The Indian culture is indisputably among the oldest cultures in the history of our world. When the modern industrialized nation was yet to rise, before the advent of Christianity, Islam, and Buddhism, and long before the Asiatic peninsula was to be declared a ‘third-world’ region, Indian civilization was alive and flourishing. Thousands of years later, after the wake of several invasions and generations of foreign rule, India remains a culture so unique as to have assimilated other cultures into its own rather than falling itself. Whether seen by a historian or the average keen observer, the Indian culture is easily recognized as a prodigy in human civilization. However, my purpose is not to discuss the history of the Asiatic peninsula. This history is relatively well known, even if not fully appreciated, throughout the world. My purpose in writing is not what is known about India, but rather what is forgotten. As proven through time, Indian culture has changed dramatically as the times have themselves. The Indian culture is once again upon this brink of change, and the Indian culture prepares to enter yet another millennium through which it must survive the test of time. The question is, however, will this great civilization, one that has seen days of plenty and days of scarcity, survive this next millennium? If so, upon whose shoulders will such a burden fall?

An entire generation of the Indian population has literally been forgotten. To their parents, they are rebellious, lost, confused, and utterly hopeless. To their friends, they are strange, backwards, and hopelessly different. And, to their relatives back home, they are no longer, nor have they ever been, Indians. Who are these ‘forgotten’ Indians? His parents came here from India so he could have greater opportunities. Her parents wanted to be here so that she could get a better education. Their parents left India ‘for them.’

This is the story of the second-generation Indian, who has grown up in the United States, in Canada, in England, in Australia; in a country other than India, and yet has grown up as an Indian. This is the story of the Indian who was told to be proud of his culture, and who was told to be respectful to her elders. This is my generation of Indian youth; a generation which struggles daily to discover its identity.

Before I can begin to offer my opinions upon our culture and the direction it has traveled and the direction it must travel in the future, I’d like to begin by sharing a few of my personal experiences as a second-generation Indian. I’ve been asked many times why I have such a commitment to my culture, and why I bother to look deeper into my roots. This story is my reason why.

For those of you who may not be very familiar with Toronto, Canada, there is an extremely large South Asian population in this city. Having been born there and lived there for 10 years, I was accustomed to having many Indian friends, Indian teachers, attending Indian ceremonies, and developing a uniquely Indian social attitude. My parents made it a priority for me to be aware of my culture at a very young age, and so I was told daily of stories found in such Indian classical literature as the Ramayana, the Mahabharata, and the Bhagavad-Gita. I was told of how lucky I was to be born in such a religious and cultural family, and how simply incredible and deep the Indian culture was. Of course, being of such juvenile age, I never really gave much merit to their lectures. Essentially, I took it for granted that my culture would always be understood, appreciated, and lauded.

My first glimpse of cultural dissent arose when I began to notice contradictions within my upbringing. The first conflicting aspect that I would discover in my seemingly flawless ethnicity was my parents. Even though they would encourage me constantly to appreciate and learn my heritage at home, it seemed that whenever they went out of the house, they would nearly cower in shame when they revealed their culture to western society. I was always told to be proud that my mother country was India, and yet my parents in public seemed to be eternally afraid of the western world’s view of our tradition. I sometimes caught myself wondering whether it was of pride or of shame to be Indian, but these thoughts were momentary, and I’d resume those seemingly trouble-free days.

Little did I know that everything I was taught would be challenged much sooner than I could have ever expected. My father decided to buy a hotel in Orlando, Florida, and so my family was to move to this new place. Eventually, I enrolled into a small suburban elementary school outside of Orlando, and the same day became my first day of school in the United States. This first day was to leave a scar so deep that it is yet to heal, yet the sight of this wound serves as a daily reminder for me to attempt and discover my background and myself. Upon entering the classroom, I was greeted with absurd questions such as “What tribe Indian are you?” and “Did you live in an Igloo up in Canada?” Dismissing the questions as idiocy, I merely answered them and moved on. In a short hour, time came for the class to go to lunch.

What ever you want me to read has to be written better.