They left the land
but packed the caste,
tucked the guilt in suitcases
between turmeric and trauma,
and crossed oceans
to become palatable
to everyone but themselves.
First-generation Indian Americans —
identity contortionists
wearing two flags like reversible jackets,
waving the right one
depending on the room,
the spotlight,
the visa.
Too American to kneel,
too Indian to question.
They disown India
like it’s a stain they can’t scrub,
until it’s time for saffron backdrops
and arranged nostalgia.
Then they gloat desi
like they handcrafted the culture
they once fled from.
They dismiss Americans
like they didn’t spend
an entire childhood
training to sound like them —
tongues amputated at customs,
accent rehearsed
like a script
that couldn’t afford error.
They mock Indians
to prove they’ve evolved,
but can’t digest their own shadow
without Googling the recipe.
They quote Audre Lorde
to critique the West,
but weaponize Gandhi
to gaslight their parents.
They call trauma heritage,
call privilege hard work,
call mimicry multicultural.
They out-liberal the liberals,
out-sanskrit the sages,
yet flinch
when asked where they’re really from —
not because they don’t know,
but because they never stayed long enough
to belong.
They want India to remain a relic
so they can feel spiritual
without the dirt.
They want America to apologize
while cashing its checks.
They demand complexity
but offer cliché.
They claim intersectionality
while standing at every corner
but walking none.
Diaspora is not a dilemma —
it’s a curated identity cult
selling confusion
as currency.
And these are its priests —
preaching belonging
with borrowed gods,
chanting “home”
in accents they paid to perfect,
offended by mirrors,
terrified of roots.
They don’t bleed for either flag.
They cosplay both.
And call it survival
because truth was too expensive.
So no,
they don’t belong to America.
And they never truly left India.
They hover.
They echo.
They curate identity
like museums curate grief —
stolen, reframed,
lit just right
so no one asks
how much is real
and how much is performance.
Talk about legacy.
Talk about heritage.
Talk about cunts.
But make sure
you pronounce it correctly.
Because culture isn’t something
you put on like a shawl
when it’s cold enough to remember.
It’s the skin
you either grow in
or flay off.
And these?
They didn’t grow.
They peeled.
They posted.
And they called the wound
home.
Talk about homeless cunts of convenience.
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