The sun destroyed any fear of rain during the Vaisakhi festival as people strolled through the streets, hopping from stall to stall to see what they had to offer. Sikh hymns called Gurbani and mainstream Punjabi music melted into the loud chatter of hundreds.
I’ve never understood Gurbani. I’ve spoken Punjabi my entire life, albeit not well, and I thought I had a good grasp on the language I considered my first. When I looked around, I saw people who could understand it and people who didn’t care to understand it. I didn’t fit either of those, nor did I fit a lot of the ideas that constitute being Punjabi. I was sent to the Sikh-equivalent of Sunday school for two years as a kid, and all I gained was a loose baseline of ideas of our culture and religion. I can’t recite the prayers and hymns that represent the teachings of Sikhism, and when I try, it sounds like I’m speaking Punjabi for the first time — my Punjabi doesn’t hold up compared to my relatives either. The only thing that kept me connected was the colour of my skin.
I didn’t feel Punjabi or Sikh enough.
But it’s not like I’m considered Canadian either. A passport with the embroidery of Canada isn’t enough to change my position as a settler in an extremely colonial landscape, especially while being part of an ethnic group that also has a brutal history with British colonists. But I can’t be fully associated with that history — I’m not Punjabi enough.
An article by Forbes found that between 2013—2023, Indian immigration to Canada increased by 326 per cent. On the other hand, Asian immigrants make up almost 19 per cent of Canada’s population. The second generation of Asian Canadians that come out of that find themselves in a position similar to mine — stuck in between cultures and belonging nowhere in Canada.
But it’s not like going back is an option either. On every trip to India, I found myself differentiated instantly from the eyes of my relatives, who see me for where I come from rather than who I am. Digs at the way I speak, interact and view the world are always on the table to constantly highlight the difference between us. They got to exist with their heritage, and I could never compete with that.
So what am I? I can’t be completely Punjabi based solely on the colour of my skin, nor can I be considered Canadian based on the documents that constitute my legal identity. Is the identity of “Asian Canadian” meant to be a purgatory? Am I forever lost, belonging nowhere?
I pondered these questions as my brother led us through the Vaisakhi crowd. In the weeks following, I couldn’t shake the idea that second generation Asian Canadians and beyond were born to not belong anywhere. It felt cruel to thrust a gradually forming identity crisis into our destinies before we have even learned our first words. It made me angry.
“The sound is so sweet, isn’t it?”
My dad interrupted my thoughts as we sat in his car on a morning drive weeks after the festival. Gurbani was playing from a Punjabi radio station, mimicking the effect of what would play on loudspeakers in India, penetrating homes miles away. I nodded slowly, focusing on the sound of their unintelligible words.
“Did you notice your head was swaying?” He pointed at me as I shook my head.
“It’s because Gurbani reaches our soul. That’s why anyone listening to Gurbani will shake their heads instead of tapping their feet. Pay more attention next time, you’ll see what I mean.” he said.
“What if you can’t understand it? Do they still shake their heads?”
He took a minute to think as he stopped in front of a red light.
“Whether you understand it or not, the sound and melody reaches our soul. It allows us to connect to each other through our hearts because we feel the same thing when we hear it.”
We were silent for the rest of the car ride as my dad’s words tumbled around in my head. It didn’t matter if I understood Gurbani, because I appreciated our culture and I shared that with others who felt the same. The point was never to fit yourself into pre-existing categories —it was to realise there were no categories in the first place.
Being Asian Canadian isn’t a limbo state in between both identities. It's a bridge to meld them together into a co-existing identity. If anything, the identity of being Asian Canadian links us to more communities than I thought. I’m connected to a Canadian, Asian and immigrant identity that connects me to communities that aren’t Punjabi.
I may not have been born in India or experience Sikhism like others do, but that doesn’t mean I appreciate it any less. I learned Punjabi, what it means to be Sikh and have a family who continues to teach me about it as passionately as I am listening.
There is no checklist of things that makes a person 'worthy' of their identity.
I regularly listen to Gurbani now. I still can’t understand most of the words, but I still get a warm feeling in my chest reassuring me of my place as an Asian and Canadian.
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