When you’re growing up and you always think it’s normal that your fingers should be yellow because of what you ate and everyone else doesn’t understand, then you know you are outside the norm. You eat what you eat because that’s what’s put in front of you, you believe what you believe because that’s what’s put in front of you and you understand what you understand because that’s what has been put in front of you. Nothing about your life is apparent because you have no context. You are in a place that doesn’t accept you and will never take you at your face value. You have no value. The value you have is devalued because of your color. You want to believe you’re just like “them” but you never will be.You can’t be. They are bright and shining and you are dark and wrong. Even though you aren’t “that” dark you are still dark enough to be an insult to their eyes.

When you wake up in the morning and you look at yourself in the mirror you are sure that today WILL be different. You’re not naive, you’re just hoping that today will be different. You know otherwise. You know the taunts and beatings and ridicule to come but you need to believe that they will see you for who you are. You have to hope that they will understand you and just tolerate you. You’d give anything to be tolerated. The teachers with their snide comments about “you’re just not good enough” to the other kids who spit on you and tell you that you’re a shitstain that should never have come here.

You hope. You hope without compassion because compassion only comes to those who deserve it. Those that are worthy of knowing their place. The hierarchy of the order being what it is, you can’t be here. You shouldn’t be here. No one asked you to be here. You showed up and screwed up the natural order of things.

Lunch. You love lunch. It’s a respite from the veiled threats and taunts. The “hey, sand nigger, why don’t you tell us about your shitty life” or “hey, brown spot, when you go to sleep at night, do you leave shit on your pillow?” Lunch is where she gets to give you love. She gets to show you that you are not alone. That what you are is not a mistake.

Rice and rajma. Some papad now softer from being in the tiffin carrier but still fragrant and inviting. The bottom container full of raita and the top container, your favorite, pakoras. Their fragrance of spices and oil and onions. Your favorite dish that can see you right beyond anything the world could throw at you.

You unclasp the tiffin container. Peel its hinges back and lay out the containers. Your tablemates stare at you. You’ve done this so many times and yet, you are an alien unearthing something foreign to them. None ask for any. All stare at you as if you are radioactive. They all have this heat of hatred emanating to make sure that you know how ugly you are.

First container. Rajma. Kidney beans and spices. Your mouth waters as you open the tin.

Second container. Uppma. Not your favorite but still, something delicious and understood.

Third container. Beans curry with some naan. The naan is soft and soggy and it makes your mouth water thinking about how incredible the flavor must be since Amma made it just this morning. Nothing frozen or old is allowed. That would be indecent.

You lay out the tiffin containers on the long table. Your unwilling tablemates stare at you with a hatred only reserved for anyone who isn’t light enough to be acceptable.

You start with the beans curry and naan and break off a piece of the naan and garner up some curry in the naan. Garlic and spices and onions and tomatoes and Amma. Her hand in all of it and everything is sublime.

“Yo, nigger, what are you eating?” Comes the question. It came sooner than expected. Normally you’d be able to at least eat a few bites before this starts.

You try to respond but the entire tiffin container is upended on the floor. “You are an ugly sand nigger” says the person. They have no appreciation for culture or food or papad. All of it is on the floor. They grind it under their keds and make sure everyone sees that they are making you pay for your existence. “why don’t you go back to where you came from?” is the question.

I’m from here as far back as I can remember.