New Jersey-Delhi
Field notes from the motherland
New Jersey has Indians of a sort I rarely see. I'm writing from Edison: a place with no shortage of Indian blue-collar business owners, operating barefoot in spartan textile shops, with entrances adorned with garlands and ceilings stained by incense.
I walked into one such shop this morning to get a sari adjusted for my mom. The elderly proprietor peered at me over her bifocals, reluctant to part with the drama playing on her phone. I relayed my mother's request in broken Hindi and received a quote so low that it felt unseemly to haggle.
I was raised in Ashburn, Virginia — one of a few DC suburbs marked by a growing Indian population. Let me tell you: Ashburn doesn't have what I see in Edison. Even the Bay Area doesn’t!
DC and the Bay are places of Indian-professional monoculture; everyone is a software engineer, healthcare worker, or "tech implementation manager" (insert other vague PMC title). Ashburn is an especially focused version of this, with rare entrepreneurial activity outside of Beltway Banditry. Owning restaurants is common, but they feel inauthentic, like they’re contorting to fit the cultural caricature that patrons are assumed to want.
I didn’t realize how true this was until visiting Edison — a place that apparently avoided (or outgrew) the culture-slop failure mode. It’s unvarnished and slightly chaotic; negative-sounding qualities that I’d argue lend it texture.
While I wait for that sari adjustment, I’m walking between shops with quintessential ‘90s eggshell-white plastic fans humming away, Hindu idols above every doorway, and Bollywood dance clips looping on a muted Panasonic. Each business appears as an expression of jugaad — solving real needs with trade skills no doubt passed over many generations. The whole scene feels honest; it’s hard not to love something that presents itself so plainly, so unobstructed by self-awareness.
If you know me, you know my world doesn’t contain many ‘oughts,’ but my opinions on urban life come closest. One romantic ideal I’ll never lose sight of: grabbing a bite from the shop downstairs – whose patrons know one another, and whose menu is nutritionally and economically similar to home-cooked food. This is rare in the US, but Edison does okay – it’s possible to grab a $7 (healthy-ish) entree after a $5 haircut, with a stream of familiar faces on the walk over. The dream!
Before we get carried away in neo-urbanist reverie, I should mention that the town feels… neglected (dutifully avoiding stronger language here). Unlike similar areas, it’s not easy to point at correlates like poverty. It isn’t a poor area — the pothole-ridden parking lots are filled with Teslas and BMWs. It’s a frank expression of what Indians care about, and (for better or worse) that list rarely includes potholes. The stores have stained ceilings and crooked doorframes because ignoring superficial issues saves businesses money, allowing them to deliver value in ways (even resource-unconstrained) Indians do care about: $7 entrees and $5 haircuts. What presents as an odd juxtaposition of wealth and poverty is sometimes… selective frugality?
I’ll admit – at least on the economic side, this partly also reflects my own preferences. I’d rather not pay a premium at a sandwich shop just because it has excellent decor. I’m there for a simple transaction: I want a good sandwich, and I’ll enjoy it no less sitting on a plastic folding chair!
I’m leaving Edison soon, and what I appreciate is clear: the unmanicured humanity in its cracked sidewalks and faded store signs, and a real social fabric (in suburbia, no less!) with apparent longevity.
Some things are less clear. I admittedly have minimal contact with Indian culture; I grew up in America, eating Frosted Flakes and playing backyard football. Some tendencies on display (scrappiness, jugaad, efficiency) resonate deeply, others not so much (perennial neglect of the commons). I think of myself as Very American, so suddenly being “in India” is an awkward dance between identities. Like any first-time partner dance, the pair is fumbling around and stepping on each other’s toes. I trust they’ll find their rhythm, but I won’t rush it.
Tomorrow I’m driving back to DC, repaired sari in hand, and a little confused. Contrary to what I hear in the Bay, I don’t think everything in one’s inner world needs to be perfectly sorted and topped with a neat bow. In fact, I like mine a little unruly, a little textured.
Love this!