I really enjoyed reading your post! Some of the points you bring up were also ideas that resonated with me when reading Dr. Mohabir's beautiful piece. Your mention of his second-generation identity reminded me of our class discussion of the difference between first and second generation melancholia. Mohabir's being born in Canada makes him slightly more palatable to the white Canadian. So, with some of this worry about assimilation relieved, he is left yearning for a connection to his culture, which his father does not express as a first generation migrant.
I also appreciate your discussion of the role Dr. Mohabir's queerness would have played in his struggle to form his identity. I wonder if this aspect of his identity would have distanced him from his culture entirely or only from his father, who was already actively working to separate him from his background. Perhaps embracing one's queerness in this specific context could actually facilitate the pursuit of a culture that has been made somewhat inaccessible. Maybe by defying his father in one way, Dr. Mohabir could have allowed himself the freedom to explore his identity in all ways.

Adding to this idea of self-hatred, it’s striking to see how the notion parallels Khatun’s critique of white Australia’s obsession with progress narratives. Khatun emphasizes how the movement of non-white women goes against linearity—appearing almost dreamlike, as they traverse borders and identities in ways that reject the rigid path from "traditional" to "modern."

Nonetheless, these very progress narratives have been internalized by non-white families like Rajiv's, who bear the weight of their ancestors’ complex journeys: "For her, going to India was a reversion to an uncouth past. To return from India would mean that I would come back less intelligent, having regressed." To believe in this progress narrative is to further engage in self-hatred, to discard ancestral narratives and epistemes. It’s depressing to see how deeply these attitudes, nurtured by whiteness, have taken root.

This idea of melancholia extending to indigenous peoples is also interesting. Ahmed’s definition suggests a melancholia rooted in not knowing, an ignorance that shapes the migrant experience. But for indigenous peoples, knowledge of what their land once was—and could still be—is painfully clear. For many melancholics (not all), their landscapes are dead fictions. For many indigenous peoples, that death is still ongoing, all around them.