Ryan Kuar
Feb.15.2021
“First Draft of Self Portrait”
Seeing the smiling goddesses, Durga, seated on a lion on the top of the large
golden Himalayas, the twin asuras, Chanda and Munda, attempted to attack the Devi.
The goddess became angry, and her white lotus skin changed to the color of a black rose.
From her broad forehead, graciously bent by her perfectly curved eyebrows, a bright
flame emerged. From the flame rose a goddess named Kali, armed with a golden sword
and a twisted rope. She wore a garland of skulls and dressed in the hide of a tiger. Her
skin was as black as a starless night, and her eyes were as red as blood. Her mighty roars
caused the whole world to shake. The Goddess Kali marched into battle, slaying the
demon army with her sword and crushing them with her feet. Seeing their asura army
destroyed, Chanda and Munda ran towards Goddess Kali. The Goddess Kali lifted her
sword high and ran towards them. She caught hold of them by their hair and cut their
heads off.
When my grandmother recited this story to me, I was six, and I was intrigued.
Being a traditional Guyanese woman, my grandmother would tell me these stories about
the Hindu Goddesses and Indian Kings. She grew up in a poor farming village, working
at the local sugar cane field in Guyana. Although our ancestors left India many
generations ago, she always sought to preserve our Indian culture, as her mother did
with her and she did with my mother. When I was younger, I was proud of my culture.
But as I grew older, I became less interested and eventually ashamed.
Every Sunday morning, I would awaken to the aromas of cinnamon and mustard
curry on leavened maize bread. As I walked into our small kitchen, I rolled my eyes and
let out a sigh. I never understood why a mother could not cook American food like the
other kids at school. I remember eating aloo roti during lunch at middle school and all
the other kids looking at me. I felt strange and felt ashamed of eating curry. I told my
mother, but she scolded me, so I tried not to make a big deal.
While my mother cooked, I listened to my grandmother singing bhajans, Hindu
devotional songs. I tiptoed to the altar room, watching my grandmother aarti the
framed prints of the gods: Hanuman, the monkey god who carried a mountain in his
hand; Shiva, the destroyer of evil; and Durga; the ten-armed goddess seated upon a lion.
Fresh Hibiscus pink flowers were on a bronze plate, and jasmine incense lit. She would
sing, “Tum hi ho Mata, pita tum hi ho, Tum hi ho Bandhu Sakha tum hi ho.” I did not
know Hindi, nor did I want to learn Hindi. None of my friends did, so why should I. All
my friends spoke Italian or Russian, not Hindi. I watched her, knowing very little of
what she was doing or saying. All my friends were Catholic, and I was much comfortable
pretending to be Catholic as well.
I remember one day during freshman year of global history class, I quietly sat in
the back of the classroom, cringing when I saw the large bold black letters Indian
Culture. Freshman year, I went to a predominately all-white school. I stuck out like a
sore thumb with my dark brown skin and hairy arms. My heart was beating faster than a
lion chasing after its prey. I feared my classmates who did not have a simple
understanding of my culture because of the stereotype associated with Indians. Twenty
minutes in, I remember seeing some people turn around and staring at me. These two
girls, in particular, started whispering and laughing at me. I looked at them and then
back at the smartboard, watching a picture of a woman placing a garland upon a cow.
My mind was racing with thoughts. Did they think I was a cow worshipper? Many
westerners think Hindus worship cows; on the contrary, we respect them. I knew that
my classmates would not understand because the culture was different; we show respect
differently than westerners. I heard the boy in front of me whispering to his friend, "
these people have such primitive ways of thinking." My classmates did not know that I
was Hindu, where all these “strange” gods and rituals were sacred. When the bell rang, I
quickly got up and left the classroom in shame.
After that day, I began to feel ashamed of my Indian heritage. My desire to be
accepted took away my identity. Junior year of high school, my grandmother helped me
rebuild my identity. She taught me to embrace myself and to be proud of my culture.
When I told her how ashamed I was of my dark skin, she explained that my brown skin
marks the soil our ancestors toiled. When I told her I was embarrassed about being
Hindu, she taught me about the holy scriptures. I realized I was not weird but unique. I
learned an important lesson. Always stay true to yourself and never allow others to
change me.
