In the Middle of Nowhere

My parents yoked me to the idea of a secular Nepal before I was even born. My mother, in a stinging refutation of Samuel Huntington's theory, named me Santosh. "Santosh Kalwar," she said. "Rolls off the tongue, doesn't it." And so it was. Without having done anything I had been born special. As my father said, "There may be many Santoshs, but hardly anyone will have the Kalwar attached to it." As far as I knew, my father was right. Puffed up like a peacock, I straddled my dual 'religiosity' with pride, along with a few fibs.
I soon realized my 'difference' came with its baggage. Did we drink at home? What 'gods' did we worship? But it didn't matter then. I flattered myself by thinking how important I was. These modern-day crusades, I sighed mockingly. But since such queries were so immature, I could never really take offence. Increasingly, I found myself having to become a spokesperson "What is your caste?" I don't know. "Are you Brahmin, or ksherti or Newar?" I don't know, and I don't see the connection. "Has your mother converted? Most people do in these mixed marriages, you know," said an elderly man learnedly. "No, I don't know! Why don't you phone and ask her?" was what I wanted to say.

But I said nothing. At first, I treated these questions as ignorant and impertinent but something I had to get used to. I followed the example of my hero Superman. He had his kryptonite and I had mine. Of course, then it didn't hurt so much. I didn't connect what was happening in the outside world with my life. Nothing anyone said or did could alter our freedom to do that, and be, just be! But things did change. Perhaps I was at fault. In my naiveté, I thought being "confused", as one Indian acquaintance put it, would carry me through. It had for 25 years of my life. I had eaten and drunk, loved and lived with people without bothering who they were. But the world, it seemed, had suddenly become very bothered with who I was.

Why wouldn't the Nepal I had held up to people abroad let me be me? I'm still angry. Some people may ask why. After all, I'm not Indian, at least not in the traditional sense. But this fact has been lost on people who by fixatedly dwelling on the Kalwar, refuse to recognize the Santosh in me.

This ensures that at times, I go along with the Indian caricature they expect me to play. One particular exchange with a colleague comes to mind. "Are you really an Indian? You don't look like one." "I'm sorry," I replied. "I forgot the dhoti to wear at home."