Why Can’t I be a Bro, too?: Heterosocial Relations in India

By KEDNRA DAWSEY
December 27, 2011

In the language program that I took part in this summer in Jaipur, many of the other foreigners had already visited India at some point before. And many of them had something to say about Indian men. And many of the things they said weren’t exactly positive.

“They act like they’re all tough, but they are really chickenshit,” said one female friend.

“Ninety-five percent of them are still mentally thirteen,” said another.
After feeling myself tense up against these conversations, I tried to talk with my American housemate about it. “Some of the Indian guys I’ve met are cool,” I said. “They don’t make me feel uncomfortable or anything.”

Her response: “I hate to essentialize, but you should be careful whenever you’re talking to an Indian guy.” The guys can’t get any props.

Indian society is, to a certain extent, gender-segregated. In the streets, girls and boys play together, and men and women talk to each other. But once you get to a marriageable age, it’s a little weird for a girl and a guy to be alone without romantic connotations. Due to this, actions or patterns of speech that would be innocent in America can be interpreted as flirtatious here – any male-female interaction might be understood as a potentially sexual interaction. Young men and women start hanging out more exclusively with others of their own gender. Of course this isn’t the rule of all of India, but the phenomenon was pervasive enough to leave an impression on those in my program.

I suppose that even back home I’ve always filled an odd role in both homosocial (single gender) and heterosocial (mixed gender) groups. I get along well enough with both girls and boys, but after my mother tried to squeeze me into a “diva training” regimen as a child, I realized I didn’t really like socializing over mani-pedis. So I hung out with boys and girls who weren’t into that “girly” stuff. When I got to college, my friends and I enjoyed drinking a lot of beer and hanging out. But it’s different in India. Men can partake in the vast majority of college social experiences in public (even if they’re still looked down upon), but these activities aren’t at all socially acceptable for women, especially in rural or poor areas. Staying out late can attract suspicion, and married women are especially discouraged from drinking or smoking. A young woman who does these things openly risks being judged as a party girl, someone a man might have a fling with but would ultimately never marry.

One woman who I had met in my travels was highly sensitive to this dynamic. She had a very loving relationship with her husband, and they both openly enjoyed partying. However, she said that she still felt uncomfortable around some of her husband’s friends, fearing that they would gossip about her actions and ruin her reputation. The best of their family friends, though, just treated her like one of the guys.

My worries about being culturally appropriate initially got in the way of my efforts to connect with Indian men. When I tried, I felt like I had to strike a balance between friendship and respect with the local men . However, the fact that it is looked down upon for a girl to drink with guys doesn’t mean that it never happens. And I’m sure that friendships between girls can be equally fulfilling, but homosocial relations felt harder for me to develop when I first came to India.  I feared that the differences between our lives created a gap too big to cross – girls my age in Jaipur were most likely thinking about their futures, and I was bumming around India, putting off adulthood.

My attempts to join the bromance weren’t completely unsuccessful.  At first I didn’t feel comfortable talking to guys alone without another girl or white guy in the room, especially in Jaipur, so I depended on these people as my intermediaries. It was lucky that a male friend of mine in the program lived with a few Indian guys; we talked about a good variety of subjects, and even shared a few beers as I explained the party culture in America. I tried to emphasize that girls, too, want to drink and dance. They agreed with my viewpoint, but said they probably wouldn’t marry one of those girls.

When I moved to Pune, however, I started hanging out with a more ‘college age’ group and my self-consciousness about gender eventually slipped away. People seemed to accept me well enough for who I am. Even so, I still had the words of my fellow students from the beginning of the summer in the back of my mind.

Through whatever fault of my own, I cannot always tell if my interactions with men I meet outside of my language program are disrespectful or not. There was the rickshaw-wala who shook my hand after I stood up for my friend’s behavior in broken, loud Hindi late one night. There was the coffee-shop cashier who gave me a fifteen percent discount on my hot chocolate when I complained that the initial price seemed a little too high. There was the waiter in Udaipur who said that he should marry me to get a green card, but clarified that it was a joke when my tone stiffened.  Outside the restaurant I talked to someone who happened to be male and seemed pleasant in conversation, but who knows what he was expecting? What the hell do most Indian guys even think of me? Unwomanly? Unmarriageable? Just a bit of a mess? And perhaps these things are true – I don’t even know if I want to get married. I find myself straddling this strange line between “I’m an American, and my culture is different!” and “You still need to respect me, please” in any situation where my true craziness comes out. And of course, I’m forever jealous of the various bromances that have blossomed around me. If I’m ever going to get to that place, it is going to require a lot of understanding on both ends.

Still, it’s possible for a girl to be a bro.

Kendra Dawsey is a junior in Yale College.  She is a staff writer for Broad Recognition.