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SPEAKING PERSONALLY; REMEMBER, YAAR, IT IS WE WHO FEEL SORRY FOR YOU

Vinaya Saijwani

AMONG the least understood (misunderstood?) of Asian immigrants is the Indian.

Indians come here in a variety of hues and accents, from the turbaned Sikh of the Punjab with a ''yaar'' (friend) that punctuates every sentence, to the dark, wiry statisticians from the south, and from the Shah and Patel merchants of the west coast to the cultured Bengali professors of the east.

West Indians unite and Filipinos unite, but Indians translate their regional and religious differences into separate groups and associations: the Hindu Temple Society of North America, the Durga Puja Society, assorted Moslem federations and so on.

This divisiveness is unique to us. In India, it exists side by side with a strange nationalism, which becomes most fervent when Pakistan or China threatens our borders.

In the United States, this nationalism is more of a defense against ''them'' - the ''foreigners'' (the white Americans); we get on fine with other groups in the American racial hierarchy.

The primary reason the Indian emigrates here is to make a lot of money. Of course, almost every Indian plans to return to the familiar warmth of his homeland. Living among foreigners here makes this a hardship post.

However, few Indians ever return home because they establish a curious set of roots in the States. Curious because the Indian will never really admit that he will live out his life here. Curious because he cannot accept this as home or Americans as his people.

The Indian cannot understand the foreigner. Why is the American so cool in his friendships?

Meet a fellow Indian on the New York-Edison train or bus (Indians favor this Middlesex County town, but I don't know why) and within 30 minutes you will be invited to his home for dinner. You will also learn his entire personal history (including that of his wife, his parents, grandparents, children, etc.) He will also know everything about you (your wife, parents, etc.) That is the Indian idea of friendship. To understand is to love.

Why, then, are these foreigners so reserved? Why are they not spontaneous and direct? Why don't they invite us into their homes? Above all, why don't they gossip?

In the office, the Indian puts up a brave front. Somehow, these foreigners cannot understand our accents. Why do they constantly and infuriatingly pretend astonishment when we speak in English - especially when we pay more attention to the rules of English grammar than they do.

What language do they think is spoken in Indian offices, anyway? On what language did our great poet, Tagore, imprint his immortal ''Gitanjali''?

There is also a constant sense of frustration in knowing that the silent color barrier that divides America will generally favor the white employee over the colored one. This color complex is hard to accept.

Our school history books constantly remind us that we are descendants of the Aryans who emigrated from Central Asia 2,000 years ago. How we became brown along the way has never been satisfactorily explained by our historians.

In India, shades of brown matter. The lighter-skinned your daughter, the easier it will be to get her married. Imagine, then, the agony on coming here to find ourselves on the wrong side of the Great Divide.

Confused and frustrated at the inability to enter the office old-boy network, the Indians form their own cliques (in unity lies strength). The strength to face the ravages wrought on our fragile egos by the white sahibs.

The ultimate calamity of life among the heathens would be if our children married among them. Every Indian mother shudders at the thought. Any daring soul who ventures into such a relationship becomes the focus of delicious gossip.

To prevent such a betrayal, cultural brainwashing begins early. Our children are constantly reminded of the stability (superiority) of our marriages and the tradition of respect for elders. These shining beacons guide the unwary adolescent through the sea of blase moral attitudes that surround us.

And so my fellow (?) Americans, the next time you see one of us walking down the street, clothed in our colorful garb and in our even more-colorful accents, remember not to feel sorry for us.

It is we who feel sorry for you.

(The New York Times, By VINAYA SAIJWANI. Published: May 4, 1986]