At its core, Mindy Kaling’s long-awaited Netflix series, “Never Have I Ever,” purports to be a story of loss. Its very name alludes to forgone experiences, as it follows the story of Devi Vishwakumar, a 15-year-old Indian American girl grieving over the loss of her father. That emotional loss is accompanied by a physical loss of feeling in her legs from which she miraculously recovers. Her coping mechanism is her dogged pursuit of a boyfriend – or at least, a hookup partner who can “rock [her] all night long” (a taste of one of the show’s many cringeworthy lines).
The plot of the show is formulaic – a South Asian American iteration of the angsty-teen-girl Bildungsroman – and largely underdeveloped, relying on stale comedy grounded in cliché to drive it forward. In the denouement of her ten-episode quest, Devi ends up choosing between two run-of-the-mill, white-passing love interests, both of whom disrespect her on multiple occasions but appear to be her only options. In the end, she picks her academic rival, whose apparently secret crush on her reinforces the centuries-old, misogynist message that when a man treats a woman poorly, it is his initial attempt to win her over.
While the show undoubtedly deserves praise for its groundbreaking role in illuminating South Asian American teenage experiences, “Never Have I Ever” hinges on banal stereotypes and reaffirms the model minority myth. For a series that prides itself on diversity and inclusion, the cringeworthy jokes about Hindu-Muslim marriages and Nazism, blatant displays of ableism, and unchallenged instances of Islamophobia and anti-Semitism are astounding. By trying to brand itself as inclusive, the show reveals itself to be far from it. And in an attempt to balance multiple, derivative storylines, “Never Have I Ever” sacrifices authentic human connection and plot development, leaving the viewer yearning to learn more about the characters’ relationships and questioning the abruptness with which their feelings ebb and flow. Ultimately, the expected and heartwarming conclusion of the first season feels half-baked, distanced from the reality of human loss and its ensuing emotional void.
Winning Women
Before delving into its shortcomings, it is worth acknowledging what “Never Have I Ever” does well, especially given the show’s pioneer status as a South Asian American teenage comedy-drama. Its emphasis on women’s stories is refreshingly distinct from other current South Asian American shows. Unlike the male-centric works of Hasan Minhaj, Aziz Ansari, and Kumail Nanjiani, in which women are either typecast as prospective South Asian brides or omitted entirely, “Never Have I Ever” centers on a family of three self-reliant and dynamic women characters, each with her own set of strengths and weaknesses.
Devi is unapologetically outspoken to the point of seeming unlikeable, subverting traditional perceptions of South Asian women as demure and agreeable. She refuses to take a photo with a white child amused by her wearing a half-saree in public. She rebukes a white college counselor who questions her uniqueness compared to other “Indian try-hards.” And she is rebellious, repeatedly breaking her mother’s rules by attending parties, drinking alcohol, and talking to boys. She also sees a therapist for grief management – challenging the longstanding taboo surrounding mental health among South Asian American communities, to which Devi’s immigrant mother, Nalini, alludes when she jokingly tells Devi’s therapist that “therapy is only for white people.”
Nalini shares Devi’s sharp tongue, fending off sly insults from other, middle-aged Indian women and responding to her daughter’s antics with sarcasm-infused scoldings. Devi’s immigrant cousin, Kamala, is also rebellious and independent. She challenges traditional expectations of what it means to be a young Indian woman of marriageable age and, against her parents’ wishes, sneaks around with a non-Indian boyfriend. The Vishwakumar women are dynamic, and so are their stories, inviting viewers to learn more about each one.
Swearing by Stereotype
In learning more about these women, however, viewers come across Indian American clichés that justify the dangerous model minority myth. Devi is an academic overachiever with her eyes on the Ivy League. Nalini is a wealthy medical doctor, while Kamala is a Ph.D. student in the sciences. Their family is overbearingly strict. This rigid portrayal of South Asian Americans only reaffirms the meritocratic stereotype that the community is high-achieving by virtue of hard work and traditional family values: a trope that has long been used to justify the marginalization of other minority groups in America.
“Never Have I Ever” leans on frames of reference that are comfortably familiar to a white audience but overly so to South Asian Americans. Hackneyed quips about Princess Jasmine, Priyanka Chopra, and spelling bees serve as half-hearted attempts at comedy. Meanwhile, the show’s plot is overreliant on banal cultural tropes like an arranged marriage. This trope is a primary plot point in Kamala’s story as she seeks to evade her parents’ choice of groom in favor of her non-Indian boyfriend until (spoiler alert!) the arranged groom turns out to be attractive. Kaling’s choice of the arranged marriage plot is unsurprising. It has also appeared in virtually every major American television show featuring an Indian American character, including “The Big Bang Theory,” “The Simpsons,” and “The Office” (where it plays out with Kaling’s own character, Kelly Kapoor). In fact, the 2014 film “Meet the Patels” is entirely dedicated to exploring the trope.
Hence, the arranged marriage has already been solidified in American minds as a backward, misogynistic tradition. It is the opposite of the fairy-tale romances that have long-characterized Western relationships. “Never Have I Ever” only reinforces this prevalent stereotype, playing up the sexism of the process and broadcasting the message that arranged marriages are to be avoided at all costs. Although Devi’s parents’ relationship seems to reveal that a traditional and presumably arranged Indian marriage can indeed be built upon mutual love and affection, the show doesn’t explore it within the central plot.
Compromising Culture
Another paradox is implicit in the portrayal of Devi’s Tamil culture, which gets lost amid multiple cultural inaccuracies. Her culture is overshadowed by the North Indian hegemony that has long characterized the politics of Indian culture and Western perceptions of it. Although Devi’s mother speaks Tamil in multiple episodes, there are several moments where Devi’s South Indian roots are compromised to seem more palatable to an American understanding of South Asia.
Even though samosas are a North Indian snack, the Vishwakumars enjoy them during lunch with Kamala’s prospective groom, so that Nalini can make a joke about them. The family visibly uses forks to eat a rice-based dinner, although eating rice with one’s hand is the common practice in South Indian culture. In the “Ganesh Puja” episode, only Hindi songs from Bollywood films are featured at a seemingly South Indian event, given the characters’ style of dress. Perpetuating these cultural inaccuracies in American media reinforces that South Asia is one and the same: characterized by interchangeable cuisine, customs, music, and dress. This inhibits the formation of nuanced, culturally accurate knowledge among a Western audience. And for what it’s worth, replacing “samosa” with “vada” may have led to a few Google searches, but certainly would not have killed the joke.
The “Ganesh Puja” episode is comically relatable for its accurate depiction of gossip-obsessed Indian “aunties” and the overarching social dynamics of a diasporic Hindu association event. However, it is also replete with unsettling instances of bigotry that go unchallenged, including the outright ostracism of a Hindu divorcee who married a Muslim man, and Nalini’s insensitive joke about Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi during a time of unconscionable violence against Muslims and other religious minorities in India.
Likewise, Devi’s risqué sense of humor parallels that of her mother, as she quips about the Nazis to insult her Jewish academic-rival-turned-lover. Perhaps it is indicative of Kaling’s taste for low-grade humor that pushes the limits of what is socially acceptable (see Kaling’s racist comments about a Sengalese childhood bully in her memoir Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me?). The show’s anti-Semitism is exacerbated by her academic rival’s characterization as a Jewish caricature and the jokes his religion and wealth generate at his expense. Meanwhile, any progress from “Never Have I Ever’s” casting of a recurring character with a disability is overshadowed by the show’s ableist and insensitive discarding of Devi’s physical paralysis within minutes of the first episode.
South Asian American Solidarity
The show’s sheer absence of other South Asian American teenagers is striking: aside from the “Ganesh Puja” episode, viewers never see Devi interact with any South Asian Americans her age. Given the demographics of Sherman Oaks, California, she would presumably have more classmates that share her race. It would have served “Never Have I Ever” well to cast another South Asian American teenager – one who doesn’t check off every stereotype in the book – as a main or recurring character. This inclusion would have showcased the true diversity of the second-generation South Asian American community, empowering its underrepresented members whose perspectives are often overlooked or silenced completely, like those who are working-class, undocumented, religious minorities, or whose priorities and privileges do not include Ivy League-level academic success or six-figure salaries.
“Never Have I Ever” comes at a watershed moment for South Asian Americans, when the community’s media and political representation are on the rise, and its civic engagement has made seismic gains. The show deserves praise for the exposure to South Asian American narratives it has given viewers across the nation, and for its normalization of a South Asian experience (albeit, a singular kind) in the American Bildungsroman genre. But the show’s status as the first of its kind does not exempt it from a recognition of its shortcomings. Rather, in the wake of its bold, highly-anticipated release, the show opens itself to a challenge from viewers who demand these deficiencies be addressed. Perhaps “Never Have I Ever’s” second season will better take on that challenge, elevating the show from its initial role of exposure to a more robust one of empowerment.
Image Credit: Netflix/Lara Solanki
