When I was about 8 years old in the late 1980s, my parents stuck a VHS of the 1968 movie The Party into our VCR. The four of us (my parents and my older sister) guffawed with laughter. Peter Sellers in brown face as lovable buffoon Hrundi V. Bakshi who unwittingly ruins a Hollywood big-wig’s dinner party was a delightful romp. It was so funny to see the accent of my grandparents imitated on screen. In addition to the V’s swapped for W’s and rolling R’s, Sellers mimicked the Indian uncle side-to-side head nod to a tee. He had superb command of physical comedy and timing. Even at that age, I was much more forgiving of this representation of Indians than I was of the grotesque monkey brain eating scenes from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.
It would be years before I realized how problematic it is to even write “in brown face,” let alone other parts of Blake Edwards’s film that teeter dangerously between satire and bigotry. Oddly enough, my parents were introduced to The Party at a dinner hosted by my mom’s former boss. In today’s parlance, this might qualify as a “micro-aggression:” a white male encouraging his Indian female subordinate to watch movie that spoofs her culture. I later asked my mother if she was offended not only by the film, but also by her colleague. Ever the blithe spirit, she shrugged, only remembered laughing and even suggested that Bakshi emerges a hero in the end. Spoiler alert: he gets the girl.
As a PoC who immigrated to the United States in 1983, I am indebted to the Civil Rights movement, which is intertwined with the Immigration Act of 1965. This legislation opened America’s doors to technocrats from the developing world. My parents weren’t refugees fleeing a war-torn nation; as a highly educated couple, their life in Indira Gandhi’s India promised a comfortable spot in the middle class, maybe even more. But they had bigger dreams for their two young daughters, prompting a daring move that entailed career reboots. This gamble paid off and I was the beneficiary so that when it came to finding my own success, barriers to entry were minimal. My parents had the means to live in wealthy suburbs where tax dollars were poured into attentive police forces and world class schools. On top of that, they could afford private education. They also cultivated a network of friends who imparted the same ambitions to their children, ensuring that my sister and I had examples to follow. This network afforded us extra boosts — we know the dean of the school, our friend got you an interview at the firm. I happily accepted all of these advantages. I just had to be smart and show up. That’s it. No bias against my background or skin color dealt me an unfair hand. Today, more than ever, I am acutely aware of how much privilege and endowment played a role in my significant head-start. In addition to boons in education and career, to say that I expect the law to preserve and protect my physical well-being is a gross understatement. I have been given these “inalienable rights” my whole life. Even in the pandemic, that I can shelter in place in a neighborhood patrolled by private security firms where my only complaint is our Wifi crapping out when both my husband and I are on video conference calls is an untold luxury.
This is not a trite apology on Brown Privilege, and snicker all you want at my “wokeness.” Better late than never when it comes to transcending a shrugging acceptance of my circumstances to a more bracing realization that these advantages are at risk of dying with me if I don’t demand a more just world. As I consider my activism, the most prescient thought is that if I don’t pay better attention, the bubble I grew up in will be exactly that, a vacuous hollow, leaving my children bereft of any meaningful legacy. So, against this backdrop of a public health crisis and an overdue revolution, I start with contemplation. Namely, recent developments in the television landscape that have me considering how, if at all, Mr. Bakshi fits into this world of seismic changes. In March, three television shows purporting to show facets of Indian or Indian-American life debuted across distinct platforms: Family Karma (a reality show on Bravo), Mira: Royal Detective (an animated series on The Disney Channel/Disney Junior) and Never Have I Ever (a live action streaming series on Netflix). That all three debuted within a few weeks of each other feels like kismet. A stereotype about Indians is that we are highly superstitious. I’d offer that superstitions are not informed by a provincial over simplification of our surroundings, but by a complex set of spiritual beliefs. The Indian in me believes that good or bad things happen in 3’s. That three TV shows debuted virtually simultaneously is a *good* thing. Representation is good…but not all representation is created equal.
I’ll start with the lowest hanging fruit, so to speak: Family Karma. According to the show’s Bravo website: Growing up in traditional, multigenerational households, this group is bonded by their strong cultural ties and vibrant Miami social lives. With parents and grandparents instilling their cherished customs, and adult children who are drifting more towards the “American Way…” As reality TV goes, the drama on Family Karma was pretty tame. Some unrequited love. Some career growing pains. Perhaps most poignant was the relationship between an out-of-the-closet gay attorney and his parents. Much of the journey to acceptance that this family took happened pre-filming. Had we been privy to it, it would have not only made for compelling television, but also helped South Asian families caught in dated stigmas about sexuality. What I found most provocative was the cast’s propensity to break the fourth wall and talk to producers off camera, demonstrating a rare level of self-awareness in reality TV. In one scene, divorcee Bali lamented the fact that she now had to work to earn her living versus her former life as a pampered socialite housewife. She then quickly walked back those statements and asked the producers to not use that footage — all while on camera. They did not listen to her, which made for some schadenfreude on my part.
Still, I was left wanting more from Family Karma. Take, for instance, Monica — billed as the perfect Indian girl by her castmates, she was deeply offended by speculation about a casual hook up, prompting her friends to suggest that she hated any crack in her veneer. But what fueled her perfectionism? Was it the gossip from her parent’s divorce that led to her dad’s being ostracized from the community? I wanted to hear more about how parents contributed to their offspring’s challenges or triumphs. But no Indian kid would ever publicly expose their parents. I applaud that a reality show about Indians actually made it onto Bravo — the Promised Land for this genre. But as a seasoned Real Housewives fan (like, I remember Jo and Slade on Orange County seasoned), I would be surprised if Family Karma gets a second series. The Indian community’s unwillingness to air dirty laundry doesn’t play well in the reality TV world.
On what feels like quite literally the opposite end of the media spectrum, Mira: Royal Detective takes younger kid friendly devices/themes like friendship, problem solving and music all wrapped up in a pretty bow, er, sari. The majority of characters are voiced by Indian talent, many of whom are already well established or growing their careers like Freida Pinto and Kal Penn. The relationships are straightforward — there are siblings, parents and friends. The fantastical elements marry Indian culture to magic; e.g., flying rickshaws and ladoo-loving talking mongooses. The plots are easy to follow for my 4-year-old son and, even more engaging for his age, the music is REALLY catchy. Three episodes in and he knew by heart the “We’re on the Case” song that Mira breaks into when she’s about to embark on a new mystery. And yes, his parents memorized it, too.
The creators of Mira have clearly acknowledged that one size most certainly doesn’t fit all when it comes to representing India. Diversity on the show not only comes through visuals in food and dance (garba and bhangra), but also in more subtle and meaningful ways. Characters have a range of skin tones, perhaps a baby step in circumventing future damage to young minds from the garbage Fair & Lovely perpetuates — just an aside, but enough years have passed since 1947 for us to call bullshit on Bollywood celebrities endorsing a skin lightening product. Also, it was not lost on this Sikh-American that Ranjeet and Manjeet wear their hair in patkas. I’m relieved the show doesn’t attempt capture all facets of Indian culture in 22 minute episodes. The end result would be hackneyed pandering. Instead, it does its best for its audience with attention to detail. For this mom whose son can now count on seeing members of his family like Priya and Neil sharing names with his favorite characters on the show, that’s more than enough.
Never Have I Ever…let’s just say I have a lot of feelings about the show. All the feelings: pride, elation, envy (I wish I was talented enough to write it, beautiful enough to star in it), ambivalence (it’s a great show, but not perfect). Central to all my emotions are longing and nostalgia. In this time of quarantine and unrest, I miss my mom, who is a four hour plane ride away but is also immuno-compromised. I yearn for a simpler time when I was in high school, the same age as the show’s highly intelligent protagonist, Devi Vishwakumar. High school wasn’t a cakewalk for me socially or even physically; nor is it for Devi. But I long for that time when the world was ahead of me. Before I knew how hard it would get. As we grapple with untrustworthy institutions and a seemingly uncontainable virus, uneven eyebrow tweezing or my crush ignoring me is a much more acceptable Armageddon. I most certainly wish that John McEnroe had shaken some sense into my teenage head, as he does with Devi.
Devi is bolder and more outspoken than I ever was. She also is dealing with more than standard overachieving child of immigrants angst. As her character’s psychologist suggests, it’s obvious that her fixation on losing her virginity, in addition to a brief paralysis, is Devi desperately clinging to distractions after her beloved father passes away. Her mom is also distracting herself from grief by obsessing over everything that could possibly go wrong with her daughter — boys, academics, etc. In a climactic scene in the finale, Devi is cajoled by Mr. McEnroe into joining her mother in a Hindu grieving ritual in Malibu. Though there are Sanksrit prayers and a white sari, my husband pointed out that several customs were overlooked. As Devi did, my husband performed this ceremony with his newly widowed mother after his dad suddenly passed away. He said that if Devi had blown off the sacrament, it wouldn’t have just been a really uncool thing to do to her mom, but also a callous abandonment of her dad and his memory. I wish my husband’s point was made clear. Though Devi getting closure is gratifying, it would be equally poignant if she wasn’t transformed. Her very participation demonstrates an aspect of Indian life that makes me very proud — we honor all family members, both the dead and the living.
Ultimately, I loved Never Have I Ever. Watching it, I often thought of my very poised and talented 15 year old niece and how lucky she is to have aspects of an Indian girl’s life mirrored on screen. Compared to mine and her parent’s generation, hers now has this added endowment. Seeing one’s world amplified in authentic, relatable stories is important for developing self-worth. I can think of no time more critical than adolescence to build confidence.
In the final analysis, I’m not mad at Mr. Bakshi.
It was the 1960s, The Beatles were embracing transcendental meditation in Riskhikesh. Exotic India and its philosophies had legitimate linkage to the free love, counter culture movement; people were curious to see more. I just wish the “more” was less sensational and patronizing. The need for authentic representation across all minority groups (racial, religious, sexual orientation, gender identity, et al.) is as pressing as ever. These three shows have also revealed to me a more optimistic view of America. At a time of division and rage, it’s easy to think that jingoism and rejection of the other is the norm. But the hippie movement has infiltrated our subconscious and made us more reverential. Maybe the viewer just likes seeing opulent Miami or their child sings catchy songs or their friends tell them Mindy Kaling is funny — but even if we are accidental hippies, Americans are rising to the challenge of thinking beyond their immediate world. Sharing these stories are the revolution. And that gives me hope.
