I cringe, shifting uncomfortably as the old shopkeeper scrutinises my face and asks, “Are you not Indian?” He throws a cursory glance at my husband, who looks 100-percent Indian.
“Yes, I’m Indian,” I say. I know what he’s going to ask next.
“Then why do you speak English? Speak Tamil.” He frowns.
“But I can’t. I only speak Malayalam.” Then I ramble on, trying to explain my mixed heritage: We only spoke Malayalam and English at home. I studied Malay because my school didn’t offer Tamil as a second language.
The shopkeeper is determined to have his way. “But your parents at least should have done something about it. Tamil is one of our main languages here.”
We step out of the shop with our purchases, with me feeling irritated. “Why doesn’t he ask you this question? You can’t speak their lingo well, either.” My husband, a man of few words, withdraws into his shell.
This scenario is one of many that I experienced in my early 20s whenever I visited the small shops in Little India. Whether buying a saree or some items for the home, I was constantly faced with criticism because of my inability to communicate in the official Indian language of Singapore. I felt like I had committed a crime.
My mixed Indian-Chinese looks don’t help matters. Strangers invariably mistake me for Malay or some other race. Indian women, upon hearing my name, exclaim, “Oh, you’re Indian, you look Malay!” They then start jabbering away in Tamil, and look pretty crestfallen when they discover I haven’t understood much of what they were on about.
All through my childhood, I grew up feeling inadequate about my looks and identity, even when my identification card clearly states my ethnicity as “Indian”. Somewhere inside me, I thought I didn’t belong anywhere. I saw myself as an ugly duckling, at least by Indian standards. My complexion was neither Chinese nor Indian, while my nose bridge was not perceived as high enough to be an Indian’s. On the other hand, relatives admired my sister’s “true Malayalee” features. Once, at a wedding, an aunt commented that I looked like some half-bred pedigree whereas my sister was the prettier one, as she had a nice Malayalee nose. In my young mind, I thought this was what ‘real’ Indians had to look like–with pointy noses. Otherwise, why would my mum take the trouble to pull the bridge of my nose religiously after every shower in an attempt to make it higher?
“You do this only when you’re young, as the bones will firm up when you get older,” she would say, trying to pacify me as I squirmed in discomfort.
We both have similar-looking noses, Mum and I. And they look just fine. “Don’t you like your nose, Mama?”
“No, who wants a flat nose like the Chinese?”
“But grandma is Chinese and her nose is flat. She looks okay.” By then, I was completely bewildered.
“Oh, trust me, if she had a choice, she’d want a pointy nose as well,” my mum concluded.
Getting married didn’t change my situation. Based on experiences watching my mum, I had assumed at a young age that wives would take on their husband’s cultural identities. So, I assumed my identity as an Indian wouldn’t be questioned after I’d married a ‘pure’ Indian man. After all, my parents-in-law were the first generation of Indians in Singapore. I was mistaken, however. My culinary skills became a topic of interest at gatherings among newly acquired relations. I became used to the all-too-familiar query, “What do you usually cook?” Even though I told them I whipped up all sorts of curries, they remained unconvinced and relentlessly bulldozed me further with, “Is it authentic Malayalee food or some kind of Indian-Chinese fusion?” Despite 31 years of marriage, they still itch to ask such questions. Recently, one of my husband’s relatives asked if I was capable of cooking onam sadhya. I replied, why not? Anyone could make it if they wanted to do so.
There’s also an assumption that just because I have an Indian name, I’m naturally a practising Hindu. I have had difficulty with identifying myself as Hindu, although I was born one. I’ve always been comfortable with the idea of Christianity, having attended Bible classes and compulsory mass sessions throughout my years of mainstream education in mission schools. I say ‘idea’ because that’s how I thought of Christianity. I romanticised the religion, having a long on-and-off relationship with it. I was drawn to it because my close friends were Catholics who seemed to have lots of freedom–at the time, I assumed this was because of their religion. Besides, I was also uncomfortable wearing a pottu or bindi between my eyebrows (I felt it looked so out of place with my mixed features). I was often asked by my Indian ex-colleagues why I wasn’t wearing one—this usually happened when they met me for the first time. The missing pottu will inevitably lead to the next dreaded question, “Do you go to the temple?” Judging from their wooden expressions after my reply, “Only for weddings and funerals,” I usually deduce that I’ve come down a notch or two (maybe more) in their eyes as a ‘true’ Indian.
The most memorable of these incidents happened when my daughter was a pre-schooler. On discovering that I don’t pray to any of the Hindu deities, one of my sisters-in-law remarked that I should do so for the sake of the child.
“But how?” I was a little puzzled.
“You just have to do it, or at least pretend to pray,” said my sister-in-law.
“Then you’re asking me to lie to God.” I was flabbergasted.
Growing up, my non-Indian friends and acquaintances had no expectations for me to act like a ‘true’ Indian–they didn’t expect me to embody stereotypes like having long hair, or wearing traditional clothes and a pottu. Of course, this doesn’t imply I was never on the receiving end of the occasional racist remarks, such as, “How come you’re not as dark as other Indians?” or, “You don’t look like a real Indian, your hair’s very short, like a boy’s. Real Indian women have long hair.” To this I was always quick to reply, “Chinese women also have long hair. So do the Malays.”
Yet I must admit it’s easier to shop at Little India these days. Shopkeepers no longer give me steely looks when I speak English. I believe they’ve become accustomed to both mixed marriages and the rising number of foreigners residing in Singapore over the years. While this does not negate the sporadic, stereotypical comments that still get thrown at me, I’ve reached a stage where I’m less easily riled up by them. This has come after journeying on a yoga/meditation programme during lockdown in early 2020. The programme taught me to take responsibility for my thoughts, feelings and actions, and stop blaming God or my circumstances for any unfortunate experiences. It also changed my attitude towards others, trying not to fault them quickly but to see the best in them. Naturally, my changing behaviour made me curious to learn about Hinduism, having little to no knowledge of it whatsoever. I started listening to spiritual discourse of the Hindu scriptures by various gurus. This deepened my understanding about Hinduism and I learned to appreciate the religion for what it represents.
Today, if someone asked me to identify my race and religion, I’d say, “I’m a comfortable Indian Hindu.”
Ambika Sivadasan is a full-fledged Singaporean. Growing up, she hung out at Far East Plaza after school with her classmates and ate fish and chips at Long John Silver’s. Occasionally, you might still find her loitering around the Orchard Road area in a bid to relive those moments.
