Series
This article appeared in the January 25 2004 issue of the Hindustan Times, HT Sunday Magazine. I added it here because I think that it describes very well what is unique to the Indian character...
There's something that binds us together (not glue), and there are some things that define us, whether it's the six-yard sari or our six-hour shaadis...
That's the way we are — 'so' Indian. Whether we're from Kashmir or Kerala, Punjab or Manipur, there are some traits we all share, some things that define all of us. Or, with due respect to Govinda's song from Pardesi Babu, They can only happen in India. Here's what makes us all say cheerfully, 'But we are like thins only!'
There's no time to 'prepone' things now, because India has already arrived in the 'Certified Gold' English language circuit. All you have to do is announce your 'good name' and you're in the Hinglish Club 2004 (Members Only). And in case you make your presence known by telephone, all you have to do is tell the gora that you are Mr Amrit or Ms Pooja (first name always) 'on this side'. It'll work wonders. But do make sure that you're not a 'historysheeter'. Otherwise, there's a strong chance that you might be 'phasaoed' in some serious business. As for speaking the language properly, just relax your 'yaar', everything's 'masti' as long as you can get your point across. Right, no?
If there's one car that we've had a 50 year-old love affair with, it's the Ambassador. Nothing can beat an Amby when it comes to comfort levels (those acres of space inside!). Even if it breaks your back (in case you drive your Amby yourself), there's something about that lovable old dumpy body which all the new aeroplanes-masquerading-as-cars just don't have. And it still remains India's VIP car. A convoy of white Ambys means serious power.
Based on the model of a British car, the first of the series started rolling out at Hindustan Motors, Kolkata, in 1957. The "Indian Rolls Royce" was in fact the only car (apart form the Premier Padmini) sold in India until the 1980s.
Doctors call it the process of detoxification but our saints and seers say it's a way to soul cleansing and spiritual enlightenment. Fasting or abstaining from food for a day, eating only raw foods, or strange things like kootu ka atta is as much part of the Indian way as eating khichdi when you have an upset tummy. Unmarried girls fast for good husbands, students for good marks, wives for their husbands, somebody else because his daadi fasted on a particular day (God alone knows why)... Monday is for shivji, Tuesday for for Hanumanji, Friday for Santoshi Ma, Saturday for Shani Maharaj and so on and so forth. How many times have you had a dinner party where some guest or the other has declared that he/she can't eat because he/she is fasting?
Where else in the world do people talk of complexions as being 'wheatish'? But in India, everyone knows what you mean. For groom-hunting parents, wheatish is a way of saying, "well our daughter is not fair (read milky white, in matrimonial ad-speak) but she's not dark either."
You can try various translations — brown or light brown — but none of them get the right tone that 'wheatish' does. Foreigners may be excused for for being completely befuddled, because Out There, the colour wheat is associated with hair (wheat-blonde).
Confess, you still think twice before drinking from the same cup of tea or water that somebody else (even a good friend) has just drunk from. Most non-Indians might wonder what all the fuss is about, but we all know what jhoota means. Obsession with ritual purity and pollution ensure that jhoota is still very much part part of of our mental makeup.
(By the way, did you also know that traditionally women ate from their husband's used (jhoota) plate as a symbol of love and respect?)
Yes, yes, what else could we possibly mean but the sari?You can't get more Indian than this six yards of unstitched cloth that goes back to over a thousand years. The term sari, a corrupt form of the Sanskrit word 'chira' meaning a wearable length of cloth, adorns the female figure like no other attire can. Wear it low on your hips, wear it seedha palla, wear it tightly draped, wear it any which way you want, it scream 'India!' anywhere you go in the world.
There was a time in Indian history when even men wore saris but alas (or should we say thank God!), the practice is no more in vogue (metrosexuals, are you listening?)
Mean to serve drivers of battered, overladen lorries hurtling dangerously down Indian roads (gaily saying Ta-Ta to you or urging you to honk), dhabas are the great lifeline of Indian highways. Usually small ramshackle shacks with a jumble of charpoys, set out on flattened brown mitti, the will serve hot crisp rotis, tangy daal, sizzling parathas loaded with butter, or thick glasses of equally thick masala chai. All this against the backdrop of green fields with the constant sound of roaring traffic (not to forget the dust!). But somehow, all this merely adds to the taste of the food!
Over the years, dhabas have moved beyond the humble lorry driver; now their clientele includes the middle-class Indians who travel by road. Soft drinks, mineral water, packets of potato chips, even tables and chairs under sun umbrellas have sprouted in their hitherto unpretentious premises.
Marriages are made in heaven, but in India they're made on public roads. The spectacle of the wedding baraat wending its way down the road, cheerfully oblivious of honking cars or traffic jams is a sight we've all grown up on. A loud, off-key band, roly-poly matrons in zari saris and young men in the latest Shah Rukh Khan shaadi ensembles, all dancing frenziedly to Tequila are a sight to behold (we've been beholding them for years!) And of course, baraatis know nothing of time management. The common notions is that 'one gets married only once, so let the bride wait!'
It may be on its way out but in smaller towns the showcase is still a irreplaceable piece in the drawing room design of an Indian household. Usually a farewell gift from the bride's 'side' to display her loot. Cutlery, crockery, intricate pieces of utensils in crystal, glass and assorted other materials are on full show in a cabinet resting against the wall. A glass front makes sure that each piece is seen by neighbours, friends and visiting relatives.
An ideal conversation piece and a signal, loud and clear, 'where we come from.' If any piece in such an exhibit can be traced to a venerable old coot — "he served in the British Army and this is his pipe" or "he was a great traveller; and this is his map-holder" so much the better. That item then becomes the prologue to any conversation in the drawing room and is handed over to the next generation. Along with his/her own showcase.
The showcase is rarely opened. The glass sliding doors are thus always a little stiff. But there are genuine hindrances. In between the La Opala crockery and fluted wine glasses — even in families that don't drink — are porcelain figures striking timeless poses.
The dancing girl, Mary and her lamb, Jesus, and a curvy swan are the 'extras' in this elaborate drama where stacks of plates, soup bowls, side bowls and serving spoons are the main players. Finally, do these ever find a way to the dining table? Yes, may be once or twice a year. When the boss comes home for dinner.
In weather fair and foul, in sun or in rain, undergarments are draped over the verandah to dry. Pitter patter the drops fall on the verandah below, but no one minds because it's a wetting in slow-mo and everybody does it that way. Despite washing machines. Despite its high-tech driers. The sun is a reliable friend but no one says that for the municipal board. The lady of the house certainly believes this because the undies get washed each day and sunned.
No one's talking aesthetics here but even framing boxer shorts or Wonderbras in full view of one's neighbour is not a wholesome sight. But who knows, may be it is.
It's in the blood of all Indians, only the mode is different. Everyone does it, whether you're Bengali or Punjabi or Marwari or Gujarati. A women was seen busily haggling in a crowded Chandni Chowk market in Delhi — she was asking the shop owner to give her a Dulhe ki mala (bridegroom's garland) made with currency notes worth Rs 1100 for Rs 1000! The shop owner tried to reason with her; but she was just adamant: "Sirf 100 kam kar do!" (Just reduce it by Rs 100). Finally she offered to pay Rs 1050 saying: "Chalo, na tera, na mera!" (neither I win, nor you).
Old habits die hard. Even amongst Indians who go/live abroad. They even tend to bargain there too and only stop when they get astounded looks in return.
The universal law is that you can only be brother and sister by blood. But in India you can tie a thread on the wrist of a man who you think is only fit to be your bhaiya and not saiyan and declare him your Rakhi bhai. "He's my Rakhi bhai or she's my Rakhi bahen" are words so commonly heard that they don't even register anymore. But believe us, this can only happen in India!
Last but not least, the Republic Day Parade. Whose heart has not swelled with pride watching the marching columns, the bands playing stirring martial music, the extravagantly caparisoned elephants and camels, the fly past, the choppers raining rose petals from the sky, orange white and green balloons drifting up lazily...
India and the Kingdom of Nepal (gallery) (next entry =>) Delhi Pradesh India Society Other voices