i need to get this out of my head before i continue clone^2 but danny being the first batkid. Like, standard procedure stuff: his parents and sister die, danny ends up with Vlad Masters. He drags him along to stereotypical galas and stuff; Danny is not having a good time.
He ends up going to one of the Wayne Galas being hosted ever since elusive Bruce Wayne has returned to Gotham. Vlad is crowing about having this opportunity as he's been wanting to sink his claws into the company for a long while now. Danny is too busy grieving to care what he wants.
And like most Galas, once Vlad is done showing him off to the other socialites and the like, he disappears. Off to a dark corner, or to one of the many balconies; doesn't matter. There he runs into said star of the show, Bruce who is still young, has been Batman for at least a year at this point, but still getting used to all these damn people and socializing. He's stepped off to hide for a few minutes before stepping back into the shark tank.
And he runs into a kid with circles under his eyes and a dull gleam in them. Familiar, like looking into a mirror.
Danny tries to excuse himself, he hasn't stopped crying since his parents died and it's been months. He rubs his eyes and stands up, and stumbles over a half-hearted apology to Mister Wayne. Some of Vlad's etiquette lessons kicking in.
Bruce is awkward, but he softens. "That's alright, lad," he says, pulling up some of that Brucie Wayne confidence, "I was just coming out here to get some fresh air."
There's a little pressing; Bruce asks who he's here with, Danny says, voice quiet and grief-stricken, that he's with his godfather Vlad Masters. Bruce asks him if he knows where he is, and Danny tells him he does. Bruce offers to leave, Danny tells him to do whatever he wants.
It ends with Bruce staying, standing off to the side with Danny in silence. Neither of them say a word, and Danny eventually leaves first in that same silence.
Bruce looks into Vlad Masters after everything is over, his interest piqued. He finds news about him taking in Danny Fenton: he looks into Danny Fenton. He finds news articles about his parents' deaths, their occupations, everything he can get his hands on.
At the next gala, he sees Danny again. And he looks the same as ever: quiet like a ghost, just as pale, and full of grief. Bruce sits in silence with him again for nearly ten minutes before he strikes a conversation.
"Do you like to do anything?"
Nothing. Just silence.
Bruce isn't quite sure what to do: comfort is not his forte, and Danny doesn't know him. He's smart enough to know that. So he starts talking about other things; anything he can think of that Brucie Wayne might say, that also wasn't inappropriate for a kid to hear.
Danny says nothing the entire time, and is again the first to leave.
Bruce watches from a distance as he intercts with Vlad Masters; how Vlad Masters interacts with him. He doesn't like what he sees: Vlad Masters keeps a hand on Danny's shoulder like one would hold onto the collar of a dog. He parades him around like a trophy he won.
And there are moments, when someone gets too close or when someone tries to shake Danny's hand, of deep possessiveness that flints over Vlad Masters' eyes. Like a dragon guarding a horde.
He plays the act of doting godfather well: but Bruce knows a liar when he sees one. Like recognizes like.
Danny is dull-eyed and blank faced the entire time; he looks miserable.
So Bruce tries to host more parties; if only so that he can talk to Danny alone. Vlad seems all too happy to attend, toting Danny along like a ribbon, and on the dot every hour, Danny slips away to somewhere to hide. Bruce appears twenty minutes later.
"I was looking into your godfather's company," he says one night, trying to think of more things to say. Some nights all they do is sit in silence. "Some of my shareholders were thinking of partnering up--"
"Don't."
He stops. Danny hardly says a word to him, he doesn't even look at him -- he's sitting on the ground, his head in his knees. Like he's trying to hide from the world. But he's looking, blue eyes piercing up at Bruce.
Bruce tilts his head, practiced puppy-like. "Pardon?"
"Don't." Danny says, strongly. "Don't make any deals with Vlad."
It's the most words Danny's spoken to him, and there's a look in his eyes like a candle finding its spark. Something hard. Bruce presses further, "And why is that?"
The spark flutters, and flushes out. Danny blinks like he's coming out of a trance, and slumps back into himself. "Just don't."
Bruce stares at him, thoughtful, before looking away. "Alright. I won't."
And they fall back into silence.
Danny, when he leaves, turns to look at Bruce, "I mean it." He says; soft like he's telling a secret, "Don't make any deals with him. Don't be alone with him. Don't work with him."
He's scampered away before Bruce can question him further.
(He never planned on working with Vlad Masters and his company; he's done his research. He's seen the misfortune. But nothing ever leads back to him. There's no evidence of anything. But Danny knows something.)
At their next meeting, Danny starts the conversation. It's new, and it's welcomed. He says, cutting through their five minute quiet, that he likes stars. And he doesn't like that he can't see them in Gotham.
Bruce hums in interest, and Danny continues talking. It's as if floodgates had been opened, and as Bruce takes a sip of his wine, it tastes like victory.
("Tucker told me once--")
("Tucker?")
("Oh-- uh, one of my best friends. He's a tech geek. We haven't talked in a while.")
(Danny shut down in his grief -- his friends are worried, but can't reach him. When he goes back to the manor with Vlad, he fishes out his phone and sends them a message.)
(They are ecstatic to hear from him.)
It all culminates until one day, when Danny is leaving to go back inside, that Bruce speaks up. "You know," He says, leaning against the railing. "The manor has many rooms; plenty of space for a guest."
The implication there, hidden between the lines. And Danny is smart, he looks at Bruce with a sharp glean in his eyes, and he nods. "Good to know."
The next time they see each other, Danny has something in his hands. "Can you hold onto something for me?" He asks.
When Bruce agrees, Danny places a pearl into his palm. or, at least, it's something that looks like a pearl. Because it's cold to the touch; sinking into Bruce's white silk gloves with ease and shimmering like an opal. It moves a little as it settles into his hand, and the moves like its full of liquid.
Bruce has never seen anything like it before, but he does know this; it's not human. "What is it?" He asks, and Danny looks uncomfortable.
"I can't tell you that." He says, shifting on his foot like he's scared of someone seeing it. "But please be careful with it. Treat it like it's extremely fragile."
When Bruce gets home, he puts it in an empty ring box and hides the box in the cave. He tries researching into what it is. he can't find anything concrete.
Everything comes to a head one day when Danny appears at the manor's doorstep one evening, soaking wet in the rain, and bleeding from the side.
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“It’s all YOUR fault!”
For the ask game 🙏
Hallo, love!!!
this isn’t necessarily Steddie, but I hope you enjoy!!!
angst prompt list | hurt/comfort prompt list | nice scenarios list (more about the asks in my pinned post)
CW: mention of drugs, guns, weed, alcoholism, animal abuse (but it’s more like neglect than abuse), and smoking, implied sexual activity
Max was nearly over the neighbor’s fence—the chair she had brought outside was tipping out from underneath her, but maybe she could just climb back over the fence afterwards—when the chair finally gave out and she fell backwards onto the cold grass, feeling the wind knocked out of her. “Shit—“
She gasped, turning over onto her stomach and pushing herself up, trying to breathe, but her lungs wouldn’t take in air. There was the sound of a car door opening and closing, silence, and then muffled cursing, followed by the sound of crunching on gravel. She ignored it, bending over and coughing out another gasp, her hair falling into her eyes. “Fucking shit—“
“Jesus, kid,” a voice muttered, and she saw someone kneel next to her, an orange flannel and a corduroy jacket flashing out of the corner of her eyes, and she felt a hand press against her back, rubbing against the fabric of her shirt. “You tryin’ to get yourself killed?”
Max finally sucked in a breath and coughed, folding over again. The hand stayed on her back, pressed against it gently, until she whipped around and glared at the person. It was Wayne. She didn’t really know Wayne, but his nephew had brought over food, once, and ate with her in her front yard. He made her hair smell like cigarettes from how much he had been smoking, but he seemed nice enough.
“I’m fine,” she snapped, waving Wayne’s hands off when he went to help her up. She could stand on her own, she wasn’t a fucking kid. Wayne looked at her, then to the chair, and then to the small white dog on the other side of the fence.
He raised an eyebrow, looking her over as she dusted the dirt off of her hands “You tryna steal the neighbor’s dog?”
“No—“ she said quickly. “I mean—whatever, why do you care?”
“Because I know the person who lives here, and I don’t think he’ll take kindly to havin’ his dog stolen,” Wayne said quietly, crossing his arms and leaning back slightly. He looked tired.
“What, is he going to fucking shoot me or something?” She bit back, but her eyes widened slightly when Wayne nodded. She sighed and looked back over at the dog. She didn’t know his name, so she had just been calling him Jamie. “He doesn’t…he doesn’t feed him, I know it. I have to do it. And I don’t think he gives him much water, either. He’s out here all the time.”
“Hm. Well, how about we go talk to him before we try and take his dog away, hm?”
“He deserves to have his dog—“ Max cut herself off when Wayne narrowed his eyes slightly. She looked down and glared at the grass beneath her sneakers. It was cold out here.
“You go put the chair back, and I’ll get my nephew. He knows Briar better than I do. Might be able to talk some sense into him.” Wayne muttered, sighing. Max watched as he walked off, before dragging the chair back towards the back door of her trailer. She managed to get it back through the door without making too much noise, putting it back at the table.
She went back into the living room quickly, just to make sure her mom was still there—and she was, passed out on the couch with a couple empty beer bottles scattered on the floor, her red hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. Max left her there, half-falling off of the couch. She still had her high-heels on.
Max grabbed her jacket and then ran back outside, across the street to the Munson’s trailer. The air around the place smelled like weed. She knocked on the door and waited. No one answered. Fuck it, she thought, pushing the door open and stepping inside.
Wayne was sitting on the couch, his feet up on the coffee table, drinking from a mug that looked like Garfield’s head. She always knew the old man was weird, but now she just thought he was fucking crazy. “Where’s Eddie?”
“Getting dressed. He’s in his room if you want to go knock. See if he’s done.”
Max huffed and looked around. Wayne’s trailer had the same set up as hers—and it looked the same as hers, too, mostly. Cluttered. Messy. But with a lot more mugs and mechanic magazines. She walked down the hallway to where her room was and knocked. There was faint music coming from inside, and it smelled like cigarette smoke. It was the kind of music Billy had listened to. Fuck, no, she wasn’t going to think about that asshole anymore. It wouldn’t bring him back—not like she wanted him back. He had nearly killed her ex-boyfriend…well…she wasn’t actually sure what they were to each other, right now.
Sometimes she would go and see Lucas when she went over to Dustin’s, and they would laugh and everything would be fine—and then other times she didn’t want anything to do with him, resenting the idea of even being in the same school building as him. She missed Lucas.
“Yeah, yeah, hold on,” She heard Eddie mutter, and there was another voice in there, too, but she couldn’t hear it over the music.
“I know, sweetheart, hold on,” Eddie said, and Max narrowed his eyes. “Gotta do something for Wayne, then I’ll be back.”
Was he with a girl or something? Gross. The door opened and there Eddie was, looking annoyed and a bit disheveled, his Iron Maiden t-shirt half tucked into his black jeans, his hair messed up and kind of sweaty looking. “Can I help you?”
“Wayne said you’d talk to Briar for me,” Max said, glaring at him, feeling a bit awkward with the way he was looking at her. Eddie sighed, looking back when a voice asked, “Eds? Who’s that?”
Max’s eyes widened slightly and she pushed past Eddie, who made a noise of protest, trying to grab her arm and tug her back. She hit his hand away, and her eyes widened slightly when she saw Steve, shirtless in Eddie’s bed, his hair pushed back, blinking sleep out of his eyes. “What the fuck?”
She looked back at Eddie, whose face was flushed bright red as he looked away. Steve noticed Max and made a quiet ‘oh’ sound, before giving her an apologetic smile. “Hey.”
“You know what—Steve, you and I can talk about this later. Eddie, let’s go.”
She grabbed Eddie’s wrist and pulled him outside, her heart nearly beating out of her chest. Not because of the fact that Eddie was sleeping with a guy who was practically her babysitter, but because she was afraid of what Briar was going to say.
“Why are we talking to Mr. Jones, anyways?” Eddie muttered, rubbing his eyes and sighing as Max led him to the front door of Briar’s trailer.
“His dog.”
“What about?”
She knocked on the door and then turned back to Eddie. “He doesn’t take care of him. He leaves him outside everyday, and I’ve been feeding him so that he doesn’t starve.”
Eddie’s eyes widened slightly as he looked concerned. “Shit, Mayfield, I don’t think we should—“
The door opened, and there was Briar. He was tall, with whisky brown hair and a scowl across his face. “The fuck you kids want?”
Eddie cleared his throat and pushed Max behind him a bit. Max kicked at his leg, and Eddie winced, glaring at her, but he moved his hand. He turned back to face Briar and sighed, giving him a small, strained smile. “Hey, Mr. Jones. How’s it going?”
“Munson? I didn’t ask to buy anything—“
“I know, I know, I’m not here with weed. We, um…it’s about your dog?”
“Benny?”
Eddie nodded, and Max stepped back out from behind him, ignoring him as he tried to pull her back. “How often do you feed him?”
“What?”
“How often do you feed Jami—Benny?”
Briar turned around, glancing in the direction of the backyard. “Dunno. Every few days, I guess.”
“Well, he needs more food than that,” Max snapped, because I’ve been feeding him every night for the past few months.”
“Mayfield,” Eddie hissed, trying to tug her back, but she ignored him, taking a step closer to Briar.
“You know, I don’t think you should even have your dog, at this point.”
Briar’s eyes narrowed, and he looked down at Max. She stayed where she was. Eddie tugged her back, and she tried to get him to let go, but he just held onto her arm even tighter—tight enough to hurt. “I’m sorry we bothered you, sir. I hope you have a good rest of your evening.”
Briar nodded and closed the door, and Max whirled on Eddie, her eyes watering. “What the fuck?”
“Mayfield—“
“No, shut up! This—this is all your fault! He’s not going to listen if you don’t let me talk to him!” She screamed, and she knew she was being too loud, because someone in one of the trailers across from him opened their door to look out at what was going on, a cigarette pinched between their lips.
Eddie grabbed her shoulder and his expression softened, but his voice was still stern. “Look—I’ve been here a lot longer than you have. And I know Mr. Jones. He’s not going to listen to you, no matter how much you scream at him. I’ll talk to him for you. Tell him all about the dog. Okay?”
Max nodded, willing her tears not to fall. “Whatever.”
“You going back to your place, or do you need to stay at mine?”
Max’s cheeks flushed. She had only stayed over once, when Eddie was out somewhere and it was just Wayne, but she had been too tired to remember it. She felt angry that Wayne had told Eddie about that, but she didn’t say anything about that. “Not after what you and Steve did in there. You’re going to need to burn your bed.”
“Oh, fuck off.” Eddie muttered, rolling his eyes, and Steve stepped back, pushing his hands off of her.
“You’re such a child.”
“Says the literal child.”
“I am not—“ She cut herself off and sucked in a deep breath, sighing. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Eddie. Tell Wayne…and Steve…I said goodnight.”
Eddie looked a bit surprised, like he expected Max to snap at him again the second he let his guard down. He nodded, turning and going back to her trailer.
Max went back to hers. She hauled her mom back up onto the couch, turning the light off in the living room and picking up the boor bottles to put in the recycling. She took her pills, praying that she wouldn’t wake up with another headache—or have another nightmare—and didn’t bother changing for bed.
The next morning, coming home from school, she saw Briar walking Benny down the street.
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Spider-Man India, but... where from India?
A SUPER long post featuring talks of: cultural identity, characterisation, the caste system, and what makes Spider-Man Spider-Man.
I’m prefacing this by saying that I am a second-generation immigrant. I was born in Australia, but my cultural background is from South India. My experiences with what it means to be “Indian” is going to be very different from the experiences of those who are born and brought up in India.
If you, reader, want to add anything, please reblog and add your thoughts. This is meant to be a post open for discussion — the more interaction we get, the better we become aware of these nuances.
So I made this poll asking folks to pick a region of India where I would draw Pavitr Prabhakar in their cultural wear. This idea had been on my mind for a long while now, as I had been inspired by Annie Hazarika’s Northeastern Spidey artwork in the wake of ATSV’s release, but never got the time to actually do it until now. I wanted to get a little interactive and made the poll so I could have people choose which of the different regions — North, Northeast, Central, East, West, South — to do first.
The outcome was not what I expected. As you can see, out of 83 votes:
THE RESULTS
South India takes up almost half of all votes (44.6%), followed by Northeast and Central (both 14.5%) and then East (13.3%). In all my life growing up, support towards or even just the awareness of South India was pretty low. Despite this being a very contained poll, why would nearly half of all voters pick South India in favour of other popular choices like Central or North India?
Then I thought about the layout of the poll: Title, Options, Context.
Title: "Tell us who you want to see…"
Options: North, Northeast, Central, East, West, South
Context: I want to make art of the boy again
At first I thought: ah geez. this is my fault. I didn't make the poll clear enough. do they think I want them to figure out where Pavitr came from? That's not what I wanted, maybe I should have added the context before the options.
Then I thought: ah geez. is it my fault for people not reading the entire damn thing before clicking a button? That's pretty stupid.
But regardless, the thought did prompt a line of thinking I know many of us desi folk have been considering since Spider-Man India was first conceived — or, at least, since the announcement that he was going to appear in ATSV. Hell, even I thought of it:
Where did Spider-Man India come from?
FROM A CULTURALLY DIVERSE INDIA
As we know, India is so culturally diverse, and no doubt ATSV creators had to take that into account. Because the ORIGINAL Spider-Man India came from Mumbai — most likely because Mumbai and Manhattan both started with the same letter.
But going beyond that, it’s also because Mumbai is one of the most recognisable cities in India - it’s also known as Bombay. It’s where Bollywood films are shot. It’s where superstar Hindi actors and actresses show up. Mumbai is synonymous with India in that regard, because the easiest way Western countries can interact with Indian culture is through BOLLYWOOD, through HINDI FILMS, through MUMBAI. Suddenly, India is Mumbai, India is a Hindi-only country, India is just this isolated thing we see through an infinitely narrow lens.
We’ve gotten a little better in recent years, but boy I will tell you how uncomfortable I’ve gotten when people (yes, even desi people) come up to me and tell me, Oh, you’re Indian right? Can you speak Hindi? Why don’t you speak Hindi? You’re not Indian if you don’t speak Hindi, that’s India’s national language!
I have been — still am — so afraid of telling people that I don’t speak Hindi, that I’m Tamil, that I don’t care that Hindi is India’s “national” language (it’s an administrative language, Kavin, get your fucking facts right). It’s weird, it’s isolating, and it has made me feel like I wasn’t “Indian” enough to be accepted into the group of “Indian” people.
So I am thankful that ATSV went out of their way to integrate as much variety of Indian culture into the Mumbattan sequence. Maybe that way, the younger generation of desi folk won’t feel so isolated, and that younger Western people will be more open to learning about all these cultural differences within such a vast country.
BUT WHAT DOES THIS HAVE TO DO WITH SPIDER-MAN INDIA?
Everything, actually. There’s a thing called supremacy. You might have heard of it. We all engaged with it at some point, and if you are Indian, no matter where you live, it is inescapable.
It happens the moment you are born — who your family is, where you are born, the language you speak, the colour of your skin; these will be bound to you for life, and it is nigh impossible to break down the stereotypes associated with them.
Certain ethnic groups will be more favourable than others (Centrals, and thus their cultures, will always be favoured over than Souths, as an example) and the same can be said for social groups (Brahmins are more likely to secure influential roles in politics or other areas like priesthood, while the lowers castes, especially Dalits, aren’t even given the decency of respect). Don’t even get me started on colourism, where obviously those of fairer skin will win the lottery while those of darker skin aren’t given the time of day. It’s even worse when morality ties into it — “lighter skinned Indians, like Brahmins, embody good qualities like justice and wisdom”, “dark skinned Indians are cunning and poor, they are untrustworthy”. It’s fucking nuts.
This means, of course, you have a billion people trying to make themselves heard in a system that tries to crush everyone who is not privileged. It only makes sense that people want to elevate themselves and break free from a society that refuses to acknowledge them. These frustrations manifest outwardly, like in protests, but other times — most times — it goes unheard, quietly shaping your way of life, your way of thinking. It becomes a fundamental part of you, and it can go unacknowledged for generations.
So when you have a character like Pavitr Prabhakar enter the scene, people immediately latch onto him and start asking questions many Western audiences don’t even consider. Who is he? What food does he eat? What does he do on Fridays? What’s his family like, his community? All these questions pop up, because, amidst all this turmoil going on in the background, you want a mainstream popular character to be like you, who knows your way of life so intimately, that he may as well be a part of your community.
BUT THAT'S THE THING — HE'S FICTIONAL
I am guilty of this. In fact, I’ve flaunted in numerous posts how I think he’s the perfect Tamil boy, how he dances bharatanatyam, how he does all these Tamil things that no one will understand except myself. All these niche things that only I, and maybe a few others, will understand.
I’ve seen other people do it, too. I’ve seen people geek out over his dark brown skin, his kalari dhoti, how he fights so effortlessly in the kalaripayattu martial arts style. I’ve seen people write him as Malayali, as Hindi, as every kind of Indian person imaginable.
I’ve also seen him be written where he’s subjected to typical Indian and broader Asian stereotypes. You know the ones I’m so fond of calling out. The thing is, I’ve seen so much of Pavitr being presented in so many different ways, and I worry how the rest of the desi folk will take it.
You finally have a character who could be you, but now he’s someone else’s plaything. Your entire life is shaped by what you can and can’t do simply because you were born to an Indian family, and here’s the one person who could represent you now at the mercy of someone else’s whims. He’s off living a life that is so distant from yours, you can hardly recognise him.
It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, yeah? But, again, you’re looking at it from that infinitely narrow lens Westerners use to look at India from Bollywood.
AND PAVITR PRABHAKAR DOESN'T LIVE IN INDIA
He lives in Mumbattan. He lives in a made-up, fictional world that doesn’t follow the way of life of our world. He lives in a city where Mumbai and Manhattan got fucking squashed together. There are so many memes about colonialism right there. Mumbattan isn’t real! Spider-Man India isn’t real!! He’s just a dude!! The logic of our world doesn’t apply to him!!!
“But his surname originates from ______” okay but does that matter?
“But he’s wearing a kalari dhoti so surely he’s ______” okay but does that matter?
“But his skin colour is darker so he must be ______” okay but does that matter?
“But he lives in Mumbai so he must be ______” okay but does that matter?
I sound insensitive and brash and annoying and it looks like I’m yapping just for the sake of riling you up, so direct that little burst of anger you got there at me, and keep reading.
Listen. I’m going to ask you a question that I’ve asked myself a million times over. I want you to answer honestly. I want you to ask this question to yourself and answer honestly:
Are you trying to convince me on who Pavitr Prabhakar should be?
...
but why shouldn't i?
I’ll tell you this again — I did the same thing. You’re not at fault for this, but I want you to just...have a little think over. Just a little moment of self-reflection, to think about why you are so intent on boxing this guy.
It took me a while to reorganise my thinking and how to best approach a character like Pavitr, so I will give you all the time you need as well as a little springboard to focus your thoughts on.
SPIDER-MAN (INDIA) IS JUST A MASK
“What I like about the costume is that anybody reading Spider-Man in any part of the world can imagine that they themselves are under the costume. And that’s a good thing.”
Stan Lee said that. Remember how he was so intent on making sure that everybody got the idea that Spider-Man as an entity is fundamentally broken without Peter Parker there to put on the suit and save the day? That ultimately it was the person beneath the mask, no matter who they were, that mattered most?
Spider-Man India is no less different. You can argue with me that Peter Parker!Spidey is supposed to represent working class struggles in the face of leering corporate entities who endanger the regular folk like us, and so Pavitr Prabhakar should also function the same way. Pavitr should also be a working class guy of this specific social standing fighting people of this other social standing.
But that takes away the authenticity of Spider-Man India. Looking at him through the Peter Parker lens forces you to look at him through the Western lens, and it significantly lessens what you can do with the character — suddenly, it’s a fight to be heard, to be seen, to be recognised. It’s yelling over each other that Pavitr Prabhakar is this ethnicity, is that caste, this or that, this or that, this or that.
There’s a reason why he’s called Spider-Man India, infuriatingly vague as it is. And that’s the point — the vagueness of his identity fulfils Lee’s purpose for a character that could theoretically be embodied by anyone. If he had been called “Spider-Man Mumbai”, you cut out a majority of the population (and in capitalist terms, you cut out a good chunk of the market).
And in the case of Spider-Man India? Whew — you’ve got about a billion people imagining a billion different versions of him.
Whoever you are, whatever you see in Pavitr, that is what is personal to you, and there is nothing wrong with that, and I will not fault you for it. I will not fault you for saying Pavitr is from Central due to the origins of his last name. I also will not fault you for saying Pavitr is from South due to him practising kalaripayattu. I also will not fault you for saying he is not Hindu. I also will not fault you for saying he is a particular ethnicity without any proof.
What I will fault you for is trying to convince me and the others around you that Pavitr Prabhakar should be this particular ethnicity/have this cultural background because of some specific reason. I literally don’t care and it is fundamentally going against his character, going against the “anyone can wear the mask” sentiment of Spider-Man. By doing this, you are strengthening the walls that first divided us. You’re feeding the stratification and segmentation of our cultures — something that is actually not present in the fictional world of Mumbattan.
Like I said before: Mumbattan isn’t real, so the divides between ethnicities and cultural backgrounds are practically nonexistent. The best thing is that it is visually there for all to see. My favourite piece of evidence is this:
It’s a marquee for a cinema in the Mumbattan sequence, in the “Quick tour: this is where the traffic is” section. It has four titles; the first three are written in Hindi. The fourth title is written in Tamil. You go to Mumbai and you won’t see a single shred of Tamil there, much less any other South Indian language. Seeing this for the first time, you know what went through my head?
Wow, the numerous cultures of India are so intermingled here in Mumbattan! Everyone and everything is welcome!
I was happy, not just because of Tamil representation, but because of the fact that the plethora of Indian cultures are showcased coexisting in such a short sequence. This is India embracing all the little parts that make up its grander identity. This scene literally opened my eyes seeing such beauty in all the diverse cultures thriving together. In a place where language and cultural backgrounds blend so easily, each one complementing one another.
It is so easy to believe that, from this colourful palette of a setting, Pavitr Prabhakar truly is Spider-Man India, no matter where he comes from.
It’s easy to believe that Pavitr can come from any part of India, and I won’t call you out if the origin you have for him is different from the origin I have. You don’t need to stake out territory and stand your ground — you’re entitled to that opinion, and I respect it. In fact, I encourage it!!!
Because there’s only so much you can show in a ten minute segment of a film about a country that has such a vast history and even greater number of cultures. I want to see all of it — I want him to be a Malayali boy, a Hindi boy, a Bengali boy, a Telugu boy, an Urdu boy, whatever!! I want you to write him or draw him immersed in your culture, so that I can see the beauty of your background, the wonderful little things that make your culture unique and different from mine!
And, as many friends have said, it’s so common for Indian folks to be migrating around within our own country. A person with a Maharashtrian surname might end up living in Punjab, and no one really minds that. I’m actually from Karnataka, my family speaks Kannada, but somewhere down the line my ancestors moved to Tamil Nadu and settled down and lived very fulfilling lives. So I don’t actually have the “pure Tamil” upbringing, contrary to popular belief; I’ve gotten a mix of both Kannada and Tamil lifestyles, and it’s made my life that much richer.
So it’s common for people to “not” look like their surname, if that’s what you’re really afraid about. In fact, it just adds to that layer of nuance, that even despite these rigid identities between ethnicities we as Indian people still intermingle with one another, bringing slivers of our cultures to share with others. Pavitr could just as well have been born in one state and moved around the country, and he happens to live in Mumbattan now. It’s entirely possible and there’s nothing to disprove that.
We don’t need to clamber over one another declaring that only one ethnicity is the “right” ethnicity, because, again, you will be looking at Pavitr and the rest of India in that narrow Western lens — a country with such rich cultural variety reduced to a homogenous restrictive way of life.
THE POLL: REINTERPRETED
This whole thing started because I was wondering why my little poll was so skewed — I thought people assumed I was asking them where he came from, then paired his physical appearance with the most logical options available. I thought it was my fault, that I had somehow influenced this outcome without knowing.
Truth is, I will never really know. But I will be thankful for it, because it gave me the opportunity to finally broach this topic, something that many of us desi folk are hesitant to talk about. I hope you have learned something from this, whether you are desi or a casual Spider-Man fan or someone who just so happened to stumble upon this.
So just…be a little more open. Recognise that India, like many many countries and nations, is made up of a plethora of smaller cultures. And remember, if you’re trying to convince Pavitr that he’s a particular ethnicity, he’s going to wave his hand at you and say, “Ha, me? No, I’m one of the people that live here in the best Indian city! I’m Spider-Man India, dost!”
(Regardless, he still considers you a friend, because to him, the people matter more to him than you trying to box him into something he’s not.)
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