Coming back to my roots: embracing the heritage I hardly know

I’m in my motherland. Well, my Father’s homeland really. But this country holds my heritage, half of it at least. I’m half Indian, half American (Caucasian). I chose this World Race route partially because I’ve always wanted to go back to India. I haven’t been since I was 2 years old and unfortunately, I don’t remember that visit. I don’t really know any of my Indian relatives and am basically ignorant of most of their culture and practices. My Indian father died when I was 10 and was my only connection to India and I just never really tried to understand his culture. It’s ironic because when people look at me, they see Indian. That’s all you see when you look at my face. But I’m so disconnected from my Indian roots, it’s a little ridiculous. I don’t speak Hindi; I’m Christian, not Hindu; and I grew up in America, born and bred. I haven’t seen the latest Bollywood film, or hardly any to be exact, and I don’t know how to cook their cuisine. I’m truly as clueless as any other newcomer to India and that’s really quite sad, I realize. But, the reality is that Indians more readily identify with me because of my Indian features. And with that, comes good and bad consequences.

Often, the locals will speak to me in the local language or Hindi and assume I understand. It takes a bit for them to realize that I, in fact, have no idea what they’re saying and speak only English. They give me a questioning look and then move on. It’s hard sometimes, because I feel dumb since I don’t know my father’s native tongue Hindi. But he never taught me, much to my mom’s chagrin. I feel them judging me and I get tired of having to explain that I don’t know the language. I wish I could converse with them but I just can’t. And you can’t explain all the reasons why in a brief encounter. And that’s okay. It’s humbling, though. Every time it kills a little bit of my pride and forces me to be patient with them, because it’s natural to assume and I shouldn’t hold that against them. But they do extend a lot of grace and are so excited to greet us. They fawn over us and ask our names and tell us we’re beautiful. Such a loving, affectionate, hospitable people. It’s hard to be upset with them for long. Even though they treat us like zoo animals at a petting zoo and don’t respect the American bubble (space issue) in the least.

It’s nice for me because the people naturally feel more safe and comfortable with me. Despite the language barrier, in their eyes, I’m one of them. They gravitate toward me more easily and it takes less time for me to break down trust barriers. So, they’re more affectionate early on and my name is easier to pronounce so they remember it. I get hugs and warm embraces within minutes of meeting them. I even was told to take an 11 month baby home with me to America the other day and the baby doesn’t cry with me. This is a big deal since most babies on the race cry when we look at them, let alone hold them, because the white skin terrifies them. The children at our place come and grab me every time it starts to rain since they know my name is RAINa and they think it’s hilarious. All in all, I fit in easier here than my light-skinned teammates and it’s an advantage that I’m grateful to have. Because it makes it easier to love on these beautiful, loving, kind, servant-hearted Indians, my brothers and sisters in every sense of the word.

I had so much expectation getting ready to go to India and my squadmates kept asking me how I was feeling about it. I was excited but nervous since I feel disconnected from India. I’m not gonna sugar-coat it; Village life is hard, living conditions wise. But it’s so amazing to see how people actually live in the villages, where tourists don’t trespass. To do life with Indians, my people, in the everyday grind.

Boiling rice, manually pumping water from the well, taking a rickshaw or car stuffed with entirely too many people (12 in rickshaw, 9 in sedan) along bumpy unpaved roads, doing laundry out of buckets with the neighbors flocking to help you because you’re obviously incompetent, using the squatty potty area as a place to wash dishes/ brush teeth/ take a bucket shower/ and do your business, sleeping in tents in the church building to keep out mosquitoes, getting henna done from a local tree in the neighbor’s yard and the orange (spray tan gone way wrong) on your left hand/ feet lasting for weeeeks, baking Indian bread “chipati”, helping the kids with their English and listening to their adorable Indian accents, being confined to the church room outside of ministry and being constantly interrupted by children saying “sister” at the door and unscreened windows and trying to touch our faces, get in our tents or “houses”, beg for chocolate  (I want some, if you find some let me know) and test our patience. Privacy??? Haha, forget that.

So, is India all that I expected? Yes and no. It’s harder than I anticipated. But it’s a beautiful kind of hard. It’s developing my character and patience. The people are so welcoming and gracious and make me feel like I’m one of them, even though we share little in common other than my Indian features. I’m grateful for this month in India and I feel that it will be a defining one for my Race and my life. So, thank you, kind people, for loving me as one of your own and taking me in. You make this wayward girl feel a part of this beautiful country and for that, I’m grateful beyond words.