Btw tony ji here is the one thought provoking ariticle
http://www.nypost.com/php/pfriendly...opinion/opedcolumnists/melting_not_159550.htm
MELTING NOT
By RAAKHEE MIRCHANDANI
March 14, 2009 --
Growing up, the man in my dreams was a mystery; he was white, he was tall, he was dark, he was slick. He was always handsome. In my fantasy it didn't matter if he was Catholic or Muslim, European or African, if he ate pigs or worshipped monkeys. It didn't matter if he understood that I came from a rich tradition of Indian Hindus who were strict vegetarians, quietly conservative, obsessively dedicated to family and maniacal in their love for cheesy song-and-dance movies with mediocre acting and music.
And so when we met, freshman year at Boston University - the street smart Eastern European with a gorgeous smile, big heart and wicked sense of humor and the artsy Indian girl with a penchant for big hair, Bollywood and Biggie -it seemed like the perfect cross-continental match.
But somewhere along our six years together, the Indian girl from Jersey, who had naively promised him Catholic children, steak dinners and consistently defended his refusal to hang with my family as a simple difference in opinion, had a change of heart. And he did, too.
I remember him looking at me on an evening not far from our last and saying, "It's like all of a sudden you became Indian." In a way so quiet I didn't even realize it was happening, the brown from my skin must have seeped in and colored my heart.
Surprisingly, I'm not the only one. While the rate of intermarriage among races increased over the past half-century, the last decade has seen a reversal - particularly among Asians and Latinos. According to a Ohio State University study, from 1990-2000 the number of Hispanics marrying outside their race fell from 27% to 20%, while Asian intermarriage dropped from 42% to 33%.
After brushing it off for so long, many of my relatives and friends are listening to that nagging voice in our collective heads. You know, the one that sounds like a hybrid of your mom/dad/grandparent/aunt/uncle/neighbor-in-the-old-country telling you in heavily accented English, "Have you found anyone yet, dahling? Can we introduce you to Mr. Kapoor's son? He is doctor. Ven vill you finally give us good news?" Despite my better efforts to buck the traditional Indian girl inside me - glossy black locks turned to bleached blond in a weak moment of teen angst; pre-med was never an undergraduate option and much to my parents chagrin; I have always favored copious amounts of worthless costume jewels over precious museum-grade family heirlooms - I discovered that I'm not really that much of a rebel after all.
During the Obama campaign, commentators asked if younger people were growing up in a colorblind society. I certainly hope it's a more tolerant one - but not blind. Living in harmony doesn't mean camouflaging our differences, or denying that we have any. And while I would never judge an Indian person who chose an interracial relationship - love in whatever way it comes is flawless - I know that I could never do it again.
Relationships are hard enough, no matter who you love. Maintaining and sustaining them requires a combination of courage, compromise and dedication. But there's a comfort in building a solid foundation with someone who comes from a similar place. I don't want to have to explain the minutia of my complex culture, hoping for both understanding and approval. I want to begin on equal footing, roots already firmly planted in a common garden.
I'm the kind of girl who is as comfortable worshipping multi-armed deities as she is worshipping at Chanel. The kind who can easily wrap herself in to a 5-yard sari in a public bathroom but much prefers Uggs and leggings. Certainly the kind who washes down a spicy curry with a glass of Johnny on the rocks. That makes me Indian and American, and the truth is, it's easier when someone understands the first part of that as much as the latter.
So now I've taken the UPS approach to dating: What can brown do for me?
More than I ever thought.
My current boyfriend, Agan, is the kind of Punjabi prince dreams are made of. He held me last year when Bombay burned and I broke. He high-fived me when "Slumdog" took home eight golden trophies and I squealed. He rolls his eyes when I talk about Yankee Stadium like it's The Bronx version of the Golden Temple. He's from the left (wrong) coast, you see; not everything can be Disney fairytales.
But he understands without questioning that I will live at home with my parents until I get married. That family obligations trump any evening plans we may have made. Without my suggesting it, he mentioned that when we grew up and had a house of our own, there would be room for both sets of parents, his and mine. I was enamored.
In that moment I knew why it never worked between me and anybody else. I had underestimated the power of my parenting, the grip of my culture and the strong but subtle shades of India that I reflect.
In less than a year he has earned his way into my parents' hearts, fielding near daily text messages and e-mails from my mother, approving but curious glances from my father and even joining my brother in a weekly basketball league. It's as if they already knew each other. And in a way they did.
Despite the countries we share, we are still different. His family is Sikh. He wears a turban. Mine are Hindu and we don't accessorize. But the fundamentals are the same; family first and everything else next.
As usual my parents were right, bless their darling immigrant hearts. It turns out I am both New Delhi and New Jersey, and the man in my dreams finally has a face to reflect that.
Raakhee Mirchandani is a features reporter for The Post.
Rakhee with her Boyfriend
:shutup::shock:
For your eyes only
