Our journey through India was nearing its conclusion, and I had yet to uncover the answer that motivated this trip. Seeking guidance, I turned to the owner of the Goa beach huts where we were staying and asked, “Do you consider me Indian?” To my disappointment, she replied, “No.” Well, it was worth a shot. At least I could move on.
I was adopted at three months old, originally from Bristol, with little knowledge of my ancestral background aside from being of South Asian descent. However, this information never bothered me. My mom and dad are my true parents, and my younger brother, although biologically related to them, is also my brother. What difference does it make if my skin tone is slightly darker than the rest of my family?
As a child, I never felt compelled to address this topic. However, once I entered university, the need to explain myself arose, especially when my brother, attending a different university in the same town, would visit. We have always been close, and after a few drinks, declarations of love and brotherly affection are abundant. Without providing some context, people might have found the situation perplexing.
Following university, my best friend Phil and I embarked on a year-long adventure in Australia. A few years later, we had another opportunity for a three-week trip. The question was, where should we go? We deliberated over Vietnam, enticed by “Apocalypse Now,” and Thailand, due to our preference for “Hot Shots! Part Deux.” However, India beckoned, with promises of vibrant beach parties concealed within a journey of self-discovery to unveil my roots. (Although, to be fair, neither of us had watched “A Passage to India” because we were too engrossed in “Hot Shots! part one.”)
Our plan entailed flying into Mumbai, exploring northern India, and then making our way to Goa. Among the sightseeing highlights was the magnificent Monsoon Palace in Rajasthan, famous for its appearance in the film “Octopussy,” perpetually playing in every bar we encountered. Curiously, I asked our waiter how many times he had seen “Octopussy.” His answer? Three times a day, every day. Had he viewed any other James Bond film? No.
While queueing for tickets to the Taj Mahal, I recalled the advice given to me by the airport taxi driver, who mistook me for a local. The Taj Mahal offers two entrance fees: 1,100 rupees for tourists and 50 rupees for resident Indians. He suggested I join the queue for locals without revealing my foreignness. To my dismay, Phil arrived, having paid the full tourist price, shattering the illusion. Nevertheless, I had the last laugh. From then on, the locals, unaccustomed to seeing a white man, would point and exclaim, “Freddie Flintoff!” Phil doesn’t bear any resemblance to Flintoff.
To be honest, I never truly felt Indian. I wasn’t particularly fond of the local specialty, the Maharaja Mac (featuring ground chicken in place of beef due to the sacredness of cows). However, I did appreciate the Indian custom of men holding hands. Yet, the stark wealth inequality, reflected in the sight of homeless individuals lining the streets of Mumbai, deeply affected and saddened me.
However, upon arriving in Goa, I immediately felt a sense of belonging. Our days consisted of playing Frisbee with the locals, who marveled at our stylish dives into the sea. Evenings were spent at the beach bar, where our attempts to flirt with three Swedish girls landed us squarely in the friend zone. We also pondered who else would choose to visit India during monsoon season, enduring torrential rain and nonexistent beach parties.
When the Indian lady at our beach hut hostel expressed doubt about my local status, it didn’t bother me. It would have been nice to provide a different response to the question, “Where are you really from?” instead of always answering “Bristol.” However, I never embarked on this journey with a genuine need for soul-searching, as I am blessed with a loving family. I realized that my heritage holds little significance; it’s the people in my life who have shaped my identity, not the color of my skin. Plus, this realization means there are numerous other countries for me to explore, ideally during a season that isn’t dominated by monsoons, sampling local cuisine, watching James Bond films, and inevitably failing at wooing women.
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