I grew up in Pune, a bustling city in India not far from Mumbai. When I was 11, my dad announced we were moving to Australia so he could do a PhD in civil engineering. I was over the moon, imagining skyscrapers reaching to the heavens and a world of possibilities. I even threw myself a going-away party. My friends bought me gifts and congratulated me on the move to paradise.
After arriving in Australia, Mum, Dad and I packed into a small one-bedroom apartment in Brisbane’s West End. The streets felt deserted compared to Pune. Everything shut at 5pm – well before it got dark in summer. I couldn’t believe it. What was this, the 17th century?
Initially money was very tight as we had to get by on Dad’s student allowance, but my parents never let on. Dad was always upbeat and even took me to Movie World on my birthday.
Suraj with his parents not long after moving to Australia. Source: Supplied
On my first day at school, I was shocked to see 20 kids in class, instead of the 70 classmates I’d had in Pune. And not one had their hair buzzed short.
When the teacher called out my name during roll call, I stood up to answer.
“What are you doing?” the teacher asked, surprised. “You don’t need to stand up.”
Where I came from, it was hugely disrespectful for a student to address a teacher sitting down. Later, I saw a kid rolling around on the carpet chatting to the teacher as if they were old friends, and it blew my mind. Is this school or a slumber party? I thought.
That first week at school, in an effort to make friends, I offered to teach some of the other kids a meditation trick where I could make my fingertips perspire with absolute focus. About 10 kids joined me on the oval. I closed my eyes and began the meditation, focusing on my fingertips. I reopened them 30 seconds later, excited to show them all, but everyone had quietly run away.
In that first year, I felt rudderless and struggled to fit in. I had “friends” who often ditched me and sat somewhere else at lunch, and others who mocked my accent. I envied some of the other brown kids I saw speaking like Aussies and playing footy. I studied them, hoping that one day I’d catch on.
Looking back, 11 was a tricky age to relocate to another country. Five years earlier and perhaps I would’ve smoothly assimilated into Australian life. Five years later, and maybe I’d have a stronger sense of identity and connection to my Indian culture.
Then, at 13, my life changed: I discovered hip-hop and a whole new world of Black American culture opened up to me. And I wasn’t the only one – a bunch of us nerdy immigrant and first-gen kids started hanging out and debating ’90s hip-hop feuds. We beatboxed (badly). We got skin-fade haircuts, to the dismay of our subcontinental grandparents. We played basketball every day. We argued about Kobe’s rings versus Lebron’s athleticism. On the weekends, we wore basketball jerseys, hoodies and hi-tops. We became experts at getting the best deals on sneakers and how to tell genuine Swingman jerseys from replicas.
Suraj next to Snoop Dogg at Madame Tussaud's wax museum. Source: Supplied
There we were, a bunch of brown kids in starched uniforms arguing over which rapper was the most gangster, before going home to study for the chemistry test we hoped to ace the next day. But the point was: I’d found my people. I was on my way to finding a place in the social fabric. And feeling proud of my brown skin.
But at home, I still rolled my eyes at the pujas Mum held. I refused to wear traditional clothing. I didn’t watch Bollywood films. And occasionally I had to be dragged kicking and screaming to the Ganesha temple out west.
Suraj with his school friends from back in the day. Source: Supplied
It took another 10 years for me to fall in love with my Indian heritage. Sometime in my mid-20s, I started looking forward to the gatherings involving 100 or more people crammed into someone’s home, food flowing off the tables. I leaned in to listen to the stories aunties and grandparents shared of their lives in India. I became fascinated with Hindu mythology, Indian history and the heroes that strove for freedom. With a little bit of distance, I began to see the beauty of the traditions that my family observed and the close-knit community that had sustained them after they moved to the other side of the world.
Now, at the age of 29, I still love hip-hop, watch NBA and have an impressive collection of jerseys and sneakers to my name. But they’re only accessories – they don’t define me, as it felt like they did back then.
Comedian and actor Suraj Kolarkar now. Source: Emma Holland Photography
I don’t regret my years of emulating Black culture. In fact, I’m grateful for it. It got me through a tricky time of loneliness and isolation as a recent immigrant to Australia. For all our swagger and false bravado, what we were really trying to say to each other was: “Hey, you’re different. But everything’s going to be okay.”
Basically, we picked the most gangster way to say the most tender thing.
is a stand-up comedian and actor who’s appeared in God’s Favorite Idiot and Shantaram. He also hosts the SBS podcast , about the immigrant experience in Australia.
