about "indian identity"

I, PROUD TO BE AN INDIAN

Smrithi Poornachandra nee Rumdali Rai

A week ago I was visiting one of the wonders of the world, the Taj Mahal. I bought a ticket and stood in line to enter, only to be told very rudely by the person at the gate that I had taken an Indian ticket and was to have taken a “phorener” ticket. I tell him I am an Indian. He looks at me with utter disbelief, and says, “NRI ... You NRI,” in whatever context he means. My husband, an officer of the Indian Army, loses his temper and asks the person what an “Indian” would look like, and whether he can prove his Indianness. The man stares at us. Yes, we make a strange pair. My husband is a short, dark Telugu from Hyderabad and I am a stocky, “chinky” Gorkha from Darjeeling, which is in West Bengal. (And no! I am not a Bong).

This is a common thing that keeps happening to us whenever we go visiting any place of interest like a museum or a heritage site. The funny thing is that people with what one calls “Aryan” or “Dravidian” features are never questioned even if they take an “Indian ticket”. One could be from Bangladesh, Pakistan, Sri Lanka or the Persian Gulf, and never be asked annoying questions. Seeking entry into a museum in Chennai, I had to produce an identity card before the lady gave me a ticket. She had asked me if I was from Russia!

Hanging around any tourist spot is a danger.

“Madam, this Indian Art Madhubani Painting you want??”

“Interesting book, Kamasutra, You look?”

“Want to buy? Indian god Ganesha, good-luck bringer??” (Ganesha, by the way, doesn’t look too happy with the guitar he is carrying. Talk about Indian designer Gods!!)

“This, Moghal Art …” and a picture of some scantily clad females cavorting in a pool with a male is thrust under my nose. The weary day goes on.

No! I don’t want anything. I am just here to see the sights of my country. Okay! And no again! I am not a weird “firang” who would want to lug home some cow or yak bells, ghungroos, conch shells or a peacock-feather fan. I support wild life conservation, and am against any wild life product being bought or sold. Of course, I don’t want any other “INDIAN” stuff that no decent Indian would be seen dead in a ditch with. And I definitely don’t know what I would do with those leather whips… I am a practicing Buddhist!!

It is easy to laugh it off after the incident, but it’s not funny when it is happening, and one’s temper is already frayed by the heat and the noise and dust. This is because I come from Darjeeling, a cool hill station, and like all hill people I find it difficult to bear the heat of the plains. It is not because I live in a “phoren” land with air conditioning everywhere. Tradesmen apart, it is a crying shame that places visited by scores of Indians and foreign tourists are manned by such ignorant people: people who have no idea of the various dimensions of “Indian.” All in the name of serving the tourism trade. “Atithi Devo Bhava!”

***

Hey, hang on a minute. The identity crisis transcends borders. Let us move to another place. Hmmm … Let’s not go very far. We’ll stop by at our friendly neighbourhood Nepal.

The first lines they say when we meet, “Oh, you are a Nepali.”

“No, I am an Indian.”

“WHAT?! How can YOU be an INDIAN?”

“I come from Darjeeling, you know! And it is in India.”

“Ah, Darjeeling! Darjeeling was a part of Nepal once upon a time, you know. So you are a Nepali.”

“No, I am not! I am an Indian Gorkha,” one protests.

Then follows a long discussion over Darjeeling, whether it originally belonged to Nepal or to Sikkim. Or was it No Man’s Land?

“Look, I don’t know and I don’t care. As far as I am concerned I am an Indian. Okay! Generations of my family have lived and died serving the country as army men since the British times. And I can boast of an MC and Bar (Military Cross won twice), an IDSM (Indian Distinguished Service Medal) and an MM (Military Medal) in my family. My great grandma was also given a medal by the British for having sent all three of her sons into war for British India. Neither my parents nor my grandparents were from Nepal. So there, I AM an INDIAN.”

A brief silence, and then begins the hostility. “Oh yes, all Indians are crafty. They claim our people as their own. Why, they even claim that the Buddha is an Indian! He was a Shakya Prince, meaning a Nepali.”

“They even claim Mount Kanchendzonga as theirs!”

Umm … well let’s not get into arguments here. Not with friendly neighbours with whom we share more than just borders. One changes the subject, and steers the conversation to an uncontroversial topic.

***

A change of scene again, this time to the Tribhuvan International Airport, Kathmandu. The immigration officer is glaring at this impudent “Nepali” who insists she is an Indian, and has even committed the sin of holding an Indian Passport, that too issued by the Indian Embassy in Bhutan.

“Your passport is Indian.”

“Yes. That’s because I happen to be an Indian.”

“Your husband is an Indian, you mean.”

“No! I mean I am an Indian and so is he, but I was an Indian before I even met him.”

He scowls furiously, scribbles something on a piece of paper and tells me that I have to get a letter from the Indian Embassy. A letter telling him that the embassy does not have a problem with me visiting my sister in Bruneii. All my papers are in order. I have never heard of such a rule. Just too bad, I guess.

The plane takes off for Bangkok without me that day. My sister is mad at me for having missed the flight, as it meant I missed the connecting flight to Bruneii too.

I land up at the Indian embassy, where thankfully the staff is intelligent enough not to ask stupid questions. They have no problem with me going to Bruneii, why would they? They ask rather indignantly. The helpful embassy official says I can sue the immigration officer when I return. Very sweet of him, but I have to re-schedule my flight and hope like hell my sister has cooled off.

***

Let me go a little further, this time to Bruneii. Here, I am in a swimming pool in a hotel. It is a beautiful country with a great ambience and very nice people.

The Bruneiian lifeguard talks to me in Malay. I shake my head and say, “I don’t understand. Me Indian.”

He smiles angelically and winks, “Me British.” He laughs and then asks seriously, “You from Thailand?”

“No, I am an Indian from India”.

He looks back with the same disbelieving look that follows this statement of mine. He is not alone. A nice looking South Indian man splutters in the pool beside me.

“Did you say you were an Indian?”

“Yes, I did.”

He looks incredulous, “India! Which part?”

I decide to get smart … “Hyderabad.”

“HYDERABAD?!”

“Yes, Hyderabad. What about you?”

“Chennai, Adayar. But you are from HYDERABAD?! WHERE IN HYDERABAD?”

“A place called Malkajgiri.” There are no words to describe the look on his face. I decide I have had enough fun. So I tell him, “My husband is a Telugu from Hyderabad.”

“Ah!” He looks relieved, “So, where are you from? Thailand? Philippines?”

“No. From Darjeeling in West Bengal, and no, I am not a Bengali.”

He looks at me suspiciously, “Can you speak Hindi?”

“No, I don’t speak in Hindi, because where I come from we all speak in the local language, which is Nepali.”

His eyes light up, “Oh! So you are from Nepal then?!” Here we go again, with the existential question “Who am I?!”

***

This time around, I am at a jungle resort in the Royal Chitwan National Park in Nepal, working as a Guest Relation Officer. There are many guests from all over the world, but a large number of them are from England. I brief them about the dos and don’ts in the jungle and on the safari. After the briefing is over one nice young lady asks me, “Are you from England?”

“No, I am from India?”

“INDIA. You mean to say you are an INDIAN?!” There’s that look again!

I let go this time. “No Ma’am. I only live in India. I am a Brown Baarvaarian from the high altitude Tibetan plateau of Mustang. When the Shangs attacked my tribe, my mother ran all the way to India. There I was born in a yak-herder’s shelter in the mountains. The cold snows of Maagh in January killed her, and a kind Indian man adopted me. He took me to live in Darjeeling where I have lived ever since. That’s the only home I have known.”

“Oooooooohhhh ...”
“Darjeeling! Isn’t it where the tea comes from, Janet?”

“Yes, it is indeed. Did you know it was the British who set up the tea plantations in Darjeeling, when they ruled India?”

“No Ma’am, I do not. I don’t know much about Indian history. I am a Baarvaarian you know.”

“But you were born and have lived in India all your life. And that means you are an Indian!”

Yipppppeeeeeeee! Some one said it at last. I am an Indian!

I can die a happy woman now.

***

I am an Indian, a Gorkha from Darjeeling. Darjeeling is a hill station in West Bengal and the local population essentially consists of Gorkhas with a sprinkling of Tibetans.

The local language is Nepali, but a brand which is a little different from that spoken in Nepal. The second popular language is English. This is due to the strong British influence from the days of the Raj and not because we want to “ape the West”. A few people do understand and speak Bengali, because Darjeeling is politically a part of West Bengal.

The local language however, is still Nepali as every Gorkhali tribe has its own language. There are the Khumbus, Limboos, Magars, Gurungs and Newars, to name but a few.

What is called the Nepali language (recognised by the Indian constitution in 1986) is actually called “Parbatae Bhasha” (meaning language of the hills) by the locals. It serves as a link language to a race that has more than 16 tribal languages.

We are of Tibeto-Mongoloid stock and hence we are short, stocky and flat-featured, and “Chinky”. People may want to dispute the finer points of language and race and origin but one thing stands firm. We are all Indians and proud of it. So give us a break here.

*** *** ***

© September 2006