When I signed on to my new job it was exciting, this prospect of working in two different countries. I had agreed to travel to Bonn twice a year and work from there. The erstwhile capital of West Germany, Bonn is a pretty town along the banks of the Rhein River, the birthplace of Beethoven and the site of the 2001 summit that saved the Kyoto Protocol. It was exciting though a bit nerve-wracking to be out of my comfort zone, to live and work in a country that I normally might have only visited as a tourist.

But after the first week I was homesick. For my family, for my home, for the USA, but for something else as well. Something I had not consciously thought about. I was homesick for my Diasporic identity. In the Bonn office, I was treated as an American. My German colleagues asked me about how things were done in the US, what stereotypes we had about Germans. We talked about David Hasselhoff, politics, the world, the war and George Bush.

Some of them had vacationed in India and so we also talked about India and literature and politics. But it was as if these had become two separate, distinct identities for them. There was Jawahara the Indian and there was Jawahara the American. There was something between, something of substance. I realized that the strange unease within me, the missing piece was the overlapping, messy Jawahara of the Diaspora.

What is a Diaspora? It is a wide scattering, like seeds in a large field, of people from a particular country. It was first used in connection with the Jewish people since they were dispersed and scattered throughout the world. Gradually the term grew to include anyone living in a country not of his or her birth of origin.

About 20 million Indians or people of Indian origin live in 40 countries. Add in the Diasporic populations from the rest of the subcontinent and this number gets close to the 30 million mark.

We are dispersed, living in places like Istanbul, the South of France, the United States, and Canada. Indians are everywhere and at each place we have a distinct identity that is distinctly different from the country we live in and the country of our origin.

One evening, I walked by myself to a little Indian restaurant close to my hotel. The owner had been born in India but had moved to Pakistan as a young man and then had come to Germany. He was married to a German woman and spoke German almost exclusively at home and outside. Still, stepping into his restaurant was like entering into any generic, middle-of-the-road Indian restaurant in the US. The same replica Taj, the same Muradabadi worked metal plates and large, faded posters of the Himalayas.

We spoke in Hindi. He seemed starved for the language and by now so was I. He barely had any menu items available. The restaurant was out of biryani and naan, so I ate some milder-than-mild lamb curry and rice. He gave me kheer and tea on the house and asked me to come again. It was strangely comforting, this coming together of our identities, both of getting something out of our interactions.

We may be called Not Really Indians in India (though our foreign exchange is welcome) and some of us might not be fully part of the countries in which we live. Screw that! We are more than that. I am more than that. More than merely Indian. More than just American.

I am a Diasporic Indian. I don’t have to conform the social rules and mores of any country. I’ve been scattered wide and cannot now gather myself to be constrained into a single identity. This is my world. Welcome to it. Together, we’ll explore the amorphous, indescribable, though thoroughly relatable state of being part of the wonderful world of the Diaspora.