“Miss? Could you come to the side, please? Random drug testing, sorry!”

I look up from my phone, squinting into the darkness. My eyes adjust to the dim lighting, softened after 1 am in YVR airport, and I spot the source of the voice. The woman gestures with blue-gloved hands to the metal table next to her, repeating the sentence. I sigh and duck under the railing, yanking my battered suitcase. 

The security line is completely empty at this hour: I’m the only one there. Later, when I call my dad to relay the incidents, he says the security guards probably had to complete their quota of random drug tests for the day. 

“All good! Could I have your passport, please?” She extends her gloved hand, a bright pink nail poking out through a small hole. I hand it over, eager to get to my gate. The monitor beeps, flashing green. She smiles at me, her almost-white-with-make-up-face crinkling, and her whole demeanour changes. 

“You’re Bengali?” she asks. Perhaps it’s her attempt at small talk — the airport does seem lonely at this hour. I nod, taking my passport back and zipping it up in my pocket. My entire identity contained in this tiny book — proof of my existence and my intentions in this country. The question hung in the air, with implications that stretched far beyond the confines of the terminal. 

In that fleeting moment, I found myself confronting the tension between heritage and appearance. Yes, I am Bengali, I affirmed, though the response felt inadequate, lacking the depth needed to capture the layers of my identity.

She looks skeptical as she says, “but you don’t look Bengali.” 

Not this conversation again. 

Her accent gives her away — definitely Punjabi. But my assumption is exactly like her assumption. Maybe she isn’t Punjabi. I bite my tongue and refrain from asking, but she beats me to it. 

“I’m Punjabi, if you couldn’t tell. I know your passport says Chatterjee but I just don’t believe it! You cannot be Bengali.” Her tone is nothing but curious, but I’m beginning to get irritated. Yes, I know I don’t look Bengali I want to say. But I am. 

I choke out a laugh, pretending her questions are welcome. Usually, they would be. Today? I just want to go home, where everyone looks like me and no one comments on my ethnicity. 

“I am Bengali, actually, both my parents are. My Nani is Punjabi, but I’m Bengali.” I put my iPad back in my bag, shoving the rest of the liquid items in the front pocket. 

“So you’re Punjabi! I knew I was correct. Mujhe laga hi, yeh Bangali ho hi nahi sakti.” (I thought so, there’s no way she’s Bengali.)

I’m in no mood to argue, but I feel compelled to repeat that I’m Bengali. “No,” she shakes her head, wagging a finger at me, “you’re Punjabi.” 

I smile politely, pick up my bags, and head to security. I’m simultaneously relieved and irked. I can’t wait for the boarding announcement so I can be tortured for another 15 hours. 

I can’t wait to land in Delhi: to breathe the air that promises to shorten my lifespan by at least a decade, listen to the non-stop traffic, be assimilated with my people. My people. 

Ironic, isn’t it? Vancouver plays host to a massive number of Indians, spanning several states. Yet you never feel like you truly belong. Not because I am, on paper, a minority, but because there are divisions within my community, a community that is already separate. 

Being Bengali, for me, extends beyond mere lineage or ancestry; it is a tapestry woven from disparate threads of experience, memory, and self-discovery. It is the aroma of spices that permeates my childhood home, the cadence of Bengali lullabies that lingers in my ears, and the rich tapestry of stories that connect me to a heritage steeped in tradition and resilience.

Yet, it is also the awkwardness of stumbling over Bengali phrases, the sense of estrangement in spaces where cultural norms diverge from my own, and the constant negotiation of dual identities that define my experience.

My ethnic identity, beyond being Indian, is only ever questioned by Indians. Funny, since Bengalis are the third-largest ethnic group in the world, after the Han Chinese and Arabs. Yes, their lack of questioning stems from a dearth of knowledge, but being pestered by those who share my nationality is infinitely worse. 

The encounter at the airport, though seemingly trivial, serves as a poignant reminder of the intricate web of perceptions that shape our sense of belonging. As a person of mixed heritage, my identity is often subject to scrutiny, my belonging questioned in light of preconceived notions, similar to the initial assumptions I made about the guard’s identity. But it’s not just me. It can’t be. 

Canada is a melting pot, reminiscent of my childhood in Singapore. One class, at least 8 different ethnicities. So why can’t I just be accepted as I am, as a Bengali woman who grew up in Delhi and Haryana, without having to dive deep into my family tree, explaining the Sindhi and Punjabi roots. 

Bengali, Punjabi, Sindhi, Haryanvi. Hindu. All of those in one. The pride in my lineage diminishes with every doubtful question, every suspicious look cast upon me. “You’re the most non-Bengali Bengali I know,” my high school dance teacher had said. I’d laughed at the time. Now, I crave any validation: for someone to see me and recognize me for who I am. To not have to smile and gesture to those two pointed ‘vampire’ teeth that are specific to Bengalis. 

A beautiful tapestry, woven with a myriad of experiences, stories, languages, lineages, yet those who were created from this very tapestry base my entire identity on the colour of my skin, the shape of my face, the accent I have, and the pointedness of my teeth. 

Yes, I’m North Indian. I celebrate all North Indian festivals, but I also immerse myself in the world of Maa Durga every Durga Puja, the biggest Bengali festival. 

Yes, I’m East Indian. I may not have been born there, but my last name carries the weight of West Bengal.

Yes, my the lilt in my accent was a habit I picked up in Singapore. No, that doesn’t make me any less Indian. 

Everything at once. Yet you want me to be just one. I can’t pick one. 

I’m all of it. Or I’m nothing.