DESIGIRLthe journey from contaminated to exotic to

quirky white gurl Friday night attire

Ishani Jasmin

in third grade, my oldest cousin got married - to a manshe’d met twice. irrelevant, tho - she was cool. i

always liked her, even though she’s still twenty yearsolder than me. we flew out to go see them for a week.the wedding was really hectic and fun, i got confidentabout dancing for the first time in my entire life. i’ve

always loved to dance but i have no idea how to do itto white music, even now. i find confidence is key, buthonestly i’m not sure because ‘key’ basically means

once i was in a club in bath like a year ago and istarted dancing with my friends and someone pointed

at me and yelled, ‘i want that one!’ so i stoppeddancing and for the rest of the evening i focused onkeeping my elbows pointed out to hurt anyone whocame near me. the last night at the wedding, i got

henna done - i had to sit still the whole evening withmy hands carefully outstretched so that it wouldn’t

come off or smudge on anyone’s outfit, and i definitelywasn’t allowed to dance. i slid my arms carefully into

my pajamas that night before bed, and my mumsquirted lemon juice all over my palms to make surethat it stayed where it was. in the morning, i washedthe mud off, and it was dark orange and beautiful onmy skin. i stared at it periodically on the eight hour

flight home. i didn’t even sleep. i was so happy. but onmonday morning i went to school and the kids were

grossed out when i waved. they said it was disgusting,said i would give them a disease. they told the teacherand i had to stay inside for the rest of the day. it wasnothing new - with my eczema, they thought they’dcatch that too. but it’s just one thing after another.

My university’s art campus is stuffed with students who see it their daily mission to be the most unique and fashionable. A lot of this do this by cultural appropriating - and desi culture is so frequently the target.

As a desi woman, I am constantly aggravated by seeing non-desi people with henna and bindis. Sure, if you’re actually connected or are a part of the culture, do it. Of course, the bindi is both religious and fashionable, and so it is easier to argue that it is not offensive. But what is offensive is that so many desi girls have been bullied in the past for this. Their mothers have been pulled apart by kids in the playground, and by middle-class white women at home when you can’t hear them anymore. You, on the other hand, won’t be bullied or stigmatised, because you’re white and being quirky.

I have never been particularly attached to my Indian side - my mum and dad are extremely westernised in terms of fashion. The only Indian infl uences in my life are ZeeTV, B4U and Sony Television, and the only way anyone can even tell I am Indian myself is if they see me with my dad or granddad, both bearing strong Indian accents because they were born there (and migrated over to England). I have also rejected being a religious Hindu: I am agnostic and could never participate in the religion half-heartedly. I’d feel pressured to have a prayer room and go to the temple every week and never eat beef. As a kid, I did go to the Mandir once or twice: looked at some statues of gods, put some money into the donation boxes - but I never felt connected to that either.

Every year, my granddad comes over to my house and performs the Rakhi ceremony with my brother and I. After the ceremony, we would put rice and red pigment on each others foreheads as a sign of respect and love - usually called a tillak or tika. We do. I used to feel embarrassed about this, because some of my family are half-white and thus even more so detached from their Indian side. They would laugh at this red mark, and laugh at me for wearing it.

It was only when I got older that I became more interested in this part of me. This year I bought my fi rst salwar kameez. I was never comfortable with embracing my Indian side, because my skin is light and my name is Natasha and no one actually believes that I am Indian, and so I felt that if I were to, I would be grouped with the same people who appropriate the culture. So, I am still wary of really allowing it to infl uence my style, but desperate to do so all the while. And at the same time, this year, I started noticing, in particular, how part of my culture’s fashion has been warped, almost stolen, because it’s so ‘beautiful’ and ‘exotic’.

It just seems like I’ve only started connecting with it, and it’s already being taken away.

DISCONNECTEDNATASHA MENDA, UNIVERSITY OF WESTMINSTER

CAN YOUEVEN

PRONOUNCE'SALWAR

KAMEEZ'?

SAY IT WITH ME.

'SALWARKAMEEZ.'

Has the dictionary learned to spell my name yet?I can't wait to see if mine has the little red lines under it.

*According to a penpal survey of approx. 2500, these are some of the most popular Indian names.**According to the Oxford Dictionary, I don't fucking exist.

MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT MY NAME IS NOT A MISPRINT

Guess how many pictures of 'woman wearing bindi' I had to sift through before I found a white woman wearing a bindi.

Haha, right! Three! The tenth result was a picture of Katy Perry! The thirteenth was some girl whose mother has a Hindu friend!

they used to make fun of my mom in the playground for wearing a bindi - and she always smelt too, of cardamom and jasmine and incense sticks. when i frst had a white kid home from school, we sat and played video games on the n64. she didn’t care about nintendo or smash bros but i didn’t know what else to do to distract her from the house. the carpets suddenly reeked of tandoori powder. there were turmeric stains on everyone’s sleeves. i didn’t know then that it meant we were well fed, that we were well looked after, that my parents took good care of me. my rice dishes at school would end up halfway across the table because who the hell trusts a fve year old with rice, daal and a fork to stay tidy anyway? after some complaints from kids to their parents to mine, i got sandwiches instead. i said the crusts were too dry, and i was left to fght against the bland school slop for ten years. ten years without a single fucking pinch of miserable turmeric between the hours of 9 and 4. i really wished i could smell my mom then.

MYFIRST SALWAR KAMEEZ

I had already been into various shops before – rendered speechless by the sheer beauty and luxury that I always saw before me. But every time I went in, I would get looks, stares, and uncomfortable shop assistants coming over to me, asking SPECIFICALLY IN English, ‘Do you need any help?’, so sure that I was defi nitely anything but desi or, in particular, Indian. I realised that I couldn’t come into these stores alone, I would have to go in which my dad – someone with a strong accent. Almost like to prove to them that I had a right like any other desi person, to be treated inclusively.

After years of this, in 2013, I decided it was time to buy a salwar kameez. I went with my dad to Wembley. We passed shop after shop showcasing mostly red and gold garments: wedding attire, I was eventually drawn into a particular one with the most beautiful, colourful clothing I had ever seen in my life. Sunshine yellows, pure liquid golds, the deepest blues, fresh-cut-grass greens!

As I entered the women began to do give the same looks as I had received so many times before, but as soon as my dad started to talk to them, they treated me like a princess. This is an unfortunate thing I think I will always have to deal with when faced with other desi women. But I didn’t let it ruin my experience.

I tried on everything – EVERYTHING. They offered me various colours and patterns, but I kept saying ‘PINK!’, ‘PURPLE!’ and so everything I tried on either made me look like a sparkly strawberry milkshake, or a rich violet night sky jewel.

Eventually I found the perfect one – violet with gold trimmings, with an ombre effect throughout. It wasn’t just the luxurious material and colour, though – it was how it looked on me. As I looked in the mirror, at the gorgeous shape it made, I was overwhelmed by the way it enhanced the golden glow of my skin, the warmth it brought to my hair and the smile it brought to my face.

BINDIS AND BUDDHA TATTOOS:the life and times of Pooja Tirunagari

In Kindergarten, I stood at the front of the class and cried for two hours becauseI didn’t understand a word anyone was saying to me and I wanted to go home.

In Year One, my parents both were working and studying and they had lastnight’s leftovers for breakfast and dinner. My brother and I had cereal andpeanut butter sandwiches.

In Year Two, my mother was told by my teacher to bring a book bag for theafternoons we spent in the library every week. The other kids brought a tote bagand I kept a pillowcase.

In Year Three, I made friends with another Indian girl. She was Catholic, butshe had brown skin and that was enough to connect us amongst the rest that hadlight skin.

In Year Four, I moved from my Catholic primary school to a public one. I’dnever knew that many brown children of my age before.

In Year Five, I went to India in my summer break. The priest told me my namemeant prayer, so God will always be with me and to be proud of a name likethat. I touched his feet and wished Kevin from my tuition knew so he’d stopcalling me names.

In Year Six, I was made fun of for not knowing the difference betweenpronouncing v and w, despite having learnt English four years ago. I’ve neverforgot it since.

In Year Seven, we had multicultural day and I wore a yellow and red Georgettelehenga and another girl wore a two-tone green silk one and after school webought two mango lassis at an Indian restaurant on our way home. We’ve beenfriends ever since.

In Year Eight, I explained to my Malayali best friend the difference betweenpronouncing v and w. She got it, but she didn’t really mind it like I did. I didn’tmind it either after that.

In Year Nine, I went to India for my cousin’s wedding and saw my entireextended family for the first time. I performed a dance for them all the nightbefore the wedding. My mother’s youngest brother cried.

In Year Ten, my father’s youngest brother died. In India, Hindus cry with eachother and stay together for the funeral. They pray and have a wake and bathe toremove the uncleanliness. My mother’s colleagues sent us a sympathy bouquet.No one cried with us.

In Year Eleven, I went to the temple for New Year’s as well as the Buddhisttemple. As there are every year, there were a few white people dressed inorange or white salwar kameez and tilaks on their foreheads. They put theirhands together and bowed slightly as they said their namastes. We did the same.

In Year Twelve, my mother’s parents came to stay with us. It was their secondtime visiting Australia and my first time wishing I had grown up living in India.Unlike my grandfather, my grandmother couldn’t speak English. My whiteneighbours waved at her whenever they saw her across the street and she’dwave back. I cried myself to sleep the night they left.

This year, I went to India for my eighteenth birthday and my both mygrandparent’s 50th wedding anniversaries. I wore a sari and a bindi and a newnecklace that my mother bought me for my birthday and my aunt made biryaniand ordered a cake. My grandaunts and granduncles hugged me gave me theirblessings and even later when I changed into my pyjamas, I couldn’t rid myselfof the thought that I’d never felt like I belonged like this before.

It’s not that I don’t like white people that appropriate myculture. It’s that I don’t like white people that don’tunderstand the culture and meanings behind what

they’re butchering; the very heritage I was made fun ofas a child. Of course, the 30 thousand year history of mycountry will not be affected in any way with your bindi-wearing and Om or Buddha tattoos but when you say

that Indians should just go back to their country ifthey’ve got a problem with your cultural appropriation,

just remember that India did not ask to be white-washed.You did.

THIS IS NOT EVEN AN OM.

DON'T DO US ANY FUCKING FAVOURS.

THUMKA LAGAIKE

SHE'LL ROCK YOUR

WORLD