A collection of stories outlining the liminal space of trying to be both “Indian” and “Canadian” enough during the holidays inspired by Edward Said’s postcolonialism.
ਜੈਸਮੀਨ ਕੌਰ ਗਰਚਾ | Jasmine Garcha (she/her) // Arts and Culture Editor
Andrei Gueco (he/him) // Illustrator
Part I: Orientalism
I grew up being told I smell like curry, that only men should have moustaches and that my mehndi—my henna—looked like shit stains. I didn’t realize it was racism until I learned what race was.
Now, it’s hard not to see it everywhere. On every Instagram post about Indians globally, even in India, the comments are flooded with racism. We don’t live up to ‘‘model minority” standards. Or, I guess, they don’t. I’m not always considered one of them.
I hate when people call me “one of the good ones” when they wouldn’t consider my parents the same. I have the accent, sure, but not the full pantheon of Western values. I still eat with my hands and grease my hair with coconut oil because I value the wisdom of my ancestors over the words of your scientists.
After stumbling over explanations, I snap back into the moment when a man tells me he’s always wanted to be with a brown girl. I leave the bar. I should have spent my birthday at home.
Being called “foreign trash” was simple, but now, Western men call me exotic and the women draw SpongeBob characters with mehndi that I used to only see at weddings.
Part II: Hybridity
Dussehra—the last day of a festival called Navratri—marks Lord Rama’s defeat of Ravana, the 10-headed demon king. Hindus celebrate by blowing up Ravana. Recreations of him, I mean.
My mom taught me this. We’re not Hindu, but some of Ma’s school friends were. They visited each other’s places of worship, Hindu mandirs and Sikh gurdwaras.
On Dussehra, Sikhs visit the gurdwara for prayer and kirtan, which is like musical prayer. I used to take kirtan classes at the gurdwara where I learned to play harmonium, a British instrument used in classical Punjabi music. I quit because my kirtan teacher hit me. That was what she had learned back home. I, being born in Canada, was taught that this is wrong.
Following Dussehra, Diwali celebrates Rama’s return from battle. On this day, Sikhs celebrate Bandi Chhor Diwas for a similar reason; our sixth Guru’s return after escaping imprisonment.
Bandi Chhor was on Halloween this year. I don’t know which was the priority, if any. I wore Lululemon leggings under my kurta to visit the gurdwara. We didn’t visit on Dussehra, but my Nani, my maternal grandma, sent me greetings on WhatsApp that day.
Part III: Mimicry
For Sikhs, the end of the year is a time of mourning for the tenth Guru’s four children who were martyred in the Battle of Chamkaur.
However, we live in the West. So, we put up a tree, threw a party and exchanged presents on Christmas. We wore ugly Christmas sweaters, of which I own five, and ate mac and cheese. My cousins organized games after conducting TikTok research about Christmas-related activities.
Ma says since we live in the colonizer’s country, we have to play by their rules. I wonder if she felt the same about India.
Part IV: Othering
I still don’t know whether to call myself Indian. I call myself Punjabi in ethnicity and Sikh in religion. My birth certificate tries to make me feel comfortable calling myself Canadian. But Indian? The pendulum swings back and forth.
My Indian friends call me Canadian and my Canadian friends call me Indian.
When friends ask if I celebrate Christmas, I can’t say yes without also explaining that although my family is not Christian, the holiday has come to transcend religion. We celebrate in a Canadian way, not a Christian way.
My Indian friends didn’t invite me to garba for Navratri, but I don’t know how to dance, anyway. I don’t hear from them around the holidays.
Part V: Resistance
It’s almost the Gregorian New Year. The Sikh New Year is marked by Punjab’s harvest, so I wear yellow in anticipation although it won’t happen for another few months, I think. We didn’t learn Sikhi’s Nanakshahi calendar in Sunday classes at the gurdwara.
My children will celebrate Sikh holidays despite not getting the day off. I still question why the Gregorian calendar rules my life in a country that was force-fed Christianity in the first place.
After our New Year will come Vaisakhi, marking the creation of Sikhi’s formal initiation, similar to what you would call a baptism. We celebrate with a mela, a parade, even here. Several blocks of South Vancouver will be closed.
When Sikhi’s initiation was created, second names that symbolize equality were added to our first. I’ve begun to change how I introduce myself in our English-first world; I now write my name first in Punjabi, then English.
My name is ਜੈਸਮੀਨ ਕੌਰ (Jasmine Kaur). You can call me Jasmine.
