On Habitats

Home is a slippery word because it is inevitably entangled with personal sentiments. Many believe that where home is for a person can change on a whim based on personal sentiment. I consider it prudent to avoid reflecting on this hazy word and instead focus my attention on a more attainable target: the habitat. Unlike the home, which exists in the fuzzy domain of personal feelings, the habitat dwells in the more concrete realm of the biological.

A person’s natural habitat manifests itself in involuntary responses to environmental stimuli. Specifically, the physiological processes of olfaction, gustation, and digestion provide clues as to whether a person is in their natural habitat. Given the increased prevalence of video recording, we can experience the sights and sounds of a place more easily than ever. This very minute, I can watch a vlog of Buenos Aires, Argentina to experience its sights and sounds. But one would hardly agree that my vlog viewership entails that I have visited Buenos Aires. Sight and sound have little to no bearing on what makes a habitat. Our sense of place is far more closely bound to our senses of taste and smell. To truly know a place is to experience it with your nose, tongue, and bowels.

For instance, consider a homesick college student. It is far more likely that she is missing the smell of her house (veedu in Tamil) and the taste of a home-cooked meal than the mere sight of her veedu or the sound of her irksome younger brother (thambi in Tamil). Or consider literal sickness. Sickness, by stifling our smell, twisting our taste, and disrupting our digestion, renders us a nomad. When we are sick, nowhere feels like a proper habitat—not even our own veedu.

If Indologist David Shulman says that Tamil is a fragrance, then that fragrance is definitely burning camphor. Whenever I entered a temple—or a kovil in Tamil—the smell of burning camphor assaulted my nose. Muthu loved the smell—I did not. I attributed our different reactions to the mere exposure effect, the idea that repeated exposure to certain stimuli makes you more likely to enjoy them. Muthu, having smelled burning camphor from a young age, developed an affinity for it. My nose, on the other hand, regarded the smell as foreign and therefore unpleasant. I encountered this smell nearly everywhere in India from the inside of kovilkal to Muthu’s family’s household shrine. These whiffs were a constant reminder that I was outside of my natural habitat.

The different diet was also a reminder. The Tamil diet orbits three main carbohydrates: Rice is often served for lunch. Idly (a steamed rice paddy in the shape of a flying saucer) or dosa (a savory rice and lentil crepe) are served often for breakfast and dinner. Other carbohydrates also make an appearance: Vada (a savory lentil donut with peppercorn), apalam (a large inflated chip), uttapam (a savory rice pancake), chapati (a simple flatbread known as roti in the north), and poori (an inflated flatbread) are used from time to time. These carbohydrate dishes are almost always served with sambar (a vegetable stew) and a variety of vegetable chutneys.

Notice that my diet description did not mention meat. As an omnivore myself, I quickly realized that the Tamil diet was wanting in meat. In America, roughly 90 percent of my meals include meat; in Tamil Nadu, roughly 90 percent of the meals are vegetarian—if not vegan. The first-millennium Tamil poet Thiruvalluvar even wrote a short poetic polemic against meat-eaters like myself:

How can the want of 'kindly grace' to him be known,
Who other creatures' flesh consumes to feed his own? ( Thirukkural 251)

Prolonged periods of meat abstinence were an adjustment for my palate and gut.

Nearly all Tamil foods—besides rice—were foreign to my nose, tongue, and bowels. I often had to fight the urge to ask what I was eating or how a given food could be described in English. Subtle dietary variations served as a relentless reminder that I was outside of my natural habitat. For sweet treats, whereas American sweets tend to rely exclusively on white sugar, Tamil sweets incorporate a distinctive spice called jaggery. Even familiar foods had a foreign twist. One time, at a hotel breakfast, the Corn Flakes dispenser caught my eye. At last, I thought, a taste reminiscent of my natural habitat! I was blissfully ignorant as I carried the Corn Flakes and milk back to my table. As I took my first taste, my mouth was confronted with a tragic truth: the milk was warm! In America, warm milk is an exception. In India, warm milk is the rule.

Heavy-handed portions exacerbated my struggle to adapt. Tamil hospitality verges on excess. Thiruvalluvar writes:

Though food of immortality should crown the board,
Feasting alone, the guests without unfed, is thing abhorred. ( Thirukkural 82 )

Meals often began with repeated offers of a given food to replies of “venam, venam, venam,” or “I don’t want, I don’t want, I don’t want” and were often punctuated by repeated offers for more food to replies of “podhum, podhum, podhum,” or “enough, enough, enough.” In America, one of the first sign language words I learned as a baby was “more”—signed by bunching your fingers on each hand and tapping them together. In Tamil Nadu, you don’t have to ask for more—instead, you have to ask for the serving to stop.

The meal times and sizes also required adjustment. Tamil meals are served about 2 hours later than American meals: breakfast is served at 10am instead of 8am, lunch is served at 2pm instead of 12pm, and dinner is served at 8pm instead of 6pm. In America, dinner is usually the biggest meal of the day; in Tamil Nadu, lunch is usually the biggest meal. For the first few days, my stomach was so bloated from lunch that I didn’t have it in me to eat dinner.

My bowels often reminded me that India was not my natural habitat. Trips to the restroom, when they occurred, became more urgent. Toilets in India are of two kinds: Western toilets include the traditional American-style porcelain throne and a hose spray in place of toilet paper. Non-Western toilets include a hole in the ground for squatting as well as a spigot and bucket for pouring water in place of the hose spray. During my entire stay in India, I was fortunate enough to avoid using a non-Western toilet despite one close encounter. While our tour group in Varanasi was on the road, we stopped at a roadside restaurant to use the restroom and drink chai (tea). I stood in line for the stalls to go number two. When it was my turn to go, I opened my stall to find a non-Western toilet. No matter, I thought, I will wait to go number two until our next stop. Sitting with Muthu and drinking my chai, I came to a harrowing realization: the deuce was imminent. I waddled over to an empty stall and tried to accept my fate. As I closed the door to my stall, my eyes lighted upon a beautiful sight: a Western toilet. The toilet tables had turned—and in my favor! I had too quickly assumed that all three stalls contained non-Western toilets. As I finished my business in a toilet with a quality slightly below that found in American gas stations, I could not have been happier.

In India, I prided myself on my ability to adapt to different habitats. As much as possible, I tried to align my biological functions with the Indian habitat, particularly my food consumption. The last thing I wanted to be was that foreigner that refused to adapt to the local customs. In South India, nearly all meals are eaten with hands, sometimes cross-legged on the floor, and sometimes on banana leaves. The last time I sat cross-legged on the floor was kindergarten, so my legs were ill-equipped to sit cross-legged. I always had to adjust my pose to an awkward side sit position with my legs splayed to the right side.

I tried my best to never ask for accommodations and to try every food presented to me. While most meals in India are roughly as spicy as the average American meal, cooks will elevate the spice for a few choice dishes. The last thing I wanted to be was that White person who couldn’t tolerate spice. Fellow restaurant goers would stare at me as I gobbled down a dollop of spicy chicken curry or a handful of green chili peppers. In India, water is served lukewarm by default. Lukewarm water cannot quell spice quite like cold water. Additionally, napkins are a rarity in Indian restaurants since patrons eat with their hands anyway. When the spice would cause my nose to run, my poor nostrils had no solace from the snot onslaught. The spice was never beyond my tolerance—provided that I had an ample supply of cold water and napkins.

I also adapted when relieving myself. When Muthu and I visited Chennai for a day, we hired a driver that neither of us had ever met. At one point, the driver pulled off to the side of the highway and got out of the car. I asked Muthu what he was doing. Muthu said that he was taking a leak. I needed to go number one myself, so I hopped out of the car and scampered over to a concrete wall to pee. The driver did a double take when he saw me getting out to answer nature’s call. He told Muthu afterward that he’s never seen a white person get out to pee on the side of the road—even the Sri Lankan tourists he drove wouldn’t do it. In situations like these, I earned cultural currency through my adaptability.

I was not the only one who was out of my natural habitat. Muthu and I played a game where we identify what we called ABCDs—American-Born Confused Desis—a term from the eponymous Mollywood movie about an immigrant father who sends his entitled American sons to live in India. To identify ABCDs, you can use the acronym ABCD:

A is for Apple Products: A telltale sign of an ABCD is an iPhone. In India, iPhones are typically reserved for wealthy families—or, in this case, families who earn a salary in American dollars.

B is for Bilingualism: ABCDs are usually fluent in English and have an American accent.

C is for Clothes: Female ABCDs are easy to identify. Most native Tamil women wear sarees whereas female ABCDs incorporate American-style blouses and pants into their attire. Male ABCDs are hard to distinguish from native Tamil men because both wear American-style shirts and pants.

D is for Demeanor: ABCDs usually appear more self-conscious than a given Tamil native. Muthu and I postulated that exposure to more cultures results in greater self-consciousness since being in a new culture requires caution. We surmise that exposure to multicultural American culture drastically increases a person’s self-consciousness.

Muthu wanted to avoid being seen as an ABCD at all costs. Every time he spoke in English, he assumed an Indian accent. Whenever asked where he is from, he says “Pattamangalam” or “Madurai” instead of “America.” These behaviors irked me. Muthu speaks English with a perfect American accent, so why should he feign an Indian one? Muthu maybe travels to Pattamangalam once every three years, so how can he say he is from there? Both Muthu and I wanted to adapt to our new habitat. Neither Muthu nor I wanted to look like a foreigner. One of us had a significantly easier time. Whether I liked it or not, everybody could tell that I was a foreigner. America was my habitat, and my skin color served as a walking testament to that fact. At the end of the trip, Muthu told me that even though his family likes to consider Pattamangalam their home—or habitat—his family’s desire for creature comforts betrays that their true home—or habitat—is in America.