At 9:00 on Sunday mornings, before Balavihar (Indian Sunday school) starts, we 20 sleepy-eyed Indian American teenagers file into an octagonal room and plonk ourselves on cushions meant for old ladies. There is a gentle silence broken occasionally by light chatter that pervades the room. And then, the teachers begin the three chants of “Om.” Three deep breaths, three long sounds that fill the silence, three resonant “Oms” that linger in the room. Our voices smoothly meld together, young and old, high and low pitched, and there in that blue-walled room with muted light from eight oval windows, there in that vibrant, powerful “Om” is the essence of Hinduism.

By that I mean the feeling of peace and the recognition that you are one of many. And though this is the essence of Hinduism for me, it is definitely not the sole aspect of it. For me, Hinduism means inner peace, yes, but also vibrant feeling. My Hinduism is seamlessly intertwined with my culture, with brilliant Indian silks embroidered with layers and layers of gold thread, the spicy-sweet smell of saffron and sandalwood, the litany of screaming cousins, their hair carefully brushed and braided, aunties tut-tutting, saying, “have some more sweets, Suma. You are too skinny.” Hinduism is the vibrant pulse of a thousand Indian relatives squeezed into a medium-size celebration hall, the laughter and love and “how are yous” that greet its new occupants, and the feeling of seeing those silks and smelling those scents and belonging.

But when I think of American culture, none of these things come to mind. Instead, I picture jeans and T-shirts, ice cream and movies, suburban landscapes and hanging out with friends. So where does the Hindu-ness come in? It seems as though the two cultures can never converge, that I wash off the Indianness with every stroke of my loofah (bought at CVS) and every layer of denim and cotton I put on. Because when I’m with my friends, I don’t think “I am Hindu.” I suppose it comes up occasionally when my friends talk about religion. They ask, “Hey Suma, you’re not Christian, are you?” “No, I’m Hindu,” I reply. “Oh, okay,” they say. And they leave it at that. Because at that point, I’m wearing my jeans; I’m without a bindi on my forehead; I’m just their friend Suma. I blend in with my American companions. A passerby hearing our voices would sense no difference between our accents.

And yet my American and Indian identities are similar at their core. Ultimately, do I not belong to both worlds, with one foot in each? Whether I am laughing with my friends or relaxing with my family, I have that same sense of belonging at the core because these two worlds are equally my own. And it is that ability to be comfortable in both situations that makes me a better American. 

I say this because really, isn’t the individual at the core of American values? For me, being American means being your own person. It means being assured in your individuality, in the traits and quirks that make you you. And Hinduism gives me a place in this universe where I’m surrounded by strangers and uncertainty. It grounds me; it wraps me in the silks and laughter and saffron smell of my family. And so, assured of my identity, I step out into the American world.

When I enter the American world, however, I do not shed my Indian identity. Being Hindu isn’t something that you can wash off. It’s embedded deep in my skin; it lies dormant under the surface and colors my thoughts and actions with a light brush. My Indianness appears, literally, in the kurta top I wear on my shoulders. Though, admittedly, I don’t make too much of a concession to my Hindu culture; underneath I still have on my trusty jeans. And if you look much, much deeper there you will see that inner peace, that resonant “Om” deep at my core. It’s always there, a gentle reminder of who I am and where I belong in this world. It’s a seamless combination of three sounds, “aa,” “oo,” “mm.” And it’s a coming together of two cultures.

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