This article is written by a student writer from the Her Campus at Flame U chapter and does not reflect the views of Her Campus.
Growing up in Mumbai, and having had the past three generations of my family grow up there, I developed a sort of ‘liminal’ identity. In terms of my culture and traditions, I’ve always been stuck in a grey area, which I would like to call the “third- culture identity” zone. And for a lot of reasons, it’s not the best zone to be in, for a sort of angsty, but also a somewhat wistful, new teenager, trying to understand who you are, and what your place is in the world (read: school).
I guess this is something most desi kids grow up grappling with. With the amount of whitewashing on the internet, and the way we were secretly green-eyed towards that one American cousin’s “high school dream life”, which included lockers, prom, and far too many Disney movies that made it seem like I was missing out on the world. I grew up resenting my own diluted culture even more. My mom would insist I wear itchy pattu pavadais and tie my hair with mallipoo, things my school friends found silly. Looking back now, it feels a little ridiculous that I felt embarrassed by it. Because growing up in Mumbai, I’ve learnt to appreciate those few festivals we celebrated: diluted, yes, but deeply personalised. The kind of make-shift traditions that “real” South Indians might scoff at. Pongal was one of them. And in its own quiet, imperfect way, it felt like ours.
At home, Amma would lay fresh flowers on the swami padi. Even though we’re largely non-religious, she did it to make her mother happy. I used to find that upsetting, watching her perform something she didn’t fully believe in. But now, I see how much joy it brings my grandparents. It’s simply something they grew up doing, and maybe that’s all it means. My favourite part about Pongal now, is the slightly ugly, but very intentional kolam my parents and I make together, knowing very well, one of us is going to forget about it while leaving home in a rush, and brushing it off in a jiffy. But we do it every year anyway. We eat chakkarai pongal with the rest of the family, and the cousins end up in a rather aggressive game of uno, or worse, mono deal.
I guess what I’m really trying to say is that most of the things I grew up resenting, or simply didn’t have the patience for, are the very things I’ve come to hold close. Growing up in Mumbai, everything moved fast: friendships, or ideas of what felt “cool.” But returning to my culture in small, imperfect ways gave me something unexchangable: stillness and a good time with the people I love.