The Interloper

Recently, I stopped by at a Bangladeshi grocery store to pick up a few things I was missing in the kitchen. Strolling around the aisles, reading the Bangla labels on the various spices, I indulged in a a ad-hoc bit of nostalgia. The background noise of the owner chatting with other customers in Bangla only made me want to linger. The hilsa in the freezer were separated in bins by size and priced accordingly. They ran from S to XL. I don't recall having seen such a pricing table in past. All prices were ridiculously high and as much as I love hilsa, it made no sense to me. 

At the checkout line, there was occasion for me to make small talk with the owner in Bangla. As always I was met with the look of incredulity - never looked Bengali enough to make the cut. Not back in India, not among expats abroad. He indulged my attempt at conversation while I felt self-conscious about my Bangla accent. Maybe it was not good enough either. When younger this lack of acceptance from the community that I understood to be my own, did not bother me much. I was hungry to explore the world and go well beyond my Bengali identity. Generally, that has served me well. 

But sometimes, I want to be able to chat about how my Dida made kasundi at home with a Bangladeshi grocery store owner. Not sure what that achieves to have such discussion with a stranger with whom I share a common language, but it feels just a bit disappointing to be seen as an interloper.