Adrift Identities: A Personal Story Of Migration, Identity, And Cultural Belonging

The term ‘ethnicity’ has always been a murky concept for me. Not because I don’t understand the theoretical descriptions, but simply because I could not define it for myself; or rather, I found it difficult to identify my own. It would not be a stretch to claim that in my experience, I have felt considerably estranged from culture itself, like a balloon left adrift in the air, floating in limbo, unknowing of its origin and destination. This peculiar and persistent sense of being ‘in-between’ (known or unknown objects) is what sociologists describe as liminality.

I am the daughter of a migrant, and I was raised in a land far away from my place of origin. I was born into a liminal space, so to speak, without a single, fixed cultural foundation to anchor my identity. Hybridity, then, is not a consequence in my life. It is a matter-of-fact, it is the only cultural condition I've known. In fact, my cultural identity remains shockingly uncertain, taking drastically different forms as I grow older as if it were a mythical shapeshifter and not an abstract construct.

Only yesterday, I was seated at the dining table enjoying a plate of dosa sambar with my sister. We were conversing in our native tongue―Hindustani. Growing up in Tamil Nadu, far from where my family originates in Bihar, moments like these have come to define my everyday experience of culture. It occurs to me in such instances, how elements of such different cultures (a language belonging to the Northern plains of India and the cuisine of its Southern counterpart) have amalgamated to become a new, curious culture by their own volition in my life, synchronising harmoniously like distinct instruments in an orchestra. Now, whether this orchestra produces a melody or a cacophony is utterly unpredictable and varied.

A course in the Sociology of Ethnic Relations last semester had triggered an episode of introspection into my own identity and the extent to which I understand it. My thoughts were rather scrambled in the initial stages of this contemplation as it was impossible to situate myself in one rigid category. I do not possess a ‘pure’ identity or ethnicity; in fact, I stand wholly in opposition to such a notion itself. In such an increasingly complex and globalised world, it is fantastical to assume we are untouched by another culture. My prolonged rumination helped me arrive at an essential conclusion―that perhaps I am not alienated or estranged. Perhaps it is just that I have a newer, more complex identity, and that my ethnicity is fluid, ever-changing. It is an emergent ethnicity that is not completely Bihari, and also not entirely Tamilian. It is a unique combination of the two―a hyphenated ethnicity, i.e, Bihari-Tamilian.

It is precisely to explore and explain this seemingly perpetual hybridity and liminality that I have endeavoured to write an auto-ethnographic article, placing myself as the subject and the writer. Deciphering my own lived experiences, I seek to make sense of what it is like to live in a cultural limbo, and when the limbo itself begins to function as a culture of its own.

Social and cultural displacement is not a choice for the children of migrants. It is inherited, and something one is expected to adapt to. However, this condition itself obstructs the process of self-categorisation. John Turner (with Tajfel) posits in his Self-Categorisation Theory (SCT) that being able to situate oneself in a social or cultural category is fundamental to identity-formation and identity-reinforcement. Now, this creates a foundational disturbance for individuals raised within persistently liminal and ambiguous socio-cultural spaces. Not only that, it also interferes in the development of a sense of belonging. Situating oneself in a concrete cultural or ethnic category, then, becomes a task that is next to impossible.

My father hails from a small village named Kalyanpur in Darbhanga district of Bihar. The hamlet is greatly isolated, geographically and also culturally. One of the most outlandish recollections he mentioned in passing was how his grandparents were not quite aware of British colonialism, despite living under its oppression! He left Bihar to pursue his higher studies in Delhi very early on, and, after securing a stable bureaucratic job, was transferred to Tamil Nadu where he has lived since. My mother was born and raised in Patna, Bihar. Growing up, she had no plans or desire of leaving the North, but had to relocate to where my father was stationed after marriage.

My upbringing was, in all respects, geographically and culturally tumultuous. I lived with my maternal grandparents in Manipur (a state situated in the far North-Eastern hills of India) till I was three years old. My infancy notwithstanding, those early years in the mountainous terrains left a deep imprint upon my mind and identity. Early exposure to any culture is bound to leave potent cultural traces, and it produces a pre-reflective belonging. Moreover, the mere awareness that I was once surrounded and cared for by members of a particular ethnicity strengthens this affinity. To this day, I feel elated when I come across Manipuris, experiencing a strange sense of connection to them, almost like recognition.

My parents brought me back to Tamil Nadu with them soon after I turned three. This transition was a tremendously perplexing period of my life, and the first big encounter with identity and cultural disorientation. I can’t definitely choose which shift was more drastic in its magnitude―the geographical, with the sudden change from Manipur’s cool and cloudy cloak to the blistering, heavy heat of Tamil Nadu, or the socio-cultural, with dramatic differences in how people lived, behaved, and interacted with me.

However, this was only the first in a series of locational shifts that were to follow. Owing to the nature of my father’s job, he was transferred periodically and often. Within Tamil Nadu itself, from the ages of three through seven, I lived in the districts of Dharmapuri, Ariyalur, and Virudhunagar. This consistent pattern of resettlement and adaptation imposed a heavy brake in my identity-formation and cultural assimilation. I did not feel safe or secure enough to let my guard down, fearing another imminent upheaval. During these shambolic years, I was almost completely oblivious of my Bihari roots as well. Everything I knew of and about culture came from what I could see and experience directly. My young mind did not yet possess the capacity of comprehending abstract ideas.

We moved to Chennai in 2013, when I was seven, and have not moved anywhere else since. Surprisingly, it was not in the turbulent, transfer-filled years that the real identity distress occurred. It was after moving to Chennai that my hitherto ignored alienation and estrangement came to the fore, and the disquieting negotiation of my identity began.

Language has been the most complicated aspect of my identity and consequent negotiations. Sociologist scholarship has long upheld language as a fundamental constituent of identity and ethnicity. My native tongue is Hindustani, a language spoken by the vast majority of Bihar and some parts of Uttar Pradesh, especially the large Muslim populations of these states. It is a beautiful language, a remarkable blend of Hindi and Urdu.

For me, Hindustani played a momentous role in anchoring a part of my identity as a ‘Bihari Muslim’. Merely speaking this language causes a wave of fragile belongingness to wash over me. It is by no means a concrete sense of belonging, more like a house of cards. This form of belonging is more effective than structural, and it lacks the institutional backing and social reinforcement necessary for its continuity.

In the years I spent leaping across different districts of Tamil Nadu, I’d become almost fluent in Tamil. The district schools mandated Tamil classes for everyone, regardless of their mother tongue. Naturally, I learned Tamil like all my classmates back then, in the same classes, with similar efficiency. I could read, write, and converse in Tamil. I used to joke with my friends and could talk to anyone; the possibilities were endless. So much more of my identity was anchored as a Tamilian in these formative four years during childhood than the rest of my years in Chennai. Linguistic competence translated seamlessly into social belonging in this phase of pre-reflective socialisation.

My parents enrolled me in a North Indian-dominated school soon after settling down in Chennai. This was my second, and by many means, an even more drastic encounter with identity and cultural disruption. This particular school allocated language classes automatically on the basis of one’s mother tongue. No student had any choice in the matter; it was wholly structural and almost mechanical. I was placed in the Hindi class, and this categorisation clearly favoured rigid identity labels (North Indian) over linguistic competence, as at that point my fluency was stronger in Tamil. The student body comprised mostly Marwaris, children of migrants from Rajasthan, and the rest were Tamil. I was the lone Bihari, and this amplified my sense of alienation 10-fold. Over the years, all the Tamil I knew seeped out of my memory. The role it played in anchoring a part of my identity, and the ability to relate and talk with others also deteriorated.

I remember vividly the unbridled bewilderment I’d felt in that first week of Hindi language classes. Despite being surrounded by children who spoke the same language as me, I’d felt utterly empty and dislocated. I yearned to return to the Tamil classes I’d become accustomed to.

Perhaps the paramount hurdle blocking the way to my integration into Tamil society is not meeting the expectations of language fluency. In college, I did not understand the discussions of my classmates, nor could I openly participate in casual conversations. I could not selfishly expect them to speak in English for my benefit, either. Some of my professors fluidly switch between English and Tamil during lectures, especially when interacting with the class or delivering real-life examples. I feel very lost in such moments, and the feeling of being adrift and estranged slams into me with full force. These interactions position me neither as a complete outsider, nor as a fully integrated insider, but somewhere in between. It is conditional inclusion. Moreover, it is a bittersweet reminder that while I am received here, it remains a negotiated cultural space. Such moments reveal the deep discomfort liminality can haul in its wake.

I have only a handful of friends in college who speak Hindi, fewer still who speak Hindustani. I must admit it is a great source of relief for me to sometimes be able to converse in Hindustani in college. I feel like I’m back in Patna again, an estranged home thousands of miles away, but a home nonetheless. This temporary relief, though, is a slippery slope of its own, because it risks reinforcing isolation rather than resolving it.

Of course, I cannot close this section without also mentioning my estrangement from Bihar. I have spent, roughly combining many separate periods, a little over 18 months in Patna. I remember how absolutely thrilled I was to be able to talk to a shopowner so easily in Hindustani last summer vacation, which is a luxury in Tamil Nadu, where broken English is my most-used means of communication. Still, despite this breath of fresh air in the linguistic dimension, I do not agree with Bihari socio-cultural values and mannerisms.

A primary chunk of my behaviour patterns and ways of talking were imbibed from observing Tamilian people, as they surrounded me most often. I do not speak in the Bihari dialect like all my relatives, and I gawk at their conversation topics. It surprised me greatly how Tamil culture had embedded itself so deeply into my cognitive and behavioural patterns.

External assignment of ethnicity is an integral and inevitable aspect of ethnic identity construction, wherein identity is imposed rather than self-defined. Multicultural individuals may not feel like they belong to a social group, most often the host society, as they do not possess visible identity-markers like physical appearance. This has been especially true in my life.

I possess the standard phenotypical characteristics of a North Indian, and this has resulted in me being flagged as the “North Indian girl” throughout my college life. My appearance constitutes my entire identity for some of my classmates. It appears as though this superficial categorisation is enough to draw a boundary between the ‘in-group’ and ‘outgroup’. In simpler words, they see me as someone “different”, or the “other”, often purely based on how I look. Surely, a lot of them would be baffled if they knew I was raised in Tamil Nadu.

This external flagging or categorisation of my ethnicity and identity has admittedly made things much more difficult for me on many fronts. For example, I overheard some of my classmates discussing hair care tips sometime last semester. I weighed in and suggested a few products that have really helped me. Almost immediately, the girls exchanged a meaningful―but not unkind―look and laughed briefly. Noticing my sudden discomfort, one of girls informed me that I wouldn’t understand “how their hair works”. This harmless interaction succeeded in subtly, but surely, reinforcing that I was on the outside―the ‘other’. It made it apparent that, for many people in host cultures, physical or racial categorisation held precedence over social and cultural upbringing. In its most rudimentary form, this is identity-denial, i.e, the negation of an individual’s lived cultural affiliations in favour of externally imposed categories.

Additionally, such labelling also nips any attempt at achieving identity-harmony in the bud. Identity-harmony refers to the degree to which an individual feels harmony versus conflict between their cultural identities, and is vital in determining the psycho-social well-being of culturally-hybrid individuals. When physical appearance is given precedence over socio-cultural affiliations, it severely throttles the attainment of harmony between two different cultures.

Thus, it is not merely feelings of isolation or estrangement that shape my understanding of liminality. Rather, my body itself becomes a liminal site, caught between the familiar and foreign.

I am a Muslim, and some of the most intimate parts of my identity are tied to faith. Prayer mats that my father brought from his village in Bihar, with beautiful patterns depicting the Kaaba, unroll daily in different corners of our home in Chennai. Atop my drawer, a delicate glass figurine of the Kaaba I bought in Kodaikanal is perched atop a wooden coaster my grandmother sent from Patna. These seemingly inconsequential material objects reveal how deeply and easily elements of Bihari and Tamil culture blend together in my day-to-day life. They are not merely symbols of religious devotion, but ethnic markers facilitating my emergent Bihari-Tamilian ethnic identity. Understanding these ethnic markers is a form of negotiation in and of itself, where ethnicity is continually reinterpreted.

The intersection of a minority ethnicity (north Indian in Chennai) and a minority religion (Muslim in Hindu-majority spaces) only amplifies estrangement and othering. Growing up, I was one of the two-to-three Muslims in social spaces comprised of predominantly Hindus. In school, I suffered overt religious exclusion, which often took violent forms, with students frequently hurling Islamophobic slurs at me. Some of the particularly biting comments were, “We all know you are a terrorist”, and “Hey, Aafreen, don’t bomb the class, alright”? The fact that such vitriolic and communal comments were directed by fairly young teenagers in a casual tone―as though it were as natural as commenting on the weather―continues to unnerve me. Gratefully, while I experienced no hostility from my classmates with regard to my religion in college, I do find it extremely difficult to relate to them at times, as they share cultural reference points and experiences that I do not.

Being a visible minority in both ethnicity and religion placed me in what sociologists call a ‘double minority position’, i.e., where markers of difference are compounded rather than singular. In my case, specifically, the compounded othering owes its magnitude to the tripartite intersecting markers―language, religion, and physical appearance.

Although a ‘double minority position’ has magnified my liminal isolation and estrangement, I have learned the importance of ‘code-switching’ through these experiences. I fluidly adjust my language, humour, and self-presentation in accordance with my social environment, i.e., I ‘act Bihari’ in Patna, and presume ‘Tamilness’ in Chennai. Most of the code-switching happens subconsciously and immediately, like a switch being turned on and off. It is common for innate multiculturals (cultural hybrids) to be unaware of the cultural knowledge they possess due to the unintentional learning that occurs through daily interactions.

I live in a constant state of negotiating my ethnic self. While my home remains a site of Bihari-Muslim heritage, the public and educational sphere demands adaptation to Tamilian cultural norms. My faith, like my language and appearance, continues to float in a liminal space, between visibility and invisibility, and sometimes even between recognition and erasure.

This arduous self-introspection into my ethnicity and identity has led me to realise that my ethnic self has never been, and will never be, restricted or made rigid by geographical boundaries and cultural categories. I am not completely claimed by either Bihari or Tamil culture, yet I am deeply marked by both. Rather than letting the uncertainty and alienation that accompanies liminality disconcert me further, I will learn to recognise its nuance, and understand that this in-betweenness is not temporary or accidental, but essential to who I am.

I know there will be many moments in the future which leave me feeling estranged and isolated again, and perhaps this impulse of being hyperaware of otherness can’t be fully expunged. Yet I will continue to remind myself that my identity is flexible, unique, and ever-evolving. My ethnic self will continue to take shape within this delightful ambiguity throughout my life, and for the first time, I feel not burdened by this complexity, but grateful for it.

Aafreen Hoda is a final year sociology student and writer exploring questions of identity and livid experiences.

This article appeared in Outlook's March 01 issue titled Horror Island which focuses on how the rich and powerful are a law unto themselves and whether we the public are desensitised to the suffering of women. It asks the question whether we are really seeking justice or feeding a system that turns suffering into spectacle?