No Elephants, Still Indian
It’s funny how people react when we confess our origins. That, or when our dialect gives us away, which, I’m afraid, is more often that not. We’re associated either with Gandhi, or tandoori chicken. On occasion, some people want to know if, in India, elephants are still a principal mode of transportation, and if children live with their parents till they die. Surely, these folks haven’t quite heard of Narain Karthikeyan, or watched Aishwarya Rai on Letterman’s. And why they haven’t is simply beyond me.
On our part, we gawk at an American bride struggling to waddle her way through the corridors of the Hindu temple clad in a saree, and jeer at all the non-Indians on Devon Avenue burning their tongues out on blowtorch-hot paani-puris. But we seldom sneer at the svelte, young ABCD dressed, well, hardly, or belittle a traditional tam-brahm pigging out on an extra-large hamburger. It is difficult to say why, but I suspect it is mainly because we are quite fraught with attempts of being like them. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be skimpily dressed or obese, to feel belonged enough, or be noticed?
Also, we love our Paddys and Chaks more than the Padmanabhans and Chakrapanis. We experiment with exotic foods, and feel free to share and eat with our hands only at an elite Ethiopian restaurant, even as we acclaim the importance of keeping it “real, and simple,” like it were an alien concept. We commend the finesse of Rachael Ray, like cumin, in all its smoky glory, was a spice we’d never used. We exalt the connoisseur in Martha Stewart, as if crochet were an art our grandmothers never excelled in. We commiserate with Patricia Heaton as if Doris Roberts were more appalling and melodramatic than all the mothers-in-law of Ekta Kapoor’s one million soaps put together. We indulge in potluck-poker-nights like the gambling addas during Diwali were uncivil. But we still enjoy the rare bonding with a Hindi-speaking cab driver, or the congregations with fellow-Indians at the local grocery. (Unless the cabbie exhibits stalker tendencies, or the person at the grocery is an Amway distributor). We love to hotfoot to the lanky weekend line at the temple cafeteria in a haste that would put Tirupathi pilgrims to shame. We queue up at the Thanksgiving sale counters like we’ve never haggled and gotten a good deal on anything.
But fact is – even if we’re able, successfully, to order a light pizza on the phone without much ado (“easy on cheese” is not that difficult to say, after all) we can’t always camouflage our Indiginized utterances and usages. We wouldn’t rest in the restrooms, ask for checks at the end of a meal, or worse, hand out bills. Plastic silverware will remain an oxymoron in some of our dictionaries, and some of us wouldn’t eat our dinners (with or without them) at 6pm.
That’s not to say we’re elephant-riding, namby-pamby, curry-eating yellowbellies. Well, let’s face it - it takes more than dependable, cheering parents and a gut full of curry to ride on a scuzzy, wobbly behemoth.
On our part, we gawk at an American bride struggling to waddle her way through the corridors of the Hindu temple clad in a saree, and jeer at all the non-Indians on Devon Avenue burning their tongues out on blowtorch-hot paani-puris. But we seldom sneer at the svelte, young ABCD dressed, well, hardly, or belittle a traditional tam-brahm pigging out on an extra-large hamburger. It is difficult to say why, but I suspect it is mainly because we are quite fraught with attempts of being like them. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be skimpily dressed or obese, to feel belonged enough, or be noticed?
Also, we love our Paddys and Chaks more than the Padmanabhans and Chakrapanis. We experiment with exotic foods, and feel free to share and eat with our hands only at an elite Ethiopian restaurant, even as we acclaim the importance of keeping it “real, and simple,” like it were an alien concept. We commend the finesse of Rachael Ray, like cumin, in all its smoky glory, was a spice we’d never used. We exalt the connoisseur in Martha Stewart, as if crochet were an art our grandmothers never excelled in. We commiserate with Patricia Heaton as if Doris Roberts were more appalling and melodramatic than all the mothers-in-law of Ekta Kapoor’s one million soaps put together. We indulge in potluck-poker-nights like the gambling addas during Diwali were uncivil. But we still enjoy the rare bonding with a Hindi-speaking cab driver, or the congregations with fellow-Indians at the local grocery. (Unless the cabbie exhibits stalker tendencies, or the person at the grocery is an Amway distributor). We love to hotfoot to the lanky weekend line at the temple cafeteria in a haste that would put Tirupathi pilgrims to shame. We queue up at the Thanksgiving sale counters like we’ve never haggled and gotten a good deal on anything.
But fact is – even if we’re able, successfully, to order a light pizza on the phone without much ado (“easy on cheese” is not that difficult to say, after all) we can’t always camouflage our Indiginized utterances and usages. We wouldn’t rest in the restrooms, ask for checks at the end of a meal, or worse, hand out bills. Plastic silverware will remain an oxymoron in some of our dictionaries, and some of us wouldn’t eat our dinners (with or without them) at 6pm.
That’s not to say we’re elephant-riding, namby-pamby, curry-eating yellowbellies. Well, let’s face it - it takes more than dependable, cheering parents and a gut full of curry to ride on a scuzzy, wobbly behemoth.
posted by Ranjini | 11:59 AM
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