by Shobhaa De
I felt sorry for her. Divorced, with a young daughter she hardly saw, and ageing parents to support, she was not in a happy spot—and I was making it even less happy with my persistence. I backed off instantly. What does it matter if the poor guides are instructed to parrot the official line that ‘Nothing happened in the Square… nobody was killed… it is all Western propaganda’? No matter that a European businessman who lives in Beijing had given us a graphic account of what he'd seen for himself—and that included thousands of injured people in hospitals close to the historic Square, besides the dead. He claimed his doctor friends didn't get to go home for days, busy as they were attending to the wounded and counting the dead. But… the girl needed her job more than I needed the truth.
Anyhow, what is the truth in China? Nobody knows. And nobody cares. As a veteran tells us cynically, ‘The young don't want to know what happened at Tiananmen Square—it is not relevant to their lives. They aren't interested in digging for facts. Their eyes are fixed on the West… they want money. They long to travel. They want expensive clothes and great cars. They want to be like everybody else… normal. After that conversation, I started to look more closely at the perky teens dressed in summer shorts, as they strolled along the banks of a canal near the Forbidden City.
Months later, I met similarly dressed young Chinese adults at my daughter's B-school in Paris. Most had ‘English’ names and spoke fluent French. Clannish and driven, they hardly mixed with the other international students, preferring to hang out with local Chinese friends. A bright-eyed student, flashing the latest cell-phone, answered my anxious queries about the best buys in town with a careless shrug. ‘I bought my phone and phone plan from a Chinese dealer my friends introduced me to… he gives all Chinese students a special rate.’ Driving to the university, I'd noticed countless Chinese eateries—really casual dhabas selling cheap noodles. Given the profile of students from Pakistan and India studying in the area, how come there weren't more restaurants catering to them? A Pakistani taxi driver, hell-bent on resolving prickly outstanding issues between our two nations, provided the answer. ‘I've been in France for thirty-six years. My children were born here. But they know “home” is Pakistan. We don't feel like investing our money in this country. My sons work for French employers there and earn good salaries. But they'll never start a business here. You see, even after working so hard, qualifying for top jobs, we know there is no real equality. My son was a brilliant student. He passed his engineering exam with top marks. But we all knew he wouldn't get the best job—that they'd judge him by the colour of his skin… his religion. Professors and academics in France are mainly Jewish they don't want us Muslims to rise.
Oh dear.
‘My parents wanted me to behave like an obedient Chinese girl still staying in China How is it possible?’
While the cabbie's discourse was on, he lost the way and I ended up paying him 100 euros for a 60-euro taxi ride. But, I'd enjoyed the impassioned conversation.
Would a Chinese cabbie have confided as much to an unknown Indian woman?
As I gazed at the glorious skies over Paris, I recalled the thick, brown haze over Beijing. Pollution is one of China's major causes of global shame. But it is rarely referred to by that name. Locals change the subject or pretend they can't understand a word if one asks about the dismal and permanent blanket of muck overhanging the city. There are many topics that can't be raised in polite company. People of my generation bear bizarre names that translate roughly to ‘Builder of the Nation’. The scrupulously indoctrinated guide avoids eye contact as she explains, ‘We are patriotic people. We love our country. My parents are proud to have such names. It is all a part of nation-building.’ Oh yeah?
Her parents (and thousands like them) are the real victims of the Cultural Revolution. It is they who stand abandoned by the very system they sacrificed so much for. Most were pulled out of school to work in mines and factories. I met an attractive woman in her fifties at my book-reading in Beijing. She told me with tears in her eyes how she had to give up her studies to work in a coal mine for ten long years. She survived (barely) by writing angry poetry on scraps of waste paper. When the mine shut down, she was jobless and unemployable, being a school dropout. Undaunted, she went ahead and educated herself by reading whatever she could lay her hands on. Later, she married an Englishman, escaped to London, produced a daughter, but missed home! She couldn't explain the attraction, but obviously it was powerful enough for her to divorce the Englishman and come back with her daughter. She saw herself as a rebel, but a cautious one, ‘Why take foolish risks?’ she asked, before joining a besotted suitor—a Westerner who is promising her a better, freer, life in Europe.
I was told to stick to ‘safe’ passages from my books by the organizers of the reading. I took that as a signal to dig out the most provocative passages from my novels and read out the desi gaalis without inhibition. The assembled press people, along with local experts, seemed enthusiastic enough and even laughed discreetly at some of the more outrageous moments during the reading. The questions that followed were pretty tame and the evening was declared a success. Great. The next morning, during a radio interview, the young reporter asked whether I'd been ‘nervous’ about sharing my ‘bold’ work and views. ‘Should I have been nervous?’ I counter-quizzed her. She smiled mysteriously and carried on with the lively interview. Hers was an interesting story. Going by her strong American accent and lingo, I'd figured she'd studied overseas. Indeed, she had. Born to and raised in California by prosperous parents who'd left China under difficult circumstances, she'd chosen to come back by herself to the country of her ancestors.
Why?
Because she'd never accepted the aggressive American lifestyle and had grown up feeling confused about her own identity. ‘My parents wanted me to behave like an obedient Chinese girl still staying in China. How is it possible? I wasn't allowed to date or call friends over. We only met other Chinese people. I thought, in that case, why live in America? Let me go back to China.’ Any regrets? ‘A few… I live in a tiny, tiny flat. I miss American food. But at least, I have a wonderful boyfriend (white!) and my parents can't nag me!’ A typically immigrant Amy Tan storyline but with a small twist. This girl came back!
Strangely, I found it very easy to talk to all the people we met in China, especially the women. There was definitely a strong ‘Asian factor’ at work. I felt much closer to Chinese strangers than I generally do, to say, a Dutch/Swedish/ French person. Somehow, we shared similar sensibilities that had little to do with our vastly, dramatically different lives. We instinctively ‘understood’ one another, without having to articulate every thought or explain anything. There was a spirit of mutual accommodation that was evident in small, informal but telling interactions. As part of the guided tour (no escape clause in these tightly-structured itineraries!), we had to pay the obligatory visit to pearl, silk and handicraft factories. When we strongly protested and tried to wriggle out of the fifth such ‘visit’, our guide sheepishly confessed that her supervisor would fine her if we skipped it or broke protocol. She couldn't afford to be penalized and pleaded with us to go along, for the sake of appearances. We naturally went along once we knew what the deal was. At one such stop-over, the salesgirl asked my husband to show her his ring. She examined it carefully and offered an assessment of its value that was so bang on, we were startled by her expertise. She looked at another ring he was wearing and smiled, ‘This is a gift from your wife…’ (it was!). ‘But the first one is your wedding ring…’ Yup. Exactly so. I cannot imagine such a spontaneous exchange taking place in a European store. It would be considered ill-mannered, intrusive and offensive for a sales girl to engage a customer in a similar way. But in India we are accustomed to this and more. Here, total strangers think nothing of asking the most intimate family details. And most of us think nothing of responding! I love it!
*
The ‘Xian’ story was different. We were there to see the world-famous terracotta so
ldiers. There is absolutely nothing else to see in Xian, even though local guides are trained to drag visitors to other tourist destinations, including a visit to a rather ungainly marble statue of the Emperor's favourite mistress, a woman who is held up as the epitome of beauty and grace. Young Chinese girls are urged by their mothers to aspire to resemble the most famous concubine in the land. The fact that she is semi-naked and buxom came as a big surprise, especially since she is touted as an icon of sorts. Guides take you through her elaborate beauty routine and point to the personal spa created for the lady by the lovestruck emperor. Her images are on sale in tacky souvenir shops, and I couldn't help laughing when a group of American tourists commented on the concubine's ample bosom. ‘Gee… I thought women out here were flat-chested.’
Despite these boring diversions, what visitors to Xian cannot ignore is the stupendous effort made by the government to ensure the hordes keep coming. There is just one industry in that part of China—and that involves the magnificent soldiers. Period. The idea is to milk the potential all the way and make sure tourists go back gratified having experienced something unique and, frankly, overwhelming. The city is geared to handle numbers and does so smoothly. From the time tourists disembark to their last goodbye, they are fully engaged in delving into the most incredible archaeological find of our times—the silent sentinels in battle formation that were accidentally discovered by a farmer digging for water in 1974. Well, that very farmer is also a part of the Xian show, as he sits there slurping noodles and signing autographs. These days he refuses to pose for pictures, but flashes a mechanical smile when he spots a camera. This is twenty-first century tourist hard-sell at its best.
Once again, I felt envious. Like us in India, China is courting the world and putting on a grand display. But unlike us, they've got it right. Everything is in place—the basic infrastructure, good roads, decent hotels, clean and well-organized sites, inexpensive food and no touts or beggars harassing the unwary. The only time we were pestered was when a gang of bottled water-sellers tried to rip us off by demanding two yuan more than the official price. Our guide gave them a mouthful, even as they mocked her (‘What's it to you if we overcharge foreigners…?’). She was fuming and visibly upset as we got back into the roomy Chinese ‘limo’. ‘I feel so ashamed of my countrymen…’ she confessed, fanning herself vigorously with the lacy cap she'd been wearing throughout. We assured her things were exactly the same back in India… but she was not to be consoled.
‘My parents gave up so much for the country… they are so poor, we hardly have enough food to eat. They live out in the countryside and their health has suffered because of all those years they spent in factories. They are uneducated and of no use to anyone now. Without a job and zero savings—you can imagine their condition. I have to support them the best I can. I do my job honestly, so naturally it upsets me to see such rascals trying to cheat tourists…’ My heart went out to her, as she spoke earnestly about her own uncertain future. Though she was thirty years old, she lived with her parents and was answerable to them. There was no question of dating or going out with friends over weekends. Her parents monitored all phone calls and didn't encourage her to meet men since there was ‘shame’ in having such relationships. Marriage? Yes, provided the parents approved. Had she never lost her heart to someone? Once, but the man got a better job in another district and disappeared with empty promises of coming back for her some day. She'd stopped waiting.
Familiar stuff. But also puzzling. In smaller towns of India, her story was common enough. But look at life in our metros! Which thirty-year-old woman waits for her parents’ permission to go on a date? She'd be hooted out of her peer group, especially if she was engaged in an ‘outdoor’ job, dealing with dozens of foreigners on a regular basis, like our guide. I asked her if her experience was unique or pretty common. She insisted the custom was widespread, with unmarried daughters staying home to look after ageing parents. As she pointed out, ‘There's no difference between us and our married friends. Women are supposed to stay home and look after the elders.’
With the earlier strict one-child-per-family rule, this has created a brand new social problem: A female single child hesitates to marry when she grows up, since she knows she'll be stuck with two sets of old parents—her own and her husband's. With nobody to share the responsibility, a young mother often suffers frequent breakdowns trying to keep her in-laws and parents happy, while catering to the needs of her own husband and child. Ooof! Two sets of parents, one grump of a hubby, a cranky kid… and a job to hang on to. No wonder young Chinese women looked perpetually cross and sounded harassed. No wonder they didn't wear make-up or fuss over their hair. For what? For whom? Sensible shoes, non-descript, ill-fitting clothes… but super-fabulous skin—clear, blemish-free, smooth. ‘Oh that's because of the pearl cream we all use,’ our guide told me. Pearl cream? I ended up buying a large jar at yet another government store. It resembled my mother's Hazeline Snow and felt good when applied. The sales girl told me I'd be glowing within weeks. While she was at it, she also tried to flog another, far pricier cream. ‘It has gold dust in it… Chinese empresses and concubines used only this on their skin…’
No takers for moi in the concubine stakes and no kingdom left to conquer… there was just no point in going for gold. But what did impress me was that most young girls avoided the heavy duty war-paint look which is so widespread in urban India. Most also stuck to weather-friendly simplicity in their choice of clothes. Paradoxically, the fair-and-lovely syndrome we are so familiar with had as many takers in China. Our guides in all the cities we went to were fastidious when it came to staying fully covered up when outdoors—caps, long-sleeved jackets, sun umbrellas—all this effort to remain untanned and white as driven snow. For white, they are. White and pink, like cherry blossoms in full bloom. Tall and angular, up north. Lean and wiry down south. The women far more attractive than the men. Again—just like in India!
*
Do we need to fear the Chinese? Are we being paranoid? Should Indians invest in attractive India-China funds? Are the two countries running on parallel tracks? Should India trust China, especially when it comes to nuclear policies? Who poses a bigger threat to us—Pakistan or China?
These are basic concerns that don't require interpretations from think-tank intellectuals nursing their chhota pegs in New Delhi's India International Centre. The simple and obvious answer to the first question is ‘Yes’. We definitely need to be on red alert when it comes to China. With the world's largest standing army and the soaring territorial ambitions they have, there's no way we can sit back and relax. The Chinese are literally in our backyard. The new highway in the Himalayas is but one example of Chinese expertise and their game-plan. The north-east of India has been our country's least developed, least defended frontier—vulnerable on all levels, more particularly so on account of the physical dissimilarities between the people of those critically positioned seven states and the rest of India.
Physical features and food preferences apart, the geographical proximity to China is alarmingly close. The Chinese have to stroll in at a leisurely pace—and it will all be over. As it is, the Chinese ambassador boldly claimed Arunachal Pradesh for his own country, and India did not expel the man. Maybe he was testing the waters… Since there wasn't much of an outcry, besides a few strident TV news anchors squawking away for a couple of days, I guessed the next pronouncement would be still more provocative. For whatever reason, we have been unusually lax about the Chinese presence in the north-east. Our energies have steadfastly focussed on Pakistan, even as Musharraf continued to taunt us, each time his own ratings dropped across the border.
God knows why it is, but ‘people-to-people’ contact never fails to touch individual hearts. Meet a Pakistani in a foreign land, and it is invariably a warm, wonderful encounter. In a hugely successful Pakistani-owned restaurant in Paris, close to the posh Galleries Lafayette, the maitre d' went out of his way to accommodate us, creating off-the-menu kakd
i-tamater-pyaaz raita for me, since I was on a vegetarian diet because it was the Hindu holy month of Shravan. Not just that, he produced fingerbowls at the end of the meal, explaining we were special mehman, being neighbours. The French diners were politely ushered to a nearby washbasin. These sorts of gestures occur routinely. I've been to Pakistan just twice, and both visits were deliciously sentimental, with much nostalgia and genuine regrets that the people of the two countries were being artificially kept apart by self-seeking politicians. This is largely true. Each time one flags down a cab in New York city, chances of the cabbie being either a Bangladeshi or a Pakistani are pretty high. Once the introductions are done, nearly every brief encounter turns into a shared moment of camaraderie. Something special happens. There is instant empathy and an immediate connect. When one parts, it is always (perhaps absurdly so) like lovers saying goodbye.
