A Moment of Cultural-Identity Crisis

Dec. 15

I spent 6 months living in India.
For the past 4 months, I’ve been living in China.
Tonight, for the first time, those two worlds collided.
Now, I’m so culturally disoriented.

Last week, I made an excursion to Nanjing’s main mosque to join the city’s Muslims in celebrating Eid al-Adhr I figure, I’ve gotta get my winter holiday fix somehow, and Christmas isn’t looking promising (but rather even more nauseatingly commercial than its become in the states but with out that quintessential Christmas charm on the sidelines). So when a Uighur acquaintance mentioned this celebration at the mosque, I was determined to attend and see how Islam as it’s practiced here in China differs from what little I know of how it’s practiced elsewhere around the world.

Apart from the sacrifice of a giant ox, the thing that surprised me the most was the international nature of the crowd that gathered in the mosque that morning. Many worshippers were from Xinjiang in the country’s upper West corner. Also, making up the majority of the congregation, were many members of the Hui minority, one of China’s largest minorities and also one of the most spread out in terms of the area they populate; what ties this group together is not a common culture, language, or land, but rather Islam. But not only did the crowd include people from far-flung corners of China: after the prayer service finished and the ox had been sacrificed in commemoration of the Prophet Abraham’s noble spirit of sacrifice, I made a number of new acquaintances from around the globe, a diverse assortment of North Africans, Middle Easterners, and Europeans. Among them were Iranians, Algerians, Lebanese, Moroccans, French, and Yemenis.

Pakistanis, too. One of the people I met after the prayer service finished up was Mehdi, an international student from Pakistan studying mechanical engineering at one of the many schools here in Nanjing. For a brief spell before the bus left to take him and a crowd of other Pakistani students back to their campus, we enjoyed the atmosphere of Eid al-Adhr together and reminisced about some of the things we miss about South Asia. We both mentioned the food, of course, and when I asked whether there were any places to get authentic Indo-Pakistani food here in Nanjing, he answered, “Yes.” I was pleasantly surprised to learn that the Taj Mahal Restaurant near Xinjiekou, a commercial district within walking distance of my current home, exists. I was even more pleasantly surprised when Mehdi insisted that he’d take me for dinner there sometime. That sometime turned out to be tonight.

“Sister, Salaam Alaykum!” Mehdi’s text message the previous evening read. “If you are free, we’ll have dinner together tomorrow night at the Taj Mahal. Meet me in the Xinjiekou subway station at 7 o’clock sharp. Allah Hafiz, may Allah protect you.”

Even before the precise point of 7 PM, Mehdi and his friend Said (also Pakistani, but “His Auntie is living in Chicago,” Mehdi explained right away as a way of establishing a connection) had arrived in the station from their campus a good 30-40 minutes away. We greeted each other with warm greetings of “Salaam Alaykum” in the cool winter air (I won’t yet say cold: Nanjing winters are nothing compared to Chicago winters with biting winds, below zero temperatures, and several substantial dumps of lake effect snow per year), and continued on our merry way to the Taj Mahal. We strolled along the streets on the fringes of Xinjiekou, a commercial center in the city (and as such, sufficiently decked out for Christmas), and spoke of our studies and stories of being international students in Nanjing and more about what we miss about South Asia. Our mutual longing for South Asian food was about to be satisfied.

As we approached the Taj Mahal, I could smell the distinct spices of Indian cuisine before I spotted the restaurant itself. The delicious aroma intensified once we went inside, finding the atmosphere akin to that of an average Indian restaurant you’d find in the States. There must have been a significant proportion of the city’s Indian residents gathered inside, enjoying, like us, the food and surroundings of a part of Asia that on a map seems so relatively close but in every other regard seems so far. There were also a number of Chinese patrons, many of who seemed to be trying Indian food for the first time.

I left it up to Mehdi and Said to order, as they are true connoisseurs of the cuisine while I’m just an enthusiast. In the end, inadvertently, without ever having mentioned any preferences, off of an extremely extensive menu that must have had over 200 selections, they ordered 3 things that I myself would have ordered (saag paneer, chicken tikka, and garlic naan), plus a mutton curry, more of a Muslim favorite. Our server brought out a basket of sweetened popcorn with a selection of chutneys, the only significant difference I noticed between this place and an Indian restaurant in the U.S. or India, the only trace of Chinese flavor that seemed to infiltrate the doors of the Taj.

For the past many months, I’ve grown to love Chinese cuisine (just about as much as I love the flavors of Indian food, I thought) and have eaten it happily every day for every meal for the past 4 months, without once eating or even craving Western cuisine. But when the exquisite taste of saag paneer and Indian spices touched my tongue for the first time in too long, I was instantly transported back to India, my other Asian home away from home. Oh, India. A place, so I rediscovered tonight, equally close to my heart as China. And oh, Indian food. A heavenly combination of flavors even more attuned to my palette than Chinese food.

Indian tastes on my tongue, Hindi and Urdu (for the most part mutually comprehensible) being spoken around me, for the first time in months my 2 Asian homes intersected, tearing at my heart for the upper hand. My senses were inundated and overwhelmed. Taste (the food). Smell (the spices). Sight (the décor). Sound (the Bollywood music videos playing in the background and the smooth cadence of languages with contours far different from the tonal Chinese). Touch, too (it’s been so long since I’ve eaten with my hands, and the feel of a piece of nan in my fingers pocketing a dab of curry-and-spice-saturated sauces). All that plus a sort of sixth sense, a feeling of being at home, worked in tandem to transport me away from China and back to India for a brief evening.

After the amazing meal was finished, the uneaten food was wrapped up and taken to go (a pleasant contrast to the Chinese custom of ordering way too much food and letting everything left uneaten go to waste). While we were waiting for the check, Mehdi asked in passing,
“Now what is your father’s good name?”
“Phil, or Philip,” I replied.
“That’s not a Muslim name…” Mehdi exclaimed, seeming confused. “But, wait!”
“That’s because I’m not Muslim, Mehdi!” I said, starting to feel bad for inadvertently deceiving him.

After that realization, his tone took on a slight change, seeming disappointed that I wasn’t the good Muslim girl he’d somehow assumed me to be. “But I thought,” Mehdi went on, “since we met in the mosque that day, on Eid al-Adha, I thought you were a Muslim.”

“Mehdi, my friend,” I said apologetically, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but a blonde American Muslim is quite a rare find. No, I’m not Muslim. But I have many Muslim friends and have great respect for them and their religion.”

Soon after that awkward yet amusing exchange, the friendly feel of the evening’s conversation was for the most part restored. Still, I think we were both left a bit dumbfounded by the misunderstanding. Mehdi, Said, and I then stepped out of the little pocket of South Asian-ness and back onto the streets of Nanjing. Following farewells of “Allah Hafiz” (“May Allah protect you”), they stepped into a taxi that would take them back to their campus, leaving me to walk home alone. Leaving me overwhelmed by a sense of cultural disorientation.

My feet kicked into auto-pilot mode and took me home on their own accord, my mind detached and seeming to observe the scene from a distance. The street scene in Nanjing that night was a blur of bright colored lights blaring messages in Chinese characters, mixed with a swirl of Chinese faces and store fronts decorated for Christmas. It all felt so unreal, not just superficial but beyond, as if I was watching from afar or from a film. My mind, my spirit, remained suspended above it all, being stretched across all corners of the earth; first and foremost, my two Asian homes away from home. I drifted into sleep that night, my body in Nanjing, my heart stranded in some no-man’s land between China and India, the blanket of night sky a bridge between the two.