sure--and perhaps that translates into a fresher mindset than what my parents lived with. I'm learning slowly that being an immigrant today is not the same as being an immigrant 20 years ago. It's harder and it's easier at the same time...so is there really a resolution here? Something to calm me down?
It seems that every time I go back to India, I leave something behind. This time around it was my arm hair but a little respect for India is left behind as well. It's a tragedy to see this new generation of indians walk into the US--and I'm well aware that not all of them are the same--but I hope that with more immigration and more travel--both the US and India can change--could we both learn a lesson here? I hope so.
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