Sometimes chosen, sometimes given, our names are an important first impression into who we are. Brown kids from our generation often modify their social media handles with food puns or repeated letters to make themselves more palatable. We go by different names to be seen at work, at school, on resumés and job applications, dating app profiles, at coffee shops, on calls with customer service representatives, and more. Some see this practice as a concession to an anglicized world that wouldn’t care to learn the right pronunciations, though I think there’s more to it.

But in reality, of course we do that! Our names provide others with context and associations with who we are, and if it’s hard to say or remember our names, it’s harder to remember us in the English-speaking world.

It makes sense why and how we do it, and to a lesser extent, where we have to do it and where we don’t. But who are we, and are we losing ourselves in the process? Or are we just inventing new versions of ourselves that garner more attention than do these foreign, multisyllabic hard-to-pronounce cultural paperweights?

I owe much of my personal development to Jhumpa Lahiri. Throughout her expansive short stories, compelling historical fiction and biting contemporary Italian litfic alike, she provided me with lenses to process various aspects of my being. My favorite book of hers, The Namesake (+Mira Nair’s film adaptation), captures the oft-hidden beauty of our names as well as how we use them in the Western spaces we inhabit.

The Namesake’s story is framed around a Bengali cultural practice wherein one is given a “good name” at birth, to be used professionally and externally, and a “daknam” (nickname) used by friends and family. “Good names” and “daknams” remain fixtures of Indian culture, reflecting an important distinction between how one is to be perceived by society-at-large versus by one’s family at home.

In our culture, to the outside world, you’re this auspiciously, often astrologically named person who intrepidly carries the family surname with your venerable given name. But to your loved ones, and especially to your elders, you’re a “little one” in the same way your dog or cat might be – hence the term “pet name.”

Just about every brown person I know, Bengali or not, has a pet name used endearingly by family and close friends. My dad’s pet name is Bobby. My mom’s is “Sonu,” which means “beautiful.” From “Samu” to “Nonu” to “Mimo” to “Paro” to “Rayee,” these cutesy one-to-two-syllable attributions reflect familial affection and close ties. They can also be quicker to say for those of us blessed with names triple or quintuple the length of your typical “Alex” or “Sally” or “Jack.”

Daknams are a minor aspect of our culture, but nonetheless an important one. Your elders calling you by a term of endearment is the other side of this ubiquitous bidirectional familial piety that also manifests in you touching their feet to greet them. Pet names reinforce bonds and frame each family member as part of a collective unit, where each family speaks its unique vernacular to underscore closeness. I still call my oldest cousin in India “Gonu,” as does the whole family. It doesn’t matter that he’s married or over 30. He is inextricably tied to the name in the same way our minds are tied to our bodies. The name will never leave him, and he will never leave it.

Both adaptations of The Namesake especially spoke to me as I’ve been using nicknames throughout my life. My birth name “Jaspreet” means “one who sings praises of God.” I take that as me being named after the musical masters at every Gurdwara belting their hearts out at kirtan while they wail on their rustic harmoniums. My dadi is a Simran fanatic, after all.

My pet name since birth has been “Justin.” I’ve gone by this name for the vast majority of my life, since before I could remember. Even my extended family back in India still calls me “Justin” on WhatsApp messages, often pronouncing and even spelling it as “JUSTINE.” Growing up, I only really heard “Jaspreet” when new or substitute teachers would call roll. I swiftly corrected them every time – “I go by Justin.” “You can call me Justin.” “Just ‘Justin’ is fine.” And so on.

Having been raised in America, it was only natural that my pet name came to be the easiest way to refer to me. It’s a lot easier for the average American to say than “Jaspreet” is. Plus, it would irk me when people would mispronounced it. I liked “Justin” way more than poorly anglicized attempts like “Jazz-preet” when it’s actually more like “jus-preeth.” To avoid frustration, I gave up and stuck with “Justin” throughout school, college and at work. It had come to embody me.

I never understood why fellow brown kids weren’t as quick to accept me, or why their demeanor towards me would change when I gave my name as “Justin.” Over time, I came to realize it was an instant filter-out for them – because I went by a “white name,” I instantly couldn’t be “brown enough” or “Indian enough.” To their knowledge and quick judgment, I wouldn’t be as “cultured” or “true to myself” because I probably “chose the name myself.” They would see me as whitewashed based off of nothing but a nomenclature I never consented to in the first place. I was so used to being called “Justin” that I internalized it and never looked back through most of my life.

The first time someone insisted on calling me “Jaspreet” was in college when I met my friend Krunal for the first time after a South Asian Studies class. He had followed me after class and asked me for my name. I reflexively said “Justin,” which he reflexively rejected out of pride for our shared culture. He, like many others, had instantly made a judgment based on my name. But when I told him that it was a pet name, like how his parents call him “Kunu,” he understood, but stayed firm on using my given name.

This inspired me to go by “Jaspreet” in that class because it felt right given the subject matter. Krunal’s unwavering respect for our shared culture pushed me out of my comfort zone — though it meant little to me at the time, it sowed the seeds for a transformation. Throughout the rest of college, he and everyone he introduced me to called me “Jaspreet.” He still uses “Jaspreet” to this day, almost a decade later. It makes me smile every time.

I’ve been living in Washington, DC for almost five years now, and have used “Justin” virtually the entire time. It was only amid a particularly traumatic 2024 that I decided I needed a reset. Simultaneous struggles with interpersonal and professional relationships, my mother’s declining health and my uncle’s passing forced me to undergo a personal transformation in order to recuperate. Last summer, I broke down the barriers of my capacity, dedication and diligence to pull myself out of several holes at once. It ended up bearing fruit for me as I was able to bounce back and reclaim agency of my life — my mom is also doing much better now!

The associated emotional and mental stress of this time caused me to re-evaluate how I see and portray myself as well how I want others to parse my existence. I thought hard about how I want to develop my identity leading into my late twenties and onward. My mind immediately went to the hit show Severance, wherein employees at a shady conglomerate separate their professional and personal consciousnesses when stepping in and out of the office.

I felt the need to do something similar, keeping “Justin” as my work/coffee shop name and using a different name for everything else. “Jaspreet” felt too obvious/“hard to pronounce,” and I wanted to be able to go by what felt comfortable for me. I landed on “Preet” — another name that a few friends and loved ones had offhandedly referred to me as in the past. “Preet,” meaning love, cuts across all aspects of my life.

I strive to imbue my friendships, relationships, family, and community with genuine love, care and support. I stand as a rock for people I cherish when they are in need. I feel like I embody “Preet” on multiple levels. It felt right to create this Desi “outie” on my own terms, scoffing at those who judged me for “choosing” the name Justin by creating something new entirely out of my daknam.

It’s the same kind of thing that grounds me when I make Indian food or watch Bollywood. Third-culture kids like myself are known to stand out instead of just assimilating as our parents did. Yet, our parents and grandparents remain so proud of our culture contexts, which manifests in them invariably passing down our shared languages, foods, arts, religions and more. And unsurprisingly, first-gen kids and children of immigrants often return to these touch points that we previously shunned.

In that measured return to our heritage, we harken back to growing up in Gurdwaras, temples, mosques, Sunday language classes, eating food at home, going to family friend parties and more. They shaped us and formed many of our early associations, and they ground us as we navigate the countries our parents chose to live in. It’s a unique context that we’re lucky to share, and I’m proud of myself for connecting with it unabashedly and on my own terms. I’d much rather spell out “P-R-E-E-T” every time I meet someone than be confined to an unfinished story or my good name.

And allow me to finish that story. If you’ve read this far, you might be wondering why my parents gave me the nickname “Justin” in the first place. It actually wasn’t an anticipatory whitewashing, as many have assumed or believed over the years. Upon a visit back to India a few years ago, my dad’s best friend told me the tale — while my dad and his friends awaited my birth at the hospital area, the receptionist’s voice called out “the baby is just in.” My dad and uncles, who had been pregaming my birth, excitedly repeated the phrase “JUST IN! JUST IN! JUST IN!”

And the rest was history.

check out some shit i loved from last year!

Kendrick Lamar - tv off

Self-explanatory. The West Coast instrumental. The MUSTARDDDDDDDDD beat switch which I knew would make this the standout from this album off first listen. It’s got everything you would want from a mainstream rap song. He’s giving us what we asked for. Kendrick is sharp, witty, funny and absolutely skates over the beat. He’s commandeering: “It’s the alpha and omega bitch, welcome home...I cut my granny off if she don't see it how I see it.” And that repetition of “crazy, scary, spooky, hilarious” from Lefty Gunplay on the outro has remained in my subconscious since GNX dropped. I’m so glad we got this album.

Tinashe - Nasty

I wasn’t really tuned into Tinashe’s music like that until I heard this song. Instantly infectious, has an undeniable bounce, and soundtracked some of my favorite moments of last year. The lyrics here are so good too and she really hits that pocket in the 2nd verse. I love that this song is laid-back and danceable at the same time. Tinashe is criminally underrated — check out her album Quantum Baby if you haven’t already.

Laila! - We’re So Over!

Laila! is a young phenom. I was impressed by her music before I knew she was Mos Def’s daughter. This was my favorite song from her project. The loop is so simple but the vocal runs over it make it so hypnotic. The melody was stuck in my head for weeks at a time. Her lyrics are so simple but so powerful. “How could you want me when you don’t even care?” Say it louder for the people in the back. Oh, and I forgot to mention: her debut “Gap Year!”was self-produced. So, so talented. Excited to see what she does next.

NxWorries - KeepHer

This was my favorite track from one of my favorite albums of the year. Anderson .Paak is at his best when he teams up with Knxwledge. This song and album came 6 years after their first collab album, and man, it delivered. The lyrics on here are tried and true but you really feel it through .Paak’s signature rasp: “You drove the knife to my pride / There's no more words to say, but goodbye.” The catchy chorus and Thundercat’s ad-libs/intro/outro really tie the track together. Divorce has never sounded this good.

SiR - Karma with Isaiah Rashad

I played this song over and over and over in 2024. SiR is the king of modern R&B, off of Chasing Summer alone. I love how he paints pictures with his lyrics, and how well they’re sung and strung together. He alludes to it himself on the first verse: “I could paint a picture so wavy the boat bends / But lately, I been burning the candle at both ends.” SiR and featured Isaiah Rashad are blisteringly self-aware here, and they make it sound like child’s play. The flows are effortless, the beat knocks, and the “karma coming, karma coming, karma coming” chorus had this track stuck in my head for months after its release.

Doechii - DENIAL IS A RIVER

I’ve been following Doechii since 2021, when she blew up off of “Yucky Blucky Fruitcake.” Three years later, she dropped this phenomenal mixtape with this standout cut. The storytelling, neck-breaking beat, and her sharp presence on the mic make this song a heater. I’m so happy to have seen her found success in 2024, and this song was a testament to her talent. I was floored in a way that I haven’t been in a long time from a song built around a story. She doesn’t waste a single bar here, and makes a song so memorable that everyone was buzzing about it when the album dropped.

Dear Silas - Nasty Work

Can’t even remember how I found this guy — must have been an algorithmic blessing — but he was so good at making Isaiah Rashad’s kind of music that I was satisfied not getting an album from Zay off this little EP alone. This song is a standout, bringing together Silas’s Southern drawl with undeniable flows all over a decidedly Southern beat that goes crazy in the car. It stayed on repeat for me in 2024, and I hope Silas keeps making good music that scratches the itch.

Beyoncé - BODYGUARD

I remember right when this album came out. I was in the car with my friends waiting to pick someone up, and we threw this song on at max volume. I felt like I was being lifted out of the car into heaven. I’ve never been a huge country fan, or a huge Bey fan (until Renaissance), but this track solidified it for me. Upon getting hooked onto this track, I found myself tapping my fingers, stomping my feet and belting out the lyrics with such zeal that I really felt the country in me for the first time ever. Beyoncé can do anything.

MIKE & Tony Seltzer - On God (feat. Earl Sweatshirt & Tony Shhnow)

“Stop selling phones that’s wired to the federal government” is a phrase that’s entered, left, and re-entered my head since I first heard the song. MIKE, Earl Sweatshirt and Tony Shhnow body this beat, leaving no crumbs. MIKE and Earl usually rap over either audial detritus or complicated, gestating instrumentals, so hearing their talents over a more straightforward beat turned out to be not just listenable but instantly memorable. Earl’s chorus underpins an amazing verse from MIKE and an appropriate feature from Tony. MIKE is one of the most talented emcees out there, and this track felt like a wink to the public that he can do what they’re out there doing, any time he feels like it.

Tyla - Safer

Thank you, Tyla, for bringing amapiano to the mainstream. Everyone knows and loves “Water,” but this song is even better to me. The way the drums come in, meld with the melodies and Tyla’s angelic voice made this an amazing shower/kickback/party song all alike. The lyrics here are simple, about contemplating running back to a past lover, but the way it’s presented here really makes you forget about it by the time you hit the 2nd chorus. I’m a sucker for this amapiano/R&B hybrid instrumental, and it really stuck with me throughout the second half of 2024.

Paris Texas - RökKOut

Paris Texas is making some of the most innovative, forward-thinking music out today. The punk-rap duo was riding high off their amazing 2023 album MID AIR and offered fans a taste of what’s to come with this song. Louie Pastel and Felix are such good lyricists, feeding perfectly off each others’ energy and slipping in and out of Pig Latin mid-bar like it’s nothing. They’re mixing generational curses with flexes and introspection over a late-night-drive beat that sounds almost vampiric. This song was a treat, and I can’t wait for their next album.

Tyler, The Creator - NOID

I wasn’t too crazy about CHROMAKOPIA — maybe I need to revisit — but I absolutely loved this song. The guitar-driven beat, Zamrock sample and subject matter felt new and fresh to me, after years of Tyler giving us the same kind of music from the last album and deluxe. It’s a testament to his undying creativity, and this song fires on all cylinders. The paranoia-fueled lyrics in a world increasingly filled with parasociality and mass hysteria felt simultaneously perfectly-timed, organic and relevant.

tg.blk - can’t stand it

This song was really special to me, as I found it while going through a tough family situation. I was at my parents’ house for most of the summer, and found myself frantically driving long distances on a daily basis to keep things together. I played this song on every one of those rides without fail. It felt so empowering, boomy and bassy that it let me escape my circumstances for its quick 3-minute runtime. Would definitely recommend the artist tg.blk — she’s kaleidoscopic in her influences, background and output. But this song was just a straight-up flex anthem. It’s a perfect pick-me-up in audio form.

Cash Cobain x Bay Swag - Fisherrr

To be honest, I’m not huge on Cash Cobain’s whole catalog or his newest album, but this song still ran the summer. “Sexy drill” was done to perfection here, with Cash and Bay Swag delivering buttery-smooth flows over a muted beat that did exactly what it needed to do. I love the B-side (dunk contest) as well. And this beat from Cash, not from YouTube!

Future x Metro Boomin - Came to the Party

Future’s moment got overshadowed by the aforementioned beef. He had 3 #1 albums chock full of songs ranging widely in quality. This was definitely one of the hits, though. Simple concept, sleek beat, and doesn’t overstay its welcome. Songs like this remind me why and how Future is still on top commercially. His music just makes sense. It’s immediate, no-nonsense and so catchy that you can’t get his phrases or adlibs or hooks out of your mind. One of my friends had the entirety of WE DON’T TRUST YOU in his 2024 Apple Music Wrapped, and for good reason. “Came to the party for the photos.” Obviously!

Freddie Gibbs - Rabbit Island

Gangsta Gibbs really came through with this album. He’s doing what he does best on this song — finding every pocket in a riveting, urgent beat and making the instrumental work for him. Many of his contemporaries find themselves getting carried by production, but Gibbs can really rap. “I never crash out, I got my life set on autopilot.” It’s effortless.

Hiatus Kaiyote - Telescope

Hiatus Kaiyote is one of those artists whose music feels like an experience. The instrumental here is minimalist compared to the rest of their catalog, meaning it’s still lush and full, but relies more on vocalist Nai Palm’s insane melodies to carry the track. The lyrics are based on each of the artist’s birthdays and what can be seen through the Hubble telescope on those days. The concept is executed so masterfully, and the song feels like a warm hug. I can’t wait for the weather to get better so I can play this into 2025 and beyond.

Ab-Soul ft. JasonMartin and Thirsty P - All That

There’s a lot of TDE artists on this list, and for good reason. They’re absolutely killing it in the artist development department right now. SOULO HO3 came back with a VENGEANCE in 2024. I grabbed the aux and played this song at so many parties, and even at a bar, this past fall. People had to hear it. One wouldn’t typically associate Ab-Soul with “bangers,” but he delivered just that on this one. The features on this track really came through, too. I’m here for the West Coast revival.

SZA - Saturn (Live)

Having been a SZA fan since 2014, I’ve always longed for more of that escapist vibe from her early music to seep through to her current output. This song, and specifically the live version, was just that. SZA here is spacey and philosophical, longing to be transported away from earthly problems to another dimension where they don’t exist anymore. The trappings of fame have her bored: “Nirvana's not as advertised / There's got to be more, been here before.” Removed from the topical, confessional Ctrl and SOS, this song brings me back to her existential roots, and does so masterfully.

Leon Thomas - MUTT

I’m so, so sorry I ever slept on your music, Leon Thomas. This track and the album it’s named after are SO good. Everyone has heard this song at this point, but it felt too good not to include. It’s an anachronism, sounding old-school and modern and futuristic all at the same time. The violins in the intro really set the tone. The melodies he finds on here are crazy. I sing the hook to myself alllll the time. The Freddie Gibbs remix is amazing, too. We need more R&B like this in 2025.

The mysteriously ubiquitous Kendrick Lamar. An impressive soundscape channeling the West Coast. Beats that knock harder than a noise complaint at a house party at 2am. Vicious, relentless bars that cover everything and everyone under the sun. Where were you when it dropped?

I was crashing at a friend’s place in Boston — he lives in a Christian missionary commune. I had woken up and was listening to some Drakeo the Ruler (RIP) to start my day as I got ready to head out. In that moment, I literally thought to myself, as I’ve been thinking all year, that Kendrick rapping over these west coast beats is exactly what I want from his next project. Not Like Us is obviously the biggest song of the year and a cultural moment.

And then we got it minutes later. This felt like divine timing, given the Christian missionary energy around me. This was different. The sudden release shook me and the rest of the world to our collective core.

The GNX, or Grand National Experimental, was a limited-production version of the Buick Grand National made in 1987 — the same year Kendrick was born. It’s a gem of a car. The GNX was created to be the “Grand National to end all Grand Nationals.” Kendrick Lamar is the rapper to end all rappers. There are exactly 547 GNXes in the world. Hip-hop, like conspicuous consumption, is a competitive sport. Kendrick has anointed himself as the best rapper alive after an already-incredible run in 2024, eviscerating Drake to the point where none of his 20-odd songs + features following the beef made wide cultural impact.

Kendrick is a rare breed. He’s wholly unique but simultaneously represents rap music and hip-hop culture. Five timeless albums and countless unforgettable verses later, he’s given us a lean, 12-track, 44-minute project out of nowhere that feels urgent yet meditative, introspective yet ignorant, current yet anachronistic.

Intro “wacced out murals” shows Kendrick bloodthirsty and ready to defend his title as the king of rap (big me) as the instrumental slowly builds up over the course of the song and adds tension to the dramatic conceit he brings to attention, from the public defacing of his mural to his readiness for war.

Songs on here are bridged together with chirps or instrumentals or rattling or raindrops or breathing — as on “squabble up,” which feels so West Coast and mesmerizing in its punch, its boom, and the flow, where Kendrick is literally skating on the beat. It feels to me like he's showing the world and his fan base and his detractors alike that he can make anthems seemingly effortlessly.

There was no radio push or promo single, as this was submitted last Friday and his record label Interscope found out when the rest of us did. It's interesting how past “bangers” like “DNA.” and “N95” (also found on the same track 2 spot in their respective albums) have this elevated cinematic quality to them, where, for example, in N95 it's very orchestral in the way it swells and dips and swells again. But in comparison, “squabble up,” “peekaboo” and “hey now” contain these skeletal, murderous, trunk-rattling West Coast beats that you’re going to be hearing outside everywhere in 2025 and beyond.

I found myself playing those 3 songs and “tv off” the most off this album within the last few days. But “tv off” is on another level. The beat switch and the instantly ubiquitous scream in combination with the horn section on the back half switch are such tasteful and welcome additions to the track that really put it a cut above anyone else in hip hop. I knew from first listen that it would be the standout hit on here, and the endless social media reactions verified the same.

Some of the slower cuts on here like “luther,” “man at the garden,” and “reincarnated” offer lyrical meat for hardcore fans and casual listeners alike. Kendrick continues to relay this idea that he's a contradiction between sinning and flexing and being a God fearing man between wanting to be at peace himself to destroying other rappers like it's nothing. “heart pt. 6” offers a similar titular fakeout to Drake’s own Pusha T fakeout on “Virginia Beach” from For All The Dogs. This song provides a glimpse into the early days and inner workings of TDE and its immemorial Black Hippy group. While “luther” grew on me a lot this week, some of the others haven’t had as much replay value as other songs from the record.

“dodger blue” was a huge grower for me. Kendrick feels more comfortable here, vibe-checking LA over a silky instrumental through a radio-friendly song that feels more assured and cohesive than past awkward attempts like “Die Hard” from Mr. Morale and “LOVE.” from DAMN. Another was the posse cut “gnx” that was just so out of left field that it took me a while to even listen closely. Featuring smaller West Coast rappers like Hitta J3, YoungThreat, Peysoh, Dody6 and AzChike, and Lefty Gunplay proved a brilliant addition to the album and its LA-forward sound.

Repetition is used tastefully as a motif throughout the album — from the “crazy, scary, spooky, hilarious” outro on “tv off” to the affirmations of “I deserve it all” on “man at the garden” to “What they talking bout? They talking bout nothing” on “peekaboo” to “walk, walk, walk, walk” on “dodger blue,” these songs are designed to get stuck in your head. Kendrick sounds charismatic as ever behind the mic, giving us new flows, inflections and sounds between top-quality bars.

It begs the question: what's left for Kendrick? He's had the dense experimental cinematic albums like butterfly, good kid mad city, damn, even mr morale, especially in how personal it gets — but this is just like a Kendrick Lamar album. I honestly don’t see myself going back to songs like “gloria” or “man at the garden” or “reincarnated” as much, but I can appreciate them for what they are. And “GNX” doesn’t feel as rewarding of a full listen as last projects have, but the balance in sonics and content feels apt for what Kendrick was trying to achieve here.

It’s clear this project’s conceit is meant to be much more straightforward – at least by Kendrick’s standards. You won’t find an omnipotent Bëkon Greek chorus like the one between songs on DAMN. There's no poem that the songs adapt to become at the end like on Butterfly. It lacks the tap dancing motifs and therapy session structures and other high art concepts of Mr. Morale.

Aside from a few mood-setting Spanish spoken vocal passages, it's straight up just music. And for a rapper and musician who's heralded by critics and fans alike as this purveyor of higher consciousness and elevated thinking and conscious hip hop, it's absolutely comforting to have him just drop some genuinely great music that you're going to hear in cars at the club at bars, NBA 2K loading screen, whatever else.

Whatever some of the songs in this album will be inescapable and this really feels like Kendrick capitalizing on yet another commercial peak of his career. And to answer the question above, it’s to keep moving the needle, keep experimenting, and keep drawing from the city and sounds and people that made him who he is. I’m excited to see what’s next from Dot, whether that’s the Super Bowl, a rumored next album, or anything else. The element of surprise is an indefatigable strategy, and Kendrick asserts his throne through this album’s runtime. Not all of the songs have to be hits, or tied up into high creative concepts. They can just be songs, and damn good ones at that.

- My Nanaji (grandfather) [RIP]

India is the world’s second-largest English-speaking country behind the USA. Yet, from “Moktails” to “Collage” to “Tution,” menus and signs across the homeland (and in restaurants overseas) misspell them to oblivion. You know an Indian restaurant is good if “paneer” is spelled “panner.”

While outsiders may perceive this as incompetence, to me this is a reflection of our distinction from Western cultures. Though the British colonized us for over 300 years and drained the majority of our subcontinent’s wealth, South

Asians have remained a resilient group of countries, nationalities, regions and people who continue to make the best of even the most dire situations. A failing government, glass ceilings to upward mobility, and communal violence are just some of the many problems and barriers Indians face today.

Although the British occupied both India and America, the latent effects of British rule continue to manifest in very different ways. A standout example to me is that American individualism and Indian collectivism could not be more different.

Last fall, I traveled to India to see my family. Although I had been a couple times over the past few years, this trip was by far the most eye-opening. I stayed with numerous family members under one roof over several days. It was such a jarring turn from my severed lifestyle either in typical independence or being temporarily nested in my nuclear family.

It wasn’t until a few days into this adjustment that I realized how normal it was for my parents to return to this multigenerational living situation. Being raised in India and surrounded by family meant staying with cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents and more for weeks and months at a time. Ways of life weren’t disrupted by these constant switch-ups as much as they were enriched. And although I had the privilege of growing up around grandparents in America, it simply wasn’t the same as the 24-hours-a-day dynamics I observed during this trip.

And as with any way of life, there are benefits and drawbacks. The basis of the trip was emotionally tough for my family, but we banded together with our loved ones and instantly tapped into a support system that transcends any geographical boundary or time zone. Although I have barely met most of my family, the outpouring of closeness, love and care I received from so many people at once from the second I landed to the second I departed was unlike anything else I have ever experienced. The term “extended family” doesn’t exist for me, despite the distance I feel. I know I can always count on family, as I am always willing to reciprocate that dependability.

In contrast, growing up in America — including the education system, higher education, and entering the workforce — is a fairly standardized bird’s nest. Graduating high school is a rite of passage for most, and while many go off to college, others also begin their independent lives at incredibly young ages.

In many Indian families, it customarily is not expected for children to leave their parents’ home until marriage, and it certainly is not customary for people to send their parents to assisted living communities. Cohesion with one’s relatives on many levels — financial, social, political, etc. — is tantamount to the success and reputation of the family unit. One is seen more for how they fit into the family than just for who they are, and this can lead to one losing part of their own individuality in order to best fit beliefs and behaviors espoused by the group.

Independence is a strong virtue and ideal championed in America. We are told to make our “own” life, create our “own” family and chase our “own” destiny but in turn, we end up becoming far removed from those around us. The suburban ideal of owning a big, gardened house with a few similar neighbors remains pervasive here. Aspects of community seem to feel stronger on social media than they do in person. Establishing and maintaining any sort of personal connection, with family or otherwise, increasingly feels exhausting in a country and society where we are herded down the path of self-determination.

We in America mostly remain entitled to the ideal of the self rather than that of our family and community. It gives us the opportunity to flourish and build our own legacies on our own terms. One’s name does not follow them wherever it goes the same way it might in India. The reason I and so many others like myself are here is precisely this — it’s the opportunity to start anew and break ground on a new life. Despite all the problems and implications, it remains an ideal that millions of people chase every day.

Meanwhile, the enduring ideal of the Indian family bleeds into every fabric of life. Men bring women into their homes and blur the lines between romantic and family dynamics. Marriage in Indian culture is about bringing families together more-so than just the people getting married. The self is inextricably tied to the family. This requires several sacrifices of each member of the unit - to forgo and overlook tensions to unconditionally help one another in dire situations. To uphold one another despite opinions, histories and wounds.

As South Asian Americans, we carefully walk the tightrope between familial solidarity and individual destiny. We are expected and we expect ourselves to achieve in our respective pursuits with ruthless determination, yet we are expected to demonstrate a piety and faithfulness to our loved ones that can at sometimes be contradictory to the former. I don’t think either perspective is completely right — it’s somewhere in the middle, but it will remain a balancing act as long as we live.

Many Desi families — anecdotally those of many of my friends — disregard these holidays entirely and treat them like normal days. Others like my family take part in the celebrations as they deem fit. In my household, we have almost always celebrated Thanksgiving and Christmas ever since I could remember.

With the exception of Indian Christians, the religious aspects of these days don’t fit in for many of us. And although Thanksgiving isn’t necessarily a religious holiday, it remains an enduring symbol of American culture that may not fit in well with customs practiced by minority ethnic groups.

I want to share a relevant story from my childhood. In third or fourth grade, I visited my friend Abhi to celebrate Thanksgiving with him and his family. His family and family friends were vegetarians, so they could not partake in the traditional Thanksgiving dinner (whose centerpiece consists of a meat like turkey or ham). Being raised in a meat-eating household where I had had exposure to these dinners before, I threw a huge tantrum about the vegetarian South Indian food they provided because I felt I was being robbed of the Thanksgiving experience.

I never realized why this memory stuck with me so much until I grew up and was able to reflect upon it properly. The American school system standardizes these longstanding practices — the Thanksgiving dinner, the Christmas tree, the July 4th barbecue — ingraining them into our consciences from elementary school onward. Drawing turkeys, making christmas lists and going on easter egg hunts are quintessential to the American elementary school experience.

Due to a lack of attention and often a lack of knowledge on the part of teachers, the same system neglects other important religious and cultural holidays in a way that limits childrens’ understanding often of their own cultures. While some efforts are made to combat this — I fondly recall making dumplings with my ethnically diverse second-grade class for Lunar New Year — on an aggregate level, students are taught to measure time and the structure of the school year by these American and Christian holidays that many do not conform to.

Diwali, the Hindu new year, occurs every fall. Baisakhi, the Sikh new year, occurs every spring. Our Desi parents, their parents and their ancestors were raised in cultures and school systems that upheld and underscored the importance of such holidays. As a kid, I was always jealous of my cousins who got weeks off of school for Diwali while I had to wait until Thanksgiving weeks later.

And despite the separation of church and state in this country, which allots few days even for the Judeo-Christian holidays, we still learn about these holidays in a way that uplifts their importance at the cost of forsaking others. I am so thankful for my family educating me separately about our culture and our holidays — even then, I still think about time in terms of Christmases or Thanksgivings rather than Diwalis or Navratris.

And this disregarding of American multiculturalism pervades way past the K-12 school system — from workplaces to retail sales to advertising to seasonal music, we are endlessly barraged with this particular idea of a calendar year being perceived in a certain way by the general public. At most, we see vapid company events or political posts about various holidays that were so obviously written by PR teams with no true objectives aside from keeping up the appearance of inclusivity.

Our country, its government and its industries constantly pride themselves on our secularism multi-ethnic melting pot. However, when it comes to actually putting forth the cultures they claim to be so proud of, there is little to no effort displayed on actually making us feel included. This is why I felt so alienated and confused at that Thanksgiving dinner. I was so bought into this idea of American culture as the default way of life that I couldn’t make sense of being presented with something that broke its conventions.

Obviously, this couldn’t have been apparent to me as a third-grader. Looking back on it now, the reason it stuck with me was because it was an unconscious rejection of my own culture. I couldn’t see what I see now — that “American culture” means so many different things to so many different people from different backgrounds. That Thanksgiving dinner, with its amazing South Indian cuisine, was just as valid as any unseasoned turkey feast others enjoy annually.

In the past few years, my family has given up on the latter entirely. We proudly and unapologetically celebrate our presence in this country by filling our neighborhood block with the aroma of our incredible cooking. This is the country we reside in — one wherein we are supposed to pave our own paths and make our own lives. It is not necessarily the rigid, tightly-wound nation that we are presented with from our first days in school onward to the fabric of our lives.

This one short message I received from my dad in our family group chat spoke volumes to me. For those of us like myself who grew up in a post-9/11 world, there is little conception of what life was like before that day twenty years ago.

Coming from India to America in the late 90s, my parents and their generation had to build their perception of this country as one in which people of their kind were targeted, victimized and killed chiefly due to the tangential similarity of their physical appearances to those of the terrorists that crashed planes into various martyred American landmarks. My family’s places of worship — the local gurdwara and Hindu temple — were meant to be havens for expats who left their home countries and customs in order to take advantage of better opportunities for their families.

I, like many people I know, owe a huge part of my upbringing to these havens. They taught me invaluable lessons about my community, my culture and my family values. They were mirrors of my parents’ world with vastly different reflections of my own. Doing seva in the langar hall, performing religious skits, playing holi every year, singing hours of aarti, nagging my parents to leave and so much more defined the bulk of my Indian-American experience.

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I can’t imagine what it would be like to suddenly be terrified to visit one of these places after someone completely unrelated to me committed a crime on the American conscience — potentially leading to people like myself being targeted by the American public at large. Obviously, racism and prejudice against our kind had existed long before this moment. But then more-so than ever, it became a scary time to be brown.

Stateside, the “war on terror” that followed 9/11 amounted to little more than an action replay of genocide shown on CNN to the general public. Propaganda and lies filled people with rage and paranoia against anyone who looked anything like the enemy combatants they saw in the media. And it didn’t take long for this to get under America’s skin — the first hate crime casualty occurred within just four days of the attacks. 645 incidents of racism as backlash for 9/11 were reported by news media in the first week alone.

And it didn’t stop there. Against a backdrop of oil-fueled wars that resulted in hundreds of thousands of reported civilian deaths in the Middle East (that still continue to climb daily), an idea of South Asian and Muslim-Americans not only as other but as enemies pervaded the American survival instinct. People became so scared of us that they started fearing old Sikh uncles and dadajis pushing 60-70 years old just because they wear turbans.

Although we as a nation became a terror to millions of innocent people in a region we scapegoated in order to turn a profit, domestic government and media machines successfully sold us a narrative that brushed horrific atrocities under the rug in the name of patriotism and “national security.”

Racism and prejudice post-9/11 has manifested in soft and hard ways — everything from schoolyard terrorist stereotyping to mass shootings was expected to and did happen. A post-9/11 America has no complete place for harmony with anyone who looks like they could be a terrorist or related to one. I grew up being taught to watch my back not just in the way that every child is, but in a way that made me hyper aware of my otherness. This itself manifested in ways I’m ashamed to admit.

I unconsciously compared people in my family and in my communities, those who I encountered at the temple and gurdwara, to what I saw on television and later on the internet. As a kid living in America where domestic culture is dominated by depictions of white people and ways of life, I grew disillusioned and disconnected from the community that anchored me to my roots and showed me nothing but love, nurture and support. For the longest time in my childhood, I didn't want to admit I was brown in fear of being typecast. It ultimately didn’t matter.

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It’s easy as a minority to long for white acceptance, as it remains the core of overall social and professional belonging in this country. And while this is an impossible dream that people of color either chase endlessly or neglect past the required extent, it hangs over the head of any community seen as “other” by the dominant cultural force. We are expected to adhere and conform by a country that will never let us belong inside of their predetermined boundaries.

While 9/11 is nowhere close to the only source of Islamophobia and anti-South Asian hate in America, it remains a cultural flashpoint that has forever changed the way we are perceived by the general American public and beyond. The “othering” of our people eclipsed the ignorant-yet-simple Apu caricatures and software engineer stereotypes to directly relate us to the enemy combatants we still see and hear about being gunned down on cable news.

This idea of us as the enemy has seeped into the American conscience. Our peers, coworkers, supervisors, teachers, mentors, friends and more called and compared us to “terrorists” and “Osama” out of ignorance — they still do, especially behind the closed doors of integrity. Fear stoked by misinformation on and sensationalist depictions of Middle Eastern and South Asian customs became second nature to the people that stare at us in the streets when we’re minding our own business.

My dad feels the need to send me text messages reminding me to watch my own back on a day where the very people who discriminate against people who look like me remind each other of what brings them together. What brings Americans together on that day isn’t just that sense of patriotism and belonging that feels as if it was never extended to us — it’s the narrative of “us” vs. “them,” the latter of which we belong to due to the color of our skin, the places our parents come from and the customs we hold dear.

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When I checked the news on 9/11’s twentieth anniversary, I saw nothing but content completely scrubbed of the lasting impacts of the attacks’ aftermath on our communities. There were virtually no mentions of hate crimes against Muslims or South Asians. Although the attacks shook our country as a whole, these glaring omissions of our continued suffering remain painful, revisionist erasures of history.

But it makes sense — showing the dark underbelly of patriotism is unfashionable on a day like 9/11. Media outlets, especially the mainstream left-leaning ones, perform progressivity only when it is convenient to do so. As a result, the problems faced by our communities must take a back seat to the media circus but might get a glimpse of the spotlight when the dust has settled.

This is because collective suffering is best viewed through a lens of relatability to the default white American experience. It is much easier for people to process and stomach the commemoration of a single event targeting the sovereignty of the state they belong to, than it is for them to empathize with the magnitudes-greater trauma felt by us and the billions of people living in our home countries.

Without a doubt, 9/11 was a terrifying moment for all Americans, regardless of race or religion. However, that fear manifested as widespread racist and xenophobic paranoia, which only exacerbated the problems faced by our communities. There remains little-to-no sympathy for communities that are made guilty by association due to a narrow American perspective on its brown citizens and residents.

It goes without saying that the discrimination we face is universally repulsive. It doesn’t matter whether or someone is Muslim or not — the oppressor simply does not care as long as we look the part. We (Hindus, Sikhs, Muslims, Christians etc. of South Asian descent) must stand with each other against discrimination and hate as it deeply affects us all.

We have got to do our part in protecting each other and organizing together in order to advance our causes. We are just as American and just as human as anyone else. No attempts at neglect or ignorance can ever succeed in stripping us of our rightful place in this country. We must ensure this conversation will look completely different twenty years from now.

Every rose has its thorns.

The things we most adorn

make us wish we were never born

sometimes and we’re torn

Between happiness and sadness

bloom and gloom

progress and regress

nectar and poison

It’s hard to tell the difference

when you’re hoodwinked by promises:

We smooth out the blemishes

to remain within the premises

that they construct for us and entice us with

and remind us about every time they hurt us

to divert us and subvert the curt attacks they blurt

as if they have no weight on the people who hear them.

What are we to do when those who we see so brightly

descend into daily and nightly cycles of frightening actions or lack thereof?

White typically represents purity or peace,

but to me it’s innocence.

We lose our innocence in so many ways and stages,

and when significant others come around,

we suspend our disbelief about ever being able to find it again.

---

Love is about letting your instincts go,

going against your rationality and giving yourself to another;

whereas for a brother or a mother

there’s security in the familial certainty with the other,

when you surrender your pragmatism and your desensitization

to the abominations of your past, the problems in your present, and the worries about your future,

you put so much hope on another person

to suture your uncertainty and negativity

with the positivities of infatuation, companionship and support.

We look to our partners not only to reinforce

our steadfast selves hardened by reality

but also to catch us when our foundations give

and we find ourselves in free-fall.

That’s the security we strive for from significant others, where the mothers and brothers and fathers and daughters of the world come with predetermined expectations and trepidations about us based on who they know us to be.

This comfort we derive from our underlying reciprocities of respect and understanding and forgiveness is distinctive in that it is built from the ground-up,

and it’s not a birthright, nor an expectation, but a privilege, a blessing and often also a curse.

That emulation of innocence between those intensely involved is the best escape, the best comfort one could ever find.

It makes us feel unstoppable and together in our fight again and again against the world.

That strong communion gives every couple a collectively idiosyncratic arrogance. A bond we fortify over time with declarations of love and gift exchanges and reassurances to show the other our seemingly unwavering commitment as we are now and as we will be “forever.”

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Unfortunately, this childlike reenactment of innocence is a false equivalence to what’s actually possible.

And as the cloud of our initial manic desire fades to unveil the desensitized, pragmatic, uncertain people behind the fog,

we’re hit with reality again, and that supposedly unbreakable bond gets tested and bent and challenged by circumstance, temptation, frustration and more-so by the sheer humanity of the other and of the self.

Any two humans who coexist so closely cannot possibly do so in perfect harmony.

it’s a tough pill to swallow that the deep roots planted by the seeds you sow grow into roses with beautiful, blossoming petals at the top and stems with dangerous thorns that hold them up.

The most beautiful roses are the most dangerous. Not because of any physical properties — the thorns aren’t any sharper nor, are they harder to uproot,

but what gets you is that initial manic desire to grasp that dazzling white rose.

To desperately cling to your “other half” is to accept the thorns piercing your skin, making you gush blood and scream and cry and thrash with burning passion.

It doesn’t matter whether it’s out of love or hatred because the true antidote to love is indifference.

Resentment and anger for someone’s flaws or wrongdoings isn’t a scathing rejection of them, but rather a desperate projection of our frustration

with their deviation from the ideal picture we paint of them with the brush of our innocent desire.

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It’s even tougher to attempt to remove these roses than it is to hold on. It’s tough enough to take on the pain of thorns in your palm,

but it’s impossible to remain calm when you try to thrust your hand from the earth with each and every root of that rose, the bond you’ve built over time.

Every happy memory, every nickname, every gift, every thought, every story

acts as a gory resistant to your resolve to be existent without the comfortable poison that’s befallen you.

So you try and you pull but it hurts so you stop and their false security tricks you to give up and drop whatever the trigger was that set off your attempt at remaining exempt from a life of turmoil

and as the frogs in the pot come to boil

as the roots of our trust deepen

and the petals and thorns grow above soil,

we get cooked alive in this zero-sum-game.

Friends give up, family gives up, and we suffer.

We’re left without a buffer,

unable to get tougher to fight against

not the other, not the ones we can’t change, but against ourselves, and our own conceptions of the roses in our lives and what they have to offer.

the strength of the roots are a double-edged sword.

They kept us together in times of distress

but now they bind us together when we’re too far gone.

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The lawns of our lives, forever blighted by regret

are disrupted whenever we make trysts in secret

to salvage that which faded long ago.

As resentment grows and lovers become foes,

we withstand the throes of each others’ blows

And although the problems and the red flags stay stuck under your nose, you desperately cling onto that pure innocent white rose and disregard the thorns that bleed you out every day from when you wake up till the second your eyes close.

That final pull against the roots and the thorns and the laughs and the happy times and the poison that’s befallen you is by far the hardest one to overcome

In one swift movement, you become weightless but also aimless and nameless and faceless without the anchor of that rose that was supposed to remain in your garden forever.

And as that forever becomes never, and you resist their attempts to be clever, and you promise friends and family you won’t ever hurt yourself like that again,

you emerge into the light at the end of the

treacherous tunnel you were trapped in, bloody hand in tow,

and step into a world of uncertainty with no idea where to go.

~FIN~

Dedicated to Ria and Anaya and Harman.

Our reality is what Zee TV characters watch on their screens. We come from a place of unprecedented privilege. My existence on this Earth, my life growing up in America, the opportunities I’ve gotten, the reason I’m able to write this right now, I owe all to my parents, grandparents and ancestors. Through my lineage, every successive generation back in time had to work 100x harder than the last. My parents came to this country with virtually no footing and hustled their way into success over the course of decades. My grandparents came from villages where my grandfathers were the only kids who were given opportunities to leave to bigger cities. Their parents went through Partition. Their parents went through colonization. And so on and so forth.

Harvey (Titu) Uncle was my dad’s best friend. They had a bond that spanned several decades. They started a company together upon coming to America. They both went through divorce, remarriage and having children side-by-side. They spent so much time together throughout their lives — from buying houses in the same city to stay close to one another to carpooling to the office to going to Indian parties and on vacations, they seemed to do everything together.

Witnessing this bond throughout my childhood and early adulthood was so formative for my conception of friendship and how important it is to keep and maintain connections with others. Though all their work talk and rapid-fire Punjabi often went over my childhood head, between the lines I could glean that they genuinely trusted, confided in and adored each other endlessly. And that meant so much to me as an only child (at the time). I saw how much happiness it gave my dad and have tried to emulate that since. Just ask any of my friends :)

Their relationship went far beyond words of affirmation, though. They did everything for each other and for us without question. They picked each others’ kids up from school and spoiled us to oblivion. From getting us Lego sets to taking us on GameStop trips to getting us whatever food and ice cream we wanted, they did anything to make us happy.

Parallel to that, my dad would tell me stories about how him and his parents and sister and visiting family members would all cram into one studio apartment back in India. How they didn’t have money to feed themselves when business was slow but still made sure their truck drivers got paid and fed. My Dadi told me about how she left school to raise her sisters when her mom died early on in her childhood. My mamu in Baroda still stops by my Nani’s house every day to this day, despite her relentless preference to live alone at such an old age. These threads of selflessness and service to others have underlied my life as far as I can remember.

My dad and Titu Uncle did so much for the kids and always went the extra mile because of this rugged generational characteristic but also because they wanted to give us what they never had. My mom, dad, uncles, aunties, grandparents, extended family and friends all went to the same college. I went back and visited the campus in 2018 to see dilapidated buildings, outdated facilities and the like, but amid all of that I saw bright, hopeful students who just didn’t care about any of that. They were happy for the opportunity to make something of their circumstances.

My dad and uncle, having had done so and making it to America, made sure I enjoyed the fruits of their painstaking labor. As their parents did with them. I was so lucky to go to college here, and only after I arrived in India and was able to compare my circumstances to my parents’ was I able to understand why my parents put so much into my education. They wanted me to thrive and prosper in ways they couldn’t. The opportunities they had to carve out for themselves were right there for my taking. I’m so glad I took them.

Back in India, my dad failed Hindi in 12th grade and almost swore off school altogether. My Dadaji called his bluff and feigned support, letting him go work in the trucking business to see how he liked it. My dad hated it and immediately reapplied himself to make it through college (where he met my mom!) and to business school in Maharashtra. The importance of education for Desi families is tantamount to everything — without hesitation, his parents sent him away and let him flourish. Of course, they came from a place of privilege at this point to be able to do so. But this didn’t come without my Dadaji working a day job with a side hustle while pursuing two degrees and raising a family. This work ethic is something I could never reach, no matter how hard I aspire or apply myself. 10X self-improvement bullshit is nothing compared to the toil of necessity and survival.

But why does this sob story matter? It’s a reflection of the collective effort it has taken for me to be able to sit here and write this right now. I am so endlessly thankful to my culture and my family and family friends for raising me into the person I am today. For imbuing those values into me — of chasing happiness, success, stability and growth. Expectation isn’t always or entirely a bad thing. Sometimes it’s the push you need to go far in life. I’m so lucky for being given that push from early childhood. To have had the full support and belief of my parents and a wide network of people committed to my wellbeing.

Titu Uncle was a prime example of that. In my adulthood, especially in my college years, he would visit me at school or meet me at home, buy me dinner, and provide me a space to talk about my life and my feelings without the barrier of a parental specter over my shoulder. I cherished those times so much because I could feel the care, the love, the unconditional support from someone who was technically just my dad’s best friend but to me will always be family. He had so much going on between marriage, kids, work and other responsibilities, but still made that time for me, no matter how inconvenient it might have been for him. He even asked me what I wanted for a birthday gift as recent as 2022. He saw me for who I was as an adult but still treated me with so much love and care as if I was his child. And I was. In our culture, with bonds this strong, there is no differentiation regardless of blood relation. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the collective efforts of people like Titu Uncle in my life have invariably shaped me into the man I am today.

Thank you, Uncle, for everything you’ve done for me. I hope I was able to make you proud in the time you were here and that I can continue to do so as you watch from above. I hope to take all your lessons to heart, whether it was Ayurvedic food sequencing, spiritual mind-body connections, or just chasing happiness and knowing how to have a good time. I hope to give my future kids and friends’ kids the same childhood that you provided me. We have to advance ourselves and our bloodline and our culture every generation, and your presence in my life will never let me forget that. I love you. Rest in peace <3

this is from 2017 ok i know i look like a shrimp in this !