Does Our Cultural Upbringing Influence What We Write About?

I have always been curious about the world even before I learned to spell the word CURIOUS. Even as a kid, I noticed what most adults missed: be it the nine-year-old in me in India who witnessed my dark-skinned aunt rub skin whitening cream on her face daily so someone would ask for her hand in an arranged marriage. Or a man in North Africa choosing to seat his sheep up front while his four wives sat in the back of his pick-up truck under the scorching desert sun—because women were dispensable to him.

On one of our visits to India, we saw family on my Dad’s side. I had recently found out that my Bua, Dad’s oldest sister, had died in childbirth long before I was born. I felt an innate attachment to this aunt I’d never met…maybe because she was a poet too? My father had shared some of her work with me.

When I visited her husband’s /my uncle’s house (where the new wife, kids, and others lived), I couldn’t find a single picture of my aunt. The family was, and till date is, so welcoming. But it never occurred to anyone how easily they had replaced my aunt’s memories behind the cemented walls of their large house with their new family portrait. In a blink of an eye, another woman replaced her, and no one questioned it.

I wasn’t even a teenager when I reckoned: Women were treated as commodities and a means to a man’s needs.

Despite having had the privilege of studying in an international school in North Africa, attending a boarding school in the foothills of the Himalayas, studying in one of the best colleges, and topping the university in my first master’s degree, I wasn’t empowered. If anything, I was crippled by my need for outside validation while fighting my frustration on the inside. I wrote poetry to clear the cobwebs growing inside of me.

Within a South Asian context, as a girl and a woman, my identity was always tied to a man: someone’s daughter, sister, and eventually, wife and daughter-in-law. Despite my progressive and educated family, some archaic beliefs existed. I was expected to pick up “homely” hobbies, so my future in-laws would be happy with my domesticated skills. The college degrees and intellectual abilities were fine, but I had to learn the way to a man’s heart, which would be through his belly. Jane Austen and cumin seeds were given equal importance.

Even if those weren’t the exact words dictated to me, that was the essence conveyed to most girls from my generation. An ambitious woman can’t keep her man happy. My aunts, especially on my father’s side, were all PhDs and worked as heads of departments at universities. But they won praise not for shattering the glass ceiling at work with their gold medals and by earning a place at the table. What brought them accolades was the fact that they cooked and fed fresh Indian meals to their husbands and children on a daily basis.

A woman was just a tool to help others exist.

How I was viewed by others wasn’t my choice. By Indian standards, I was considered light-skinned. One of the meanings of my name “Sweta” is “white.” It’s supposed to mean pure, but many took the literal meaning and said that they were jealous I was white. The assumption was my light skin would get me a good groom. And those who believed (inserting sarcasm and calling them Good Samaritans) that my light skin shouldn’t go to my head, reiterated that I shouldn’t confuse myself for someone beautiful.

I have always prided myself on my brains and ability to feel other people’s pain, not my appearance. But it hurt to be reminded that the color of my skin became an open invitation for comments from anybody and nobody.

Questioning the status quo earned me the moniker “badmaash” aka BAD. Because of my curiosity and questions, I made people feel uncomfortable. A good, Indian girl was expected to accept what she was told and then manipulate the situation to her advantage. I saw friends and cousins do that as a survival mechanism. But if you know me, you also know that I am direct with my communication. Saying one thing and meaning another isn’t where I shine.

I always felt like a misfit in India and North Africa. But I couldn’t understand why until I moved to New York City and found the space to breathe. A place where I was valued, encouraged, and supported for my opinions.

I became an individual with my own thoughts and opinions for which I wasn’t constantly criticized. It was in NYC that I started to meet like-minded people who cared beyond labels, brands, caste system, religion, invites to attend fifty million social gatherings, and skin color. I had the opportunity to acknowledge and hold space for my reality: like so many other South Asian women, I too had been a victim of plaguing patriarchy.

So, that’s what I wanted to write about. I wanted to give a voice to those women who didn’t have one or couldn’t afford to speak up. I started to address equal rights, domestic violence, gender inequality, sexual assault, archaic traditions, and more through my works.

For over a decade, I have written stories, taught workshops, and shared yoga practice to empower women. I have participated in #MeToo marches and been part of progressive, uplifting conversations to support and promote women. Most of my work revolves around women’s empowerment and growth and helping people thrive using holistic wellness. But I have rarely written about race and religion unless it enmeshed and fell under the umbrella of feminism and patriarchy. It wasn’t because I have been insensitive to color.

When my first book was published, one of my mom’s friends looked at the author headshot and said, “Kitni gori. Sundar.” How fair and beautiful. My hard work, childhood dream, and accomplishments all tarnished with her three insensitive words. To be fair (no pun intended), this lady probably thought she was paying me a compliment: goriis a better compliment than bright/smart/driven for a lot of women even today in South Asia.

In India, numerous matrimonial ads carry this message, “Want fair complexioned, convent-educated, Hindu girl for my son.” We have Bollywood celebrities endorsing skin-whitening creams and reiterating white skin is the key to a happy life. People hire servants and make marriage decisions based on a woman’s skin color. Racism in India is as pervasive and more nuanced than what it is in the United States.

I have never been numb to skin color. But I didn’t feel the urgency to write about race all these years because, in my head, I wanted women to discover their voice and identity before anything else. I wanted them to find equality in their homes, offices, and communities and be treated as a human being…the color of the skin was part of the battle.

But when George Floyd was murdered in broad daylight, something inside of me felt jolted, again. Anyone with any iota of empathy and humanity felt devastated. Four people made a judgment about Mr. Floyd because of the color of his skin. His murder made me realize that racism and casteism are interlinked with feminism.

A woman of lower caste in India often has darker skin. As a result, she has fewer options available—be it professionally or romantically. A person of color in America faces similar challenges. What happened with George Floyd brought up again those memories from my past which so clearly drew the line between color and hate, between skin tone and injustice. And I knew. I had to write again.

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BIO: Sweta Srivastava Vikram is an international speaker, best-selling author of 12 books, and Ayurveda and mindset coach who is committed to helping people thrive on their own terms. As a trusted source on health and wellness, most recently appearing on NBC and Radio Lifeforce, Sweta has dedicated her career to writing about and teaching a more holistic approach to creativity, productivity, health, and nutrition.

Her work has appeared in The New York Timesand other publications across nine countries on three continents. Sweta is a trained yogi and certified Ayurveda health coach, is on the board of Fly Female Founders, and holds a Master’s in Strategic Communications from Columbia University. Voted as “One of the Most Influential Asians of Our Times” and winner of the “Voices of the Year” award (past recipients have been Chelsea Clinton), she lives in New York City with her husband and works with clients across the globe.

She also teaches yoga, meditation, and mindfulness to survivors of sexual assault and domestic violence as well incarcerated men and women. Find her on: Twitter, Instagram, LinkedIn, and Facebook.

Tags: featured, women writers

Category: On Writing