Doomscrolling has got the better of me lately — cut me some slack, I’m only 27.
Every evening at 6:45 PM, roughly 90 minutes before I sleep, I open Instagram. The algorithm knows exactly what to feed me: videos about Indian migrants around the world. I don’t scroll past. I watch. I listen. To everything — the good, the bad, the brutal.
“I cannot stand the smell. I don’t think I’m sleeping tonight on this train, haha,” says a French influencer filming himself on a local Indian train. Food is spilt on the floor. Mice are feeding on it. He’s disgusted.
I’ve taken those trains. I’ve seen those mice. I’ve been disgusted too. But watching someone else say it out loud — someone not from there — makes my skin crawl. I know it’s true. But hearing it from him? It doesn’t sit right.
More videos flood in — mostly about Indians in Canada, the UK, the US, and a few sightings in New Zealand. A man at the gym is called out for “smelling bad.” He’s asked if he’s showered. The whole thing is recorded, uploaded, consumed. I watched it. And then I wonder — will someone film me next?
“Scammers.”
“Deport.”
“Curryman.”
“I can smell him through the screen.”
Actual comments. Hundreds of them. The good, the bad, the brutal.
Yes, I know some of these videos are probably fake. Skits. Bait. Manufactured outrage. But not every migrant consuming this content knows that. And worse — some people do, but it doesn’t matter anymore.
Then there are clips that claim to show Indian migrants causing trouble. Are they real? Maybe. Maybe not. Some are news reports backed by verifiable facts — and surprisingly, I’m okay with those. If someone’s misbehaving, they should be called out.
But then come the influencer videos, the unverified clips, the unchecked claims — and the moments where migrants are harassed simply for existing. That’s the part that worries me most as a recent migrant. It feels like the internet is waiting to come for me, like I owe it money. And the worst part? That digital wrath lasts forever. One person shoves a camera in my face, and suddenly, it’s out there — something my kids could stumble upon years from now.
Anyway, let’s not turn this into another episode of Black Mirror.
They all feed the same narrative. It’s still content.
And just when it gets too much, I find one post that throws me a rope.Even the praise feels necessary — like I need their approval to breathe a little easier
“The hate towards Indians globally is making me so mad,” says a woman during her GRWM. No fancy monologue — just raw anger. And I listen.
“India is not a vacation. It's an experience,” says another Instagram female hailing from a European country.
Or that middle-aged Canadian man filming immigrants working at a Tim Hortons, praising the level of “hard work” these Indians are doing — leaving all their family behind. It brings a smile to my face.
But here’s the uncomfortable truth: I’ve started believing things about Indians — good or bad — only when they’re said by someone who isn’t Indian.
Why?
Because a new migrant’s need for validation from foreigners is rooted in interdependence. What we consume — and how we feel after watching it — is being crystallised by the very algorithm feeding it to us, albeit at a surface level.
We’d rather hear a non-Indian opinion on Indian migrants than form our own on a phone screen – Just to clarify — and at the risk of making a sweeping statement — not all newcomers feel the same sense of underconfidence.
But those who do, then we step out into Auckland with a silent rulebook on our shoulders — to “represent well.” To prove that I am not a "scammer".
All this because of the insecurity I’ve been fed by that same platform.
Every day I step out in Auckland, I wonder if I’m being silently judged. I wonder if I’m trying to impress someone — anyone — who doesn’t look like me. I wonder why simply existing here feels like a performance.
Some call it a colonial hangover — generations of being told we’re only as good as our approval ratings abroad
Maybe it is. But why does it still haunt me? Why isn’t education, decency, and minding my own business enough? For me?
No one’s asked me to prove myself. No one’s handed me a checklist. New Zealand has been a kind home to me. But still — the pressure’s there. Undeniable.
Is it coming from outside? or from within? That’s the hardest part to unlock.