When Home is a Hemisphere Away: A Kiwi Conversation and the Weight of a Nation

By Mukesh Devrari

(I share an honest conversation I had with a Kiwi nurse. It made me reflect deeply on how I, as an Indian immigrant, feel seen and judged here in New Zealand. This is raw and personal. Take it as my story—not a conclusion for anyone else.)

I have been living in this strange land, popularly known as New Zealand, for almost six years. Let me make it very clear: I am an outsider, completely unaware of European ways of conversation, interaction, and viewing the world around me. Even in India, I always lived in small towns, where you can literally talk to anyone. And above all, I was in a university, which gave me all the more access to speak with people freely.

Here in NZ, I am at the lowest level of the economic and social ladder, doing menial jobs, just surviving. Though I am not very bad at adapting, I find it very difficult to deal with white New Zealanders. The reasons—I will contemplate in the coming months or years. Anyway, enough about me.

Before I start writing about the conversation and how I see it, let me reflect on it and talk about it exactly in the same way DeepSeek does when you pose a question to AI. Sometimes, I feel I am in a social laboratory, sent by someone to conduct research on Western society as a participant observer. Though NZ is not geographically part of the Western world, culturally, socially, economically, religiously, and philosophically, it is part of the Anglo-European or Anglo-American sphere. That means foreigners from third-world countries are likely to encounter similar things here as they would in those regions.

Soft, polite, respectful, and at the same time short and disinterested—that is the way of Kiwis. Yes, European Kiwis. You would be surprised that Māori and Pacific Islanders are so different in social behaviour from their European counterparts in NZ, that they appear to come from an entirely different cultural world. This is just a personal perspective of mine—not some definitive commentary on the nature of a nation of five million-plus people.

I am writing what I feel like writing. There will be no sequence. I will make no effort to write this in any serious manner. That’s too much for me. I will just write straightforwardly. I will not mention any names to hide the identity of the person I was talking to; that is irrelevant as well. The name of the sample is irrelevant for our purposes. I am only interested in her perspective, her words, her reflections, the things she told me.

As happens in a classroom, students are a captive audience. They cannot go anywhere. And the teacher has the privilege to have a conversation with them. No one can match the energy, openness, and frankness of Indian classrooms. Anyway, I will not digress. Let’s dive into our subject.

I am such a nationalist Indian that if any foreigner says India is a dirty place, full of people living in wretched poverty, an unequal society with a caste system and many other problems—I feel it personally. First of all, I am not responsible for India’s problems. I don’t even live there anymore. In fact, when I was there, I liked to believe that I belonged to one of the most civilized, honest, and non-violent sections of society. Caste-wise, I am a Brahmin; that must have helped as well.

Here in New Zealand, if anyone tells me he or she has travelled to India, my face turns red, and I feel a strange embarrassment that is difficult to explain. Now they know how poor my country is. Now they know how, like monkeys, my people revolve around any white person they see in India. Maybe not in large cities like Bombay or Delhi, but in the rest of the country. They may also know how persistent some people can be in trying to get money out of tourists, how dirty Indian cities are, how poor our garbage disposal system is—if it exists at all—and in most places, it doesn’t. They now know that Indian public toilets are some of the filthiest places on the planet. That there are barely any pathways for pedestrians. That India is mostly an uncivilized place.

Why do these thoughts come to my mind? Because New Zealand is perfect in all these areas. Even the poorest person living on government support has 24-hour access to running water, electricity, and a sewage line. Now I feel exposed. They know how horrible Indians are at managing anything. Now I will be judged by the poverty of my nation. All bad things about India become a statement about my personal character and integrity. There can be no identity for myself or my wife or my son beyond our nation. The news about rapes from India will make people think of me as a criminal, and my son as a criminal.

The world works on stereotypes. The fairness or unfairness of that is rather irrelevant. What should happen or should not happen is not my concern. What is happening is the most crucial thing—it has direct consequences on my being.

I met a beautiful 30-year-old nurse who has travelled around the world, except to Africa and Latin America. She doesn’t want to travel to Latin America because she came across many news reports highlighting the high crime rate and how unsafe it is. While she said this, the continuous news pouring in from India about sexual violence against women must discourage young women travellers from visiting India.

I am not questioning the authenticity of news reports or crime statistics. I just want to highlight why maintaining law and order is crucial—not only for improving tourism but also for helping Indians settled abroad. Either we all collectively sail, or we collectively fail. The son of Mukesh Ambani will be treated badly in his Western university or on the streets—unless, of course, he reveals who he is, or the circus of security and people around him gives clues to onlookers.

Yes, she visited India at age 23 in 2019 and spent three months in Nepal. As expected, her parents were worried about her decision to move to India alone. So her father accompanied her—a man who had already visited India five times. I cannot say his decision to travel with his daughter was merely the result of watching a few tweets, random YouTube videos, or reading news on Google or in the local newspaper here in New Zealand.

The moment she told me this, I was horrified. I felt I would be judged. In that shocked state, I started blabbering. Instead of asking her to speak candidly, I began outlining what I thought Westerners would find shocking about India. The perpetual problem all Western visitors face in India is an upset stomach—directly linked to hygiene and the unavailability of clean water.

Rather than me asking her questions, she asked me. Incessant speaking helps avoid embarrassment. I was speaking non-stop—not because I had something meaningful to say, but because her words could make me think about things I didn’t want to face. Speaking was easier than listening. If you’re reading this, you might think, “This guy is utterly stupid. Why does he have such low self-esteem just because India is poor and mostly disappointing for Western visitors?”

Anyway, you cannot control what comes into your head, and being a nationalist—it hurts more. “What would offend them?” Now it’s a problem. I could not answer that candidly. I had to save face, so I started with the obvious ones and hoped the topic would change.

I mentioned traffic—how horrible and unsafe it is in India. And the honking everywhere. She nodded and said something about NZ, which I don’t remember. The second thing I mentioned was how Indians, due to their lack of exposure to Western ideas and sensibilities, gather around Westerners—especially white ones—and treat them like celebrities.

I told her a story about how a group of English students visited the university I worked at briefly, and how everyone tried to help them, stayed around them, was keen to show them the place on their bikes—even the administrative staff, who I must add were foolish—went out of their way to engage. I ended by saying that if some Indian students had visited their British university, probably no one would have talked to them.

This is not a profound observation. Anyone who has lived in a Western country even for a week knows this. She nodded and said she was treated like a celebrity.

My ordeal was not over yet. Earlier, she had asked me about my country of origin. I told her India. Then she asked which part of India. Before answering, I posed a counter-question: “Have you visited India?” She answered in the affirmative, and I started melting. When I told her I lived in Uttarakhand, she said she had visited Rishikesh—that too in the off-season. I hoped it wasn’t during the Kanwar Yatra. That’s when Rishikesh becomes the most uncivilized place for all women, and a 23-year-old extremely good-looking girl is bound to attract all the attention she would rather avoid. To be honest, I couldn’t even gather the courage to go there during that time.

She mentioned Rajasthan. It appeared she enjoyed it. And yes, she visited the temple full of rats. She told me it was stinky and even showed me some pictures. To be honest, the temple looked like hell on earth. I would prefer to demolish such a place of filth—it’s just a source of embarrassment. Or at the very least, run it in a way that is safer and less filthy and ugly than it currently looks. She also told me she found the rats to be underfed.

Well, human beings in India are underfed—‘the health of rats’ is the last concern of mine on this planet. I also remember mentioning the absence of meat from food in India. There are many reasons for it—one being religion, which discourages it.

The world is a big place. So how does it matter that a 40-year-old is talking to a 30-year-old white woman who claims she is without a religion? Her mother is now Catholic, but her parents have Jewish ancestry. “We are Ashkenazi Jews,” she said, “but we survived because my grandfather was in Wales, not in Germany.” Anyway, she claimed so—and her appearance makes it clear. Her nose, too. To be honest, I also agree. She looked a little different.

Though I am aware of the propaganda against Jews that was so intense, even Jews started believing they had long noses. It is highly likely that it is factually incorrect that white Jews have a differently designed nose by God. Anyway, this part of the conversation is irrelevant. I am writing this during my night shift. It’s around 05:39 in the morning. If I don’t write this, I might waste my time reading the news or watching random YouTube videos. It is much better for my mental health to write than to fry my brain on social media.

Anyway, I deeply admire the girl. She is very friendly, and definitely has an appropriately sized nose—despite her Jewish ancestry—and her face has many curves that make her look lively and give her appearance a unique character.

After diluting the troubles she might have faced—things she would not say in front of me because it might offend me—I realized that people in NZ don’t talk directly. From an Indian point of view, they speak in riddles and puzzles. A phrase mostly used for the Chinese, but it applies to European Kiwis as well. In day-to-day conversation, they don’t like confrontation. They say things in the least offensive way and prefer to talk when you're not around—amidst their own kind. That’s why you need to be more careful around them. They might appear friendly to you, but that friendliness exists only at the level of phatic communication—nothing beyond it.

As a rule, all immigrants must note: they are friendly to you, but that doesn’t mean you are their friend.

Someone like me, who can talk comfortably with people (though I don’t know how to appease them), must accept that if you’re not outgoing, your life will be lonely here. Anyway, enough of self-praise.

Let me praise her a bit. I said, “I am impressed,” and her face changed. So I quickly added, “I am impressed with the soft skills Kiwis bring to the table.” They are well-travelled at a very young age, they meet people from different backgrounds, and they know how to deal with diversity.

For example, in a small town like Christchurch, with a population of barely half a million (or maybe a little more), you can access food from all major countries—India, China, Japan, Korea, Latin America. Of course, I’m not even counting the French as foreigners—they’re part of the mainstream Western world, at least for the most part.

I was about to say I am impressed that she has travelled to so many countries at such a young age—acquiring knowledge and understanding people, cultures, and places across the globe. I admire her soft skills, impeccable manners, civility, and the decency she brings to social interaction. But the moment I noticed an awkward expression on her face, I cut short the sentence and said, “...because of the same schooling every New Zealander gets.” Hence, it’s education—nothing else.

There is only one way to turn a beast into a prince: educate him. There is no other way. As Mandela said, “Education is the most powerful weapon we can use to change the world.”

Just notice how this conversation is moving from one point to another. Of course, I don’t remember the exact sequence. I only remember the things that rattled me or felt odd.

I am more than sure she was perceiving the awkwardness in my gestures and words. Something was definitely not right. I speak my mind freely—that’s a given—but I don’t usually talk like this. She ended my ordeal by mentioning that she has visited Japan, China, and almost all of Europe—for months. Except, as I said earlier, Latin America and Africa. But that’s a choice—not due to financial constraints. She added that she has relatives in the US and that they are quite racist. Well, I’m not surprised. America is full of surprises.

Then comes Europe—the white land I don’t have any interest in anymore. I used to. One of my university teachers once said, “If you want to check the quality of rice in a 100 kg bag, you don’t examine every grain. A small sample is enough.”

Now I am stereotyping. That seems hypocritical and like a double standard. That’s why the world cannot function on pure, brutal logic—it must be guided by ethics, values, and righteousness. That means, if the end objective is right, then there is nothing inherently wrong with a little hypocrisy or double standards.

I mean, I have encountered enough New Zealanders of European ancestry—or to be more direct, Caucasians—that I have no interest, enthusiasm, or patience left for them. Every cell of flesh and every metaphysical part of my being is convinced that Indians are different, and the dream of racial equality—where every person is judged by the strength of their character and not by the color of their skin—is nothing but a mirage. It cannot be achieved.

The barrier is so physical it cannot be moved by philosophy alone.

While I write this, I must also acknowledge that 1 in 8 New Zealanders claim mixed ancestry. Anyway, in what ways we are different—that can be dealt with in another chapter.

Let’s stick to my conversation with the lady. She travelled alone in India and Nepal, lived in an Osho Ashram for a while. She said it was just a random decision, and not because she followed Osho’s philosophy. Though she also said she listens to him. Her short stay in the Kathmandu ashram made her family very worried. Their worry, she said, came from a Netflix documentary on Osho that showed him in a bad light—almost thirty years after his death.

At this point, I couldn’t stop myself. I told her that the series reduced Osho’s life to sex scandals and the problems in building an ashram. It didn’t say anything about his actual message. It didn’t show that thousands of people gathered to build a small town in his name. It didn’t explain what his words were about.

This is something I’ve noticed in the Western world. It’s a high-trust society. People trust each other—especially when they talk about things outside their own country. For example, if one Kiwi tells another that Jacinda Ardern is the greatest politician ever, the second Kiwi might argue back or even get angry. But if that same person says “Osho was a criminal,” everyone will just accept it. No one has time to research everything. We all depend on others—media, experts, influencers—to help us make sense of the world.

Anyway, I might be wrong, but I think she felt a bit guilty or embarrassed about staying in the Osho Ashram and even admiring some things about him. Because now the whole world only remembers the bad stories. But Indians will keep Osho alive. And India will make sure another thinker like him is born again. Only this land has enough freedom and depth to give birth to people like Osho, Krishnamurti, Nanak, Gorakh, Shankar, Mahavir, and Buddha.

Osho wrote 650 books. He spoke for hundreds of hours about meditation, beliefs, politics—so many things. But Netflix reduced him to a scandal. India made a mistake by allowing that documentary to be filmed here. I read somewhere that the Indian Parliament library has all the books written by both Gandhi and Osho. That cannot be said for anyone else.

After she praised Nepal for its simplicity, I asked her something. I said, “Do you think the friendliness, politeness, openness, and kindness you saw in Nepal and India came from a lack of education, a lack of exposure to Western culture, or even from sexual frustration?” What I meant was, if Indians and Nepalese treated each other with the same respect and care they show foreigners, their countries would become better places to live. Maybe even materially better off.

She knew that her experience might have been different just because she is white. India and Nepal are full of men who are not trained on how to approach or talk to women. That creates many awkward situations. And sometimes, it can even lead to crime. That is also a big problem.

She also told me that Sweden is the hardest place to talk to people. People there speak very little. Same with Norway and other Scandinavian countries. She said when they sit at a table with Swedish friends or family, everyone is okay with silence. That’s very strange to her—because Kiwis love to talk. And I agree. They do talk. I live near the University of Canterbury, in Ilam. On Friday and Saturday nights, all I hear is laughter, music, and student voices everywhere.

But I must add something here: the undergraduate students living in university accommodation—especially in their first year—seem to be mostly white. It’s fair to say that many NZ Europeans, especially under the Labour government, truly want Māori to do well. They want them to take key roles in society by studying and upskilling.

(I am writing this article (based on memory) for my friend Ahmad Abdi, because he is the only one who told me to keep writing this kind of stuff. It gives me great joy that at least one person is reading it. Maybe my son will read it someday too—and learn a little about how his dad used to talk and think.)