The Curious Case of our Convenient Identities

Many of the everyday conversations in our hometown come back to identity.

When people here talk about help at home, in the fields, or in the garden, the answer is often, “A Bengali helps us.” At first, I wondered why everyone seemed to be from Bengal. Then I realised that “Bengali” had become a convenient catch-all label. Over the past year or so, I’ve met people from Bihar, Assam, Uttar Pradesh, Uttarakhand, Nepal, and yes, sometimes Bengal too. The Indian in me finds it hard to place everyone under one name. Once I began asking where people were actually from, I discovered links to places where we had lived and worked, heard some encouraging stories, and saw their faces brighten when I tried my broken Bhojpuri or Nepali. They are here because of the TINA factor (There Is No Alternative). 

Of course, this is not new. For years, we South Indians were casually called “Madrasis” — until Madras became Chennai and the label became a little less convenient. Perhaps that is why people are now a bit more specific.

Something similar happens with people from the North East who work in shops. To many Malayalis, anyone with East or Northeast Asian features is simply called Manipuri. But I have met Khasi and Garo people from Meghalaya, people from Tripura and Arunachal Pradesh, Assamese people, and Manipuris from a state that is itself home to more than 30 tribes. When we ask where they are actually from, their faces often brighten with a quiet smile. It may take some coaxing before they share their tribe and hometown, perhaps because they do not expect to be recognised beyond broad labels.

 

On the other hand, another familiar conversation, especially among Central Kerala Syrian Christians, is about family and Kudumba Yogams: which family we belong to, and how we might trace ourselves back to our supposed original ancestors, the so-called eight Brahmins. Our family supposedly part of this too. There are unspoken cultural assumptions here, and I do not want to ruffle any feathers. 

A friend of mine, vice president of a family group, recently said in his welcome address, “We try our best to trace our lineage back to St Thomas. But remember, Thomas left his family and tribe and came here. He did not have a family identity of his own.” 

I am yet to trace mine, but one thing I have learned through these conversations is that my identity matters to me, while others’ identities may not always matter enough to me.

I do not want to turn this into a discussion on religious identity, especially since our leaders keep reminding us of these boundaries and then seem surprised when Gen Z tries to cross them. I only hope Gen Z does not grow up to become like us. And the gender one - they are fighting over 33% to 50%, and patriarchal leaders blaming each other for political gains. .

Even within our own faith community, there are Catholics, Protestants, Reformed Protestants, Double-Reformed Protestants, culturally relevant Protestants, and many others who believe they alone hold the full truth. So, this question becomes important here too: which group do you belong to? 

About a year ago, I preached at a wedding for the son of a non-resident Malayali in an ultra-reformed group. The expressions on a few leaders’ faces changed as soon as they realised I was not quite as Protestant as they were - which, in some circles, is apparently useful information.

 

I am not negating the importance of culture, identity, geography, language, or tribe. These are to be celebrated. Indianness is, after all, unity in diversity - even if we sometimes need a reminder about both the unity and the diversity.

 

But identity is a fickle thing. It can be flattened by convenience, stretched by assumption, or brightened by recognition. When we pause long enough to ask a person where they are actually from, something shifts -not only in them, but in us. A face lights up, a story opens, and a human being steps out from behind a labelthat was probably too small for them anyway.

 

Perhaps this is what we are to do: see people as more than categories, inherited boundaries, or the shorthand our cultures have learned to use when accuracy feels like too much work; recognise the dignity of each person’s name, place, tribe, and journey; and remember that even within our own communities, the temptation to divide and classify is strong - and, unfortunately, quite efficient.

 

Unity in diversity is not merely an Indian ideal; it is a profoundly biblical one. It asks us to honour difference without fear, and to hold identity without weaponising it. It invites us to see each other not as “Madrasis,” “Manipuris,” “Bengalis,” or “ultra-reformed,” but as fellow travellers whose stories deserve to be heard.

In the end, identity is not erased — it is redeemed in God. It is woven into a larger tapestry where every thread matters, even the ones we were too quick to mislabel. Because the same image of God lives in all of us - marred a little, perhaps - and because “we were all called to travel on the same road and in the same direction.” 

So, it may be wise to stay together, both outwardly and inwardly, preferably without first sorting everyone into subgroups.

 

Still, I do wonder: where did my ancestors come from? Or may be I am wasting my time philosophising, I should learn to live with the mystery.