When I first arrived in Jaipur the first thing that really hit me was not so much how different everyone else was from me, but how different I was from everyone else; in particular how American I really am. Part of defining identity is really just drawing the line between self and other. The process is a relative one. And so having only been surrounded by Americans my whole life, my nationality was never essential to my identity. Only when you come up against something so contrary to your nature, or at least certain aspects of your nature, do you begin to see that it’s not actually natural at all.
I like all things chocolate and a big juicy steak। I value privacy and self-sufficiency। I come around to a lot of my decisions via pragmatic reasoning informed by those values. I have a hard time believing that Sai Baba can make a mango appear in his hand, or that curd and rice cures all stomach ailments. I am American, and that’s okay.
Translation: I am the one of America.
A lot of times trying to understand Indian culture is a lot like trying to decode a Hindi sentence. You have to peel away the many layers and re-order the words before you can make any sense of the beautiful symbols, and everything is always more complicated and rich in meaning than first meets the eye.
For example:
The vali (or vala/vale depending on gender and number) tacked onto rahane- is a general term used often in Hindi, which roughly translates into “the one who/of___”. The subzi-vale and fruit-vale and pickles-vale walk around the different colonies all day selling their goods to the residents, singing out their distinct calls, advertising what they have to offer. Walking down Devi Path every morning I hear the vale and I think of the Mai Amrika ki rahanevali hu and it’s like I’m a vali myself, advertising my goods with a distinct Americanness. My clothes, the way I carry myself, and (if I’m alone) my independence as a woman, all call out to passerby’s, Amrika-vali! I am the one of America!
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