Where Are You From?

By Nyoikhaw Pansa

They ask me,

“Where are you from?”

I say, “Arunachal Pradesh.”

And then

that look,

“Where is that?”

Honestly, I want to say,

“Get yourself a goddamn geography book.”

Because that’s how I learned about your states in school.

Then comes:

“Do you speak Chinese? Japanese?”

I just stay silent, muttering inside, 

“Well, do you? I just told you I’m Indian.”

But he seems like a nice guy,

so I swallow it,

smile,

and become the human Google map

(yet again).

I walk down the street,

minding my own business,

a group of boys shout:

“chhing chhong!” “ping pong!” “chini!” “chinese!”

I want to snap back,

but this isn’t my hometown.

And I’m just a girl.

So I keep my cool,

but honestly, can someone please tell them

if they’re going to be racists,

at least learn some real Chinese words.

Because their gibberish is just embarrassing,

I fear even Google can’t translate them.

Some called us coronavirus,

because it came from China?

Because our eyes are small 

and we look “Chinese” to you?

But are you aware?

That you look like Pakistanis to us too?

If we went by looks.

(But we don’t shout that down the streets.)

And my small eyes can see everything

that your big eyes can see, too.

You say,

“I can’t tell you apart,

you all look the same.”

Well, surprise!

You all look the same to me as well,

until I get to know you.

No, I don’t feel flattered

when you call me Korean.

I feel awkward,

a little exposed,

and honestly,

just sad when you call me Chinese

because you treat Chinese products as cheap,

and laugh about it.

But guess what…

you’ve got some Chinese goods at home too,

and Chinese noodles on the streets.

I just want to say,

let’s not do this.

Because just like you,

I grew up singing Jana Gana Mana

every morning.

Because, like you,

I grew up reciting the pledge:

India is my country. I love my country.

All Indians are my brothers and sisters…

Every morning. At school.

No family has all members

with the same traits,

the same story,

just like you and me. Like us.

And that’s what makes us vibrant and beautiful,

imperfectly perfect.

Don’t you think?

By Nyoikhaw Pansa