I am Indian (Part 1)

The very first memory I have of feeling disappointment that I wasn’t born Indian was probably when I was in Primary 4. It was after I had attended a school concert. I had always been a little actress and story-teller but those talents had not yet surfaced for public display – so during this performance I was one of the many convent school girls seated in the audience. Cross-legged on a grey cement floor. Bored.

There seemed to be an endless stream of fluffy tutus attached between pointed toes and raised hands; piano pieces I had never heard before performed with dramatic nodding head movements by a girl wearing very thick black rimmed glasses; other acts which I cannot remember and several high-pitched voices singing a monotonous Chinese song that had the word 'wu' in it. I wanted this concert to end.

Suddenly I heard music from a cassette player start. Deng de getak … deng de getak – it was loud and bold, and this vision in pink, gold, green and orange walked onto the stage – bells tinkling with each step she took - she stopped when she got to the middle of the stage, and striked a pose with her back to the audience. It was an Indian girl from my class. She looked dazzlingly and I hardly recognized her. Her hair was braided in a thick long plaitt that went from the nape of her neck to her waist. It was covered with fragrant white flowers, the kind that grew in my Grandma Winnie's garden, and gold jewellery that glittered as it caught the spotlights. The tinkling sound had come from the bells on the broad anklets she was wearing. I noticed that the bottom of her feet had been stained a bright red. I wanted feet and anklets like that.

And then she started to dance. I couldn’t believe how beautiful it all was, her darkly kajaled eyes, darting from side to side, her fingers moving in different gestures while her hands posed in varied dance movements. She had beautiful red and white dots that had been skillfully painted into a pattern on her forehead and chin, and bright red lips. The most exotic ear-rings encrusted with tiny red stones dangled as they framed her face and she had bangles on both her hands that went from her wrist to half-way up her arm. Her silk costume was blinding, gaudy even. It was something I had only ever seen in black and white, on TV on the Tamil language cultural programmes. I stared at her with my mouth open and I think experienced real jealousy for the first time. I wanted to be her.

News flash ~ Indian Classical Dance classes are not for Eurasian girls. Eurasians go to ballet class and piano lessons.

And so I started piano lessons. I was extremely grateful to my father, as it was an expense he could hardly afford. It was a thoughtful investment. It was going to be a skill that I would take with me when I leave school so I could teach piano lessons from my own home, when I have kids of my own. Everyone thought it was a wonderful idea.

I was ten years old. I wanted to be Indian.