WHAT IT MEANS TO BE AN INDIAN ABROAD
You don't even like curry but someone calls it a 'kind of spice' and you're foaming at the mouth and ready to kill. How dare you...
Your national anthem is suddenly the best one ever written, even though you can't remember all the words.
You are suddenly the International Promotional Representative for the Taj Mahal.
Rajesh Koothrapali and Russell Peters are the most important people in the entire universe.
Naveen Andrews is not. We deny spawning that. Not ours, thank you.
Your British classmate is suddenly an 'evil colonialist'.
You regularly say 'alsjeblieft' to your sister back home because you just know it will piss her off.
You find yourself vehemently denying the whole head bobbing thing.
You're suddenly checking every Bollywood film to see if we actually do the head bobbing thing.
Curse creation and all that's it encompasses when you find that yes in fact, we do the head bobbing thing. A lot.
You find yourself informing everyone and anyone that Bollywood and South Cinema are two very different things. Not that you should have to, because they are (as mentioned several times) very fucking different.
You learn to ride a bicycle and hope to hell your friends at home never find out.
You still find it hysterical that a single 50 Euro note will get you a month's worth of groceries.
You firmly believe that it should be illegal for it to be this cold.
You are constantly preening about the fact that your English is superior to some of your lecturers.
You still find it unbelievable that your teachers like to be questioned and actually think its necessary to answer you.
You find yourself utterly horrified at the idea of an exam resit even though logically, you know that it is NOT the same thing as failing.
You think its sacrilege that just passing the exam is more than enough. At home, 99.97 percentile does not get you into the top MBA schools.
You are still convinced that the dryer will burn your laundry if it's left in for too long. The sun is good enough for us, thank you.
When someone asks you how you like the food in Europe, you rear back like an enraged wildebeest and and inform them that you would gladly kill for a single serving of malai kofta.
You have yet to successfully explain to your friends back home why and how Belgium and the Netherlands are different. Try it, I dare you.
Slumdog Millionaire is a phenomenally realistic and gritty metaphor for a young, struggling and dynamic India which is rising from the ashes like a phoenix. That's our story and we're sticking to it.
Your name is suddenly way too long. Two syllables should be enough, Mum and Dad.
Yes, I call my parents Mum and Dad. You can ask them.
You have at least once told a Non Indian one or all of these things:
1. You are engaged to be married to a Rajasthani Maharaja whom you have never seen before
2. Pre marital sex is punishable by death in India
3. You have a pet cow named Adam
(I really miss Hit Mornings with Sarthak)
You now find it necessary to clarify that none of these things is true. Except the first one. That's happening.
McDonalds is no longer the wonderful place it used to be. There is no Maharaja Mac or Paneer Salsa Wrap in Europe.
It is important to clarify that Gandhi did not smoke weed. That was Bob Marley. We are not amused.
You find yourself vehemently denying that cows roam the streets of the Nation's Capital. Then you congratulate yourself on how good you've become at lying through your teeth.
You are now aware that Europe is more than just Italy, Spain, France and Switzerland. Bulgaria is an actual country, not a made up word you found in Harry Potter.
When people ask you what your name means, you absolutely love saying "Oh, its too too complicated to explain if you don't know about India's culture." You're very lucky no one has strangled you yet.
Your national anthem is suddenly the best one ever written, even though you can't remember all the words.
You are suddenly the International Promotional Representative for the Taj Mahal.
Rajesh Koothrapali and Russell Peters are the most important people in the entire universe.
Naveen Andrews is not. We deny spawning that. Not ours, thank you.
Your British classmate is suddenly an 'evil colonialist'.
You regularly say 'alsjeblieft' to your sister back home because you just know it will piss her off.
You find yourself vehemently denying the whole head bobbing thing.
You're suddenly checking every Bollywood film to see if we actually do the head bobbing thing.
Curse creation and all that's it encompasses when you find that yes in fact, we do the head bobbing thing. A lot.
You find yourself informing everyone and anyone that Bollywood and South Cinema are two very different things. Not that you should have to, because they are (as mentioned several times) very fucking different.
You learn to ride a bicycle and hope to hell your friends at home never find out.
You still find it hysterical that a single 50 Euro note will get you a month's worth of groceries.
You firmly believe that it should be illegal for it to be this cold.
You are constantly preening about the fact that your English is superior to some of your lecturers.
You still find it unbelievable that your teachers like to be questioned and actually think its necessary to answer you.
You find yourself utterly horrified at the idea of an exam resit even though logically, you know that it is NOT the same thing as failing.
You think its sacrilege that just passing the exam is more than enough. At home, 99.97 percentile does not get you into the top MBA schools.
You are still convinced that the dryer will burn your laundry if it's left in for too long. The sun is good enough for us, thank you.
When someone asks you how you like the food in Europe, you rear back like an enraged wildebeest and and inform them that you would gladly kill for a single serving of malai kofta.
You have yet to successfully explain to your friends back home why and how Belgium and the Netherlands are different. Try it, I dare you.
Slumdog Millionaire is a phenomenally realistic and gritty metaphor for a young, struggling and dynamic India which is rising from the ashes like a phoenix. That's our story and we're sticking to it.
Your name is suddenly way too long. Two syllables should be enough, Mum and Dad.
Yes, I call my parents Mum and Dad. You can ask them.
You have at least once told a Non Indian one or all of these things:
1. You are engaged to be married to a Rajasthani Maharaja whom you have never seen before
2. Pre marital sex is punishable by death in India
3. You have a pet cow named Adam
(I really miss Hit Mornings with Sarthak)
You now find it necessary to clarify that none of these things is true. Except the first one. That's happening.
McDonalds is no longer the wonderful place it used to be. There is no Maharaja Mac or Paneer Salsa Wrap in Europe.
It is important to clarify that Gandhi did not smoke weed. That was Bob Marley. We are not amused.
You find yourself vehemently denying that cows roam the streets of the Nation's Capital. Then you congratulate yourself on how good you've become at lying through your teeth.
You are now aware that Europe is more than just Italy, Spain, France and Switzerland. Bulgaria is an actual country, not a made up word you found in Harry Potter.
When people ask you what your name means, you absolutely love saying "Oh, its too too complicated to explain if you don't know about India's culture." You're very lucky no one has strangled you yet.