by Shobhaa De
I smiled as my newly-acquired Italian friend talked about her passion for exotic destinations… fabulous homes… and that forced me to ask myself—if not India, then where? I had the answer—nowhere! Sounds mawkish and cheesy, but I am on that intense level of commitment and I realize how irrational that must appear, even to other Indians. ‘What's so great about India?’ students often challenge me, and I look at them like they're crazy to ask! Would I ever consider relocating? The answer is obvious. Have I ever considered it? Never. For better or worse, this is where I belong.This is where I want to be. I told my visitor the same, and she smiled a knowing smile, ‘Family is still such a strong force in India… that's what makes your country so attractive.’ I reserved my wry response to that observation. As an Italian, she, too, was drawn to family… which is why she'd married and had two kids in quick succession. As she put it, ‘I see lonely single women all over Europe and I feel so sorry for them… and then I come to India and see families… children… grandparents… uncles and aunts.’ I almost believed her! That's the way it once was, I wanted to interject, but even that is changing— has changed. India is going global, you see. And in our hurry to win the global badge of recognition, we are throwing a lot of what is our core strength straight out of the window.
After she left, the image of myself clad in my pink frilly frock (pink shoes to match) kept coming back… and I thought, what took me a couple of years to demand, has taken India sixty! India is currently wearing that frilly pink frock and preening, as I'd once done in 1950. The pink frock became a sweet symbol of aspiration and hope, even a certain flirtation with the future. Unlike a lot of my contemporaries who lost faith in the country and fled to the West seeking a ‘superior’ education, better career opportunities or a higher quality of life, I chose to stick it out, come hell or high water. Not because I am a super patriot, but I somehow ‘knew’ I'd get a better deal from my own country down the line. I'm a survivor and like most survivors, I enjoy risks. I had several tempting offers to explore attractive options overseas. My ‘inner voice’ told me to hang on, stay put. I'm glad I listened to it, more than to the cacophony of departing friends and relatives. Today, those very people are wondering how to get back… reconnect. For a few, it's already too late. The daunting thought of re-locating at a certain age prevents them from jumping on the first plane East. Senior citizens stuck in distant lands have suddenly woken up to the grim realities of facing old age in either a state-run facility or a hospice, depending on the kindness of strangers. Well, I feel like telling them that if they postpone that decision by even a few years (like, five), they'll probably face the same bitter truth back in India.
Gotta permit?
They say home is where the heart is (forget hearth). The skeptics who abandoned ship in the 60s no longer know where either home or heart is. ‘We are Americans,’ they once used to boast, proudly telling us deprived folks about the glory that is the USA. Armed with work permits and green cards, they'd arrive for their annual ‘staying in touch with the motherland’ trips, with countless complaints on their lips. The tirade would begin at the airport, starting with inefficient baggage handlers and going on to bumpy rides over pot-holed roads. ‘Nothing works in India,’ they'd sniff, cribbing about ‘basics’ that they'd taken so much for granted in their adopted country. During the short duration of their stay here, one would have to put up with glowing accounts of their life ‘there’, and how impossible, even intolerable, India had become. ‘It's getting from bad to worse,’ they'd repeat, criticizing everything from corruption, bribery, cleanliness issues, inquisitiveness of neighbours, and the overall ‘chalta hai’ attitude.
And yet, all those saved up dollars would be invested in Indian banks, since the returns were far higher. And the suitcases would be crammed on departure with essentials that were far cheaper. The rest of us would be made to feel diminished on several counts for lacking the ‘guts’ to pick up lives anew in the land of milk and honey. On those rare visits to their part of the world, we dehatis would be given a crash course on how to behave in the First World. If we dared to ask a few obvious questions like, ‘How come you guys only hang around with other desis… the sort of people you'd shun back home? What do you have in common with so-and-so…?’ our questions would be silenced. But it is true that the actual lack of acceptance by the host country is what is making a lot of NRIs (Non-Resident Indians) rethink that original decision. The party's over… but sorry… nobody wants latecomers to the one happening in India, either.
Do I sound cussed? So be it. I see their kids and wonder what will happen to these twenty-and thirty-somethings who, through decisions taken by their ambitious parents, are a lost lot, desperately in search of an identity to call their own. They speak strong, accented English and eat ‘curry’ at home as a Sunday treat (that is, if Mom doesn't recommend a barbecue). When they come to India, they feel entirely excluded from their peers, who are busy leading their own, far more colourful lives. Also, earning as much, if not more than their American/British cousins. No wonder, then, I find so many friends of my children, who were once seen as whiz kids and people in the fast track, packing their bags and coming home to start all over again. Their love affair with the West over, a few are married to foreign girls, who loathe the unfamiliar—particularly the fact that they have to get used to the idea of dealing with assorted ‘aunties’ and ‘uncles’, often sharing an apartment with in-laws and switching to ‘pure vegetarian’ kitchens. They are advised by family elders to ‘adjust’ Easier said. ‘Adjust’ is a favourite word in India, and is used across the board, even by those who barely speak intelligible English.
‘It is important for young people to adjust,’ my Gujarati vegetable vendor tells me sagely, pointing to his own son, who has bleached his hair, pierced his ear lobes and is wearing extra-tight jeans. ‘Adjust’ is not such an awful word, come to think of it. It is practical and non-threatening. Most Indians are like elastic bands, ready to stretch themselves or shrink, depending on circumstances. We've been doing that for centuries. We've ‘adjusted’ to so much dramatic change without the rubber band snapping! I consider it a major feat in itself. With a jaunty shake of our heads, and a ready smile (often, for no reason), we ‘adjust’ and the Ganga flows on… or, at any rate, it used to… before the river got hopelessly clogged and polluted.
*
For today's stressed-out India, the one that's strutting, preening and showing off its pink frock, the story is reading differently. I see fewer smiles and far many more scowls. People look preoccupied and grumpy, when they're supposed to be over-the-moon with unbridled joy, celebrating the country's prosperity and progress. It is a paradox, really. Here we are, reluctant debutantes at our own coming-out party. The ball gown has been created by a top designer (an IT moghul, in case you're wondering) and we are all ready to rock—or are we? Then why the scowls?
The trouble is Indians aren't used to being prosperous. We are more comfortable dealing with poverty—after all, poverty is a staple here, and has been for centuries. Once the British departed, after looting our wealth, stripping us of our many assets, India was left a bankrupt nation, hopelessly in debt and having to deal with the daunting task of feeding its hungry millions. Mahatma Gandhi's obdurate attitude at the time (all that money given to Pakistan, almost like returning the mehr after a traumatic talaq) left us with empty coffers and equally empty stomachs.
That we succeeded brilliantly in becoming self-sufficient within a few decades is nothing short of a miracle. The Green Revolution did the trick, and successive governments realized that growling tumtums can only cause trouble—and lead to rebellion. That four-letter word (‘food’) dominated our consciousness, and to a large extent, still does. Something as primal as food—or the lack of it—remains the number one concern, even of well-fed middle-class India. It's a memory that refuses to go away— the spectre of starvation continues to loom years after our aggressive efforts to keep famine at bay have paid off. Yes, people in the millio
ns still starve in rural India. But the urban Indian with the permanent grouch has no business to be sulking in this regard. And yet, behind even that paunchy businessman's satisfied burp after a heavy meal is the niggling fear—what if this food disappears all of a sudden? What if I can't feed my family? What if famine returns? Irrational and unjustified as this fear appears, it is there. Middle-class smugness has not been able to address it so far. And like most irrational thoughts, this one, too, refuses to go away. Despite the economic boom, most Indians continue to think of India as a ‘poor’ country. Show them facts and figures, throw statistics in their faces— zilch—they'll nod their heads but remain unconvinced.
We have become so used to the idea of poverty as a national affliction that we've started accepting it. Almost as if it's our collective fate. Sometimes, when I'm dining with the super-rich of our country in surroundings so opulent they would make a sheikh blush, I'm amused to see the host nervously counting pennies, worrying whether there's ‘enough’ food on the table. Or, whether there's too much of it. ‘Waste is bad,’ I've heard a card-holding billionaire declare while counting the number of chicken sandwiches on board his private jet. This sort of frugality, in all its absurdty, is easy to understand. It has nothing to do with how much wealth an individual has— in this particular case, one hell of a lot. It has more to do with the in-built insecurity of losing it all and going back to square one. To the time of our fathers and grandfathers.
I grew up with pretty much the same dread, the same panic, even if I never ever had to face food-deprivation. I understood the challenge posed to my father to ensure his four strapping children, with healthy appetites, ate well on a bureaucrat's modest salary. In concentrating on providing the basics—clean clothes, hot food and a good education—both he and my mother sacrificed many goodies themselves. And to their credit, never complained about or grudged it. My mother made do with two ‘good’ silk sarees and the same small pieces of gold jewellery she'd received at the time of her wedding. My father also had two ‘good’ suits in his cupboard and wore them with a great deal of personal style. The meals on our dining table were always wholesome, simple and tasty—standard Maharashtrian fare, low on oil—far from gooey or rich, but served on time with a loving smile by my mother. Mutton curries were a Sunday treat, along with fried pieces of pomfret or prawns. We knew better than to ask for those expensive dishes mid-week!
When I see my kids turning up their noses at our overladen dining table these days, I feel angry and hurt. They have no business to be complaining. I see their expressions and flip out. I see packets of imported foods (Oreo cookies being my current bugbear) and I lose it. But I know better than to deliver a lecture on waste—they'd probably laugh derisively. Not because they're insensitive—it's just that they take food far more for granted them I ever did, or will. It is a ‘basic’; their birthright. But I often wonder whether they too believe that the foie gras may run out some day… and then what?
*
And then, it will be time to get off their butts and work much harder, if they want to maintain this readymade lifestyle they believe is theirs by right. ‘Please don't preach,’ they beg of me, when they see ‘that’ look in my eyes. I know better than to fall into that trap. I think of all the countless privileges young, affluent Indians take so much for granted, and wonder whether India is really going platinum! The Golden Age is several centuries behind us. We don't need a reminder. It's platinum and titanium that rules. And plastic of course. My youngest child, when asked what she wanted for her eighteenth birthday, didn't miss a beat before saying, ‘A credit card.’ When I gasped at her audacity, she smiled, ‘Be thankful I didn't say “A BMW”, like one of my friends did.’ I thought of all the things I'm supposed to feel thankful about and got quite cross. An eighteen-year-old brat asking for one of the world's most expensive cars. ‘Earn it,’ I said haughtily, but I know I sounded like a loser.
With all this going for them—why the frowns of frustration? Why the stress? Why don't these kids look happy? Is the silver platter the wrong shape? Am I being a cynical bitch?
Am I a Tight-assed Schoolmarm?
Sometimes, the spouses young Indians from abroad bring home to Mummyji and Daddyji are colleagues from their workplace—Chinese-Americans, Hispanics, Europeans, Australians. They find it impossible to ‘adjust’, since they aren't desi elastic bands from birth. Their reluctance/ resistance to ‘conforming’ to family rules leads to ongoing friction, starting with over-spiced ‘curries’ and over-rich gajar halwa, to eating with their fingers, forgoing knives and forks. Sharing ‘space’, physical as well as emotional, snowballing into an all-out war. ‘That's what stresses us out,’ they chorus when I pester them… and I shake my head like a wise old woman (the way my grandmother once did).
Bollywood advocates masti to deal with this stress-business. All youth-oriented ads recommend masti, and all I can think of is kids who've got too much, too soon and value nothing—the Neo Indians—brash, impatient, aggressive and ignorant. Like their worst counterparts in the West. Obsessed with brands and labels. Thinking nothing of demanding the latest Fendi bag for a sixteenth birthday (at 80,000 bucks, that's quite a gift—three decades ago, one could buy a two-bedroom flat with that, and my father did, after taking a loan, if you please). Then I ask myself whether I'm being a bit too judgemental and schoolmarmish, moralistic and tight-assed… just like my elders who were forever ‘disapproving’. I don't recall a single thing I did during my tempestuous teens that met with their approval. I hated them—they hated me. We knew exactly where we stood. Today, it's more difficult to take a position. We parents want to appear more ‘chilled out’ in our children's eyes. We know they are secretly laughing at our clumsy attempts to be ‘cool’. But hey—at least we're trying
India has to make up its mind on this score— how does it rate on the current cool quotient? I'd say, pretty high. Neo-Indians are highly enamoured of the relaxed attitude. They can identify with it far more than my generation could condone the hypocrisies of the pseudo-socialists who preached Gandhian austerity but lived like kings. Am I equally guilty? Neo-Indians love extravagance. Splurge is the bold name of a weekend supplement that encourages readers to indulge without guilt. Another magazine is devoted to spas and spa treatments, some of which are pegged at Rs 6,000 an hour (‘cheap by New York standards,’ says a friend). That used to be, till just two decades ago, the average pay cheque for a salaried professional who'd put in at least ten years of service. I remember my own exultation when I crossed the important Rs 5,000-barrier. I really thought I'd become a millionaire. Today, my driver earns much more than that. And chances are, given half a chance, my young daughters would blow that amount in a single night on the town—in fact, the youngest did just that on NewYear's Eve. She didn't blink when asking for the money. I nearly wept while giving it to her.
I could have said ‘no’. But I didn't. Was I buying peace? Bribing her? Taking the easy way out? If I felt strongly about the issue, I could've put my foot down and delivered a lecture on Gandhi's sacrifice. What would I have achieved? A big fat zero. ‘Everybody is going… that's the cover charge… how come they can and I can't?’ Flashback to the early '70s. ‘Everybody's going… that's the cover charge… how come they can and I can't?’ My voice. An echo in reverse. The difference is in the zeroes. Ha ha ha, my children laugh. So what has changed? It's only a matter of scale… not principles. They are right. And I feel like an even bigger hypocrite.
Sometimes, when I reluctantly participate in those meaningless TV debates on the New India or Sexy India, I feel like an imposter. Most of the other panellists arrive with personal agendas. They are there to push away… plug their latest product, be it a movie, ad, spiritual mantra or political goal. And me? I'm there to add two vital elements: 1) the token female perspective and 2) a dash of colour/glamour. All of us bleat away on how fantastic it feels to be an Indian today. How amazing it is that the world is finally recognizing our real worth and giving us ‘respect’.
I feel depressed at the end of all the chest-thumping. And ask myself how much of this new strut is self-delusionary. Whom are we kidding? And, by trotting them out often enough, will we really start believing our own illusions about ourselves?
I did two similar shows in the span of a week. Both had heavyweights and people loosely described as ‘opinion-makers’ (do these individuals have day jobs, too?) on the panel. The audience was made up of a strange mix— activists, ad gurus, cranks and faltus. Again, people with a lot of time on their hands, and a desperate desire to be considered important enough to be invited. As frequently happens, most speakers stuck to safe territories and politically correct points of view. It was a dull and listless effort that did no justice to the Sexy India or the Sexy Indians we were asked to discuss. The audience participation was tepid and it looked as if rigor mortis had set in. On one show, we attempted in vain to find a suitable Indian Icon. In another, we wondered about India's ‘wow’ factor.
