Superstar India

by Shobhaa De

  Purists despair that Indian-English is ruining the language skills of Gen Next. What they actually miss is the way Indians spoke/wrote sixty years ago. After the British left, one generation loyally clung to the Queen's English, refusing to acknowledge local inputs or twists. This ‘Koi Hai’ generation has virtually disappeared. Most adherents are either dead or have retired injured. You can still meet these stiff-upper-lip relics in various gymkhanas and clubs across India, particularly in scenic hill stations down south, where uniformed bearers sporting cummerbunds and turbans pad around noiselessly in white tennis shoes, carrying gin 'n' tonic for the saabs and memsaabs on the lawns. Listening to their ‘Jolly good show, old chap’ level of conversation is a treat as rich as the trifle pudding that these clubs continue to serve (‘Khansaama… well done… here's your baksheesh…’). The language perfectly matches their genteel lives, spent in the company of like-minded folk, sipping light Darjeeling tea in the early afternoon, followed by cucumber sandwiches and pastries a little later. One doesn't hear that sort of English even in England any more. Nor does anybody elsewhere in the world bother to pen letters that address the recipient as ‘Esq’. Comical? Absurd? Maybe. But also charming.

  That's kewl!

  Compare that to the more colourful ‘cool’ talk of Indian teenagers who think nothing of chutneyfying every form of communication—written and verbal. Their lingo is a defiant assertion of their Indianness. And their nonchalance is breathtaking in its total disregard for norms at any level. This is global communication at its most basic—everybody who is twenty (plus or minus), speaks ‘Instant English’. It's all about recognizing short forms, abbreviations, configurations and blatant distortions. Confusing? Not to the users. Time is of the essence for these impatient souls, and why waste precious micro seconds on writing out entire sentences when three or four letters of the alphabet can convey the same message (‘R U ok? Gr8 2 b bk. LOL 2 u 2’). As long as it gets across, what difference does it make? SMS texting, e-mails—these are today's tools. Fast. To the point, no nonsense. I like! And maaro goli to those who have a problem with it.

  Like a particularly annoying gentleman in a scruffy red shirt who went blue in the face at a book launch talking about how bhasha writers were getting a raw deal at the expense of ‘elite’ Indian-English writers who ‘borrowed’ the language of our former masters and walked away with fat advances and most of the laurels. He made an embarrassingly jingoistic speech, appealing to his audience to ‘reject outright’ these terrible writers who got paid for murdering English. He talked hysterically about loving one's ‘matrubhasha’. ‘If you are a true Indian,’ he thundered, ‘you will take pride in your own heritage and turn your back on English books.’ Oh dear God! This was getting stormy. I passed him a mint I'd saved up on my flight. He nearly threw it back in my face. I thought I saw smoke coming out of his ears (hairy and flapping). He glared at me with ‘red-red eyes’ (to match his shirt?) and continued his speech, quoting Neruda and lambasting all ‘foreign’ publishers (like Penguin!) who were effectively ‘killing’ regional writers.

  He reminded me a little of those '60s ‘commies’ in our cities who'd rave and rant about capitalist pigs… till someone smart offered them a swig or two of premium Scotch (smuggled, in dem days). Soon, the same lot would solicit invitations from the same pigs, to swig that same wretched whiskey and talk about corruption, degradation, compromise. Five years of Chivas later, they'd still be shabbily dressed in shapeless khadi kurtas, they'd still carry torn jholas and swear by Marx, but by then, they'd have pot bellies, a suburban flat in an unmistakably bourgeois locality, and heaven help us, would be driving a Maruti car! I still meet these anachronisms… they're still drinking Scotch at someone else's expense. They wear glasses, their eyes are rheumy and tired, they stoop a little, and shuffle along in rexine trainers. They get defensive when asked about their comrades (many dead). And the Lal Salaam has long been replaced by Lal Label (Long live Johnnie Walker). Keep walking, guys. Myself? Sometimes walking, sometimes sitting, but always ‘simbly’ doing… Kyon Biddu… aayi baat samajh mein? Life bahut boring ho jaata hai, otherwise. My good self is like that only… what to do??

  Schizo India

  As every self-styled intellectual's favourite soundbyte goes: ‘There are many Indias… India lives in several centuries simultaneously…’ True, true, true. But don't other countries? Other civilizations? Go to Rome and you'll find exactly the same contrasts and contradictions. Go to Cairo… you could be in Lucknow. Go anywhere—Paris, London, Istanbul. But we wear our absurdities like some exotic badge of honour (dodgy and dubious, as such things generally are). We are entirely comfortable with our neuroses and just as well. When we walk into a situation that has fifteenth century written all over it, we don't bat an eyelid, or even let the craziness get to us.

  ‘Mera India,’ we say philosophically, and move on, like any sensible person would. Very often, mutants like myself think, feel and behave exactly like foreigners do when they encounter India at its lunatic best. We also go into our Gee-whiz-this-can't-be-happening mode, our eyes widen, jaws drop and we stare shamelessly at… at… ourselves! At the whole snake-charmers-at-the-Gateway-of-India-cows-in-Connaught-Place-naked-fakirs-at-Chowringhee-ghoda-gaadis-at-Chowpatty thingie.

  Join the ‘How quaint! How cute’ rabble without realizing how ridiculous we must appear to others—like those foreigners recording it all with their nifty digicams. The only area in which we differ is in the keen interest tourists take in our garbage heaps. They can't get enough of uncleared piles of muck but we drive past without smelling or seeing. We take dirt for granted. It is supposed to be dirty. Cleanliness deodorizes and disorients us. We feel almost uncomfortable with antiseptic floors. Most of our hospitals are filthy, with rats scurrying around corridors, cockroaches picnicking on leftovers and bloodied swabs, bandages littering the parking lot. Our temples are unbelievably dirty… it's difficult to think of God or the higher purpose of life when one's toes are being nibbled on by hungry rats, and there are pools of drain water everywhere. If we can't keep the house of God clean, what chance do our bathrooms have? They're supposed to be filthy—they are bathrooms. Floors will get wet, basins will be messy… let's not get to the toilets.

  Each time I come back from travelling out of Mumbai to another destination in India, I ask myself, ‘Are we really better off living in this monstrous megapolis where we are forced to compromise on virtually every aspect of a civilized existence, because of poor facilities, zero administration? Shouldn't we be angry, demanding a better quality of life?’ Standard argument. Mumbai pays exorbitant taxes to the centre. What do we get in return? This blah-blah has been going on for decades—nobody listening, because everybody knows nothing will happen. And yet, for some inexplicable, illogical and erratic reason, we who reside in Mumbai think we are special… superior… uber-cool. When, in reality, we are suckers and fools, subsidizing the rest of the country while picking up the tab. This is totally un-cool. But without self-delusions, we'd be really angry! If we get angry, we might stop obsessing over money and start obsessing over better terms. We think we are India's most glamorous city. We know Mumbai is a magnet that attracts over 300 families a day, who turn up from the back-of-beyond by train, bus and boat, never to leave. And yet, this very city, which cannot support its present population, is dreaming techni-coloured Shanghai Dreams!

  Where I live in Mumbai on reclaimed land is an old village that has traditionally been inhabited by Kolis— Mumbai's well-known fisherfolk. Nothing much has changed over the centuries for this hard-working community. Their fishing nets are made out of tougher material these days (plastic), but the drying methods for small fish like bombil (bombay duck) remain the way they've always been, on improvised drying lines near sturdy wooden boats, painted yearly, a week before Holi.

  Same old story

  This year was no different. I was stuck at the traffic intersection right where the village begins and the boats festooned with multi-coloured fla
gs are moored. I heard the sound of drummers and looked upto see a small wedding procession, en route to the temple inside the village. These people were from the bride's side, I realized, when I spotted a pretty young girl dressed in a traditional turmeric-tinted saree. She was walking with eyes downcast, and couldn't have been more than nineteen years old. Her motley group of relatives walked beside her, holding flower garlands and thalis with sarees and other gifts.

  On the day, in another part of Mumbai, celebrities from across the world had gathered to celebrate the wedding of a forty-two-year-old ‘famous’ British person—a certain Elizabeth Hurley. Had I been a documentary film-maker, I would've covered both weddings, and for the same reason. One represented the real thing—the humble fisherfolk were also sending off the bride with accompanying music and revelry. While Ms Hurley's entourage was doing pretty much the same, less than two kilometres away. It was only a matter of scale and perception. And who knows which of these two brides would be happier in the long run? The contrasts were there for all to see, but did they matter to anyone—naah!

  It's the same story in most other cities. But apart from the day-to-day manifestation of these peculiarities, it is our mindset that is pretty weird. Most people who claim to be very ‘progressive’, very ‘forward thinking’, are in fact, hiding behind a veil of prejudice and fear. They want to sound politically correct and politically aware at all times and in regard to all things. But in reality, they are afraid and confused to make that leap of faith and admit that ours is a particularly screwed-up generation. We are the proverbial dhobi-ka-kuttas—we don't know where we belong (na ghar ka, na ghat ka). And we aren't sure about our essential identity. Our secret selves are pretty much the same. We detest aspects of our ‘Indianness’, we are ashamed of most ‘desi’ traits. We know we appear gauche and dehati to outsiders. And we realize the world makes fun of us. We are pretentious and supercilious for no good reason. And we love to preach. Oh, how we love sitting in judgement over everybody, pretending to be pious. Our favourite act is the annoying ‘Holier-than-thou’. Even so, we need a little teekhaapan. Maybe we get on our own nerves, but rather than dealing with such irritants we take it out on others by being disdainful. In our heart of hearts, we are fascinated by all things ‘foreign’. And when we say foreign, we only point Westwards, when an Indian says, ‘I'm going abroad,’ it is taken for granted ‘abroad’ refers to Europe/America. Never Africa or Japan, or any other nation. We want foreigners (read Westerners) to like us… admire us. When we are disappointed with our present (oh please, forget all that rah-rah India-Shining rubbish. It's more like India Bullshitting), we fall back on the past.

  A very distant past

  When all else fails, we pull out Gandhi. The Mahatma has saved India's ass in more ways than one. If he only knew how frequently and arbitrarily we use the Gandhi trick to impress outsiders. He is our trump card in any argument. We invoke his name when no other name rings a bell. If even that fails to impress, we begin boasting about our amazing ‘culture’ (our civilization is 5,000 years old, we tell awestruck Americans). We play the Heritage card as well when it suits us. Especially in the presence of ignorant, semi-educated visitors who don't know better. This colourful, intricate, ‘culture blanket’ is so convenient, it covers up our ugliest flaws and wounds. Ignorance breeds insouciance as we glibly brag away, not stopping to examine the half-baked theories being trotted out in a sad attempt to ‘explain’ social blights like dowry, casteism, sati or even that annual north Indian farce called Kadwa Chhauth. Rituals, celebrations, prejudices, discriminations—everything can be accommodated under this comfy rug. Including the ‘dot’ that marks the forehead of so many women across India. Combine the ‘dot’ with the ‘black beads’ (mangalsutra), throw in some mumbo-jumbo that gives it a hoary religious sanction, and you get a great story to narrate drunkenly at any bar in the world. If you can cleverly combine a ‘Gandhi’ (to rhyme with ‘randy’) story, that's India in a nut-shell. By the way, Paris has four Indian restaurants with names ranging from ‘Gandhi’ to ‘Gandhiji’. Is the food strictly vegetarian? No booze? Hell, no—beef pasanda and Burgundies galore on all these menus.

  This sort of parodying used to enrage me at one time, but no longer does, since I've reasoned, it's nobody's fault but our own that most foreigners are so abysmally ignorant about one-sixth of the entire world—us! Do a billion people really not count at all? Are we unimportant? How is it possible that so many voices are not heard? Are we invisible? Do the others not see? The rest are blind, deaf… but not mute? Something idiotic happens in India (involving cows, snake-charmers, sadhus or elephants), and it's instant news—well, Reuters and other agencies will run it as a one-column ‘fun’ item, along with similar ‘world's tallest man found in Chechnya’ kind of stories. But anything that we feel good about (come on, let's face it, the Brits left us broke and on the verge of starvation. Today, we not only feed ourselves but export foodgrains. Achievement? You bet!), is rarely covered by the international press. It doesn't fit into the ‘India Story’ slot.

  Unless it deals with IT. But even there, the more recent stories out of Bangalore are far from positive. Thomas Friedman did his bit for what was once a beautiful Garden City, and is now an overcrowded highly polluted horror story. But, as we all know, The World is Flat was one man's ‘gee whiz’ take on India, written with the naive exuberance of a schoolboy who thinks he has discovered Mars. Bangalore is a played-out story, and journos are looking for fresh angles. Shanghai?? Umm. Okay. But how much can one write about the Bund, the Art Deco precinct or the glitzy city on steroids that's attracting the world's high-rollers? Do I feel jealous at the undue (according to me) attention being showered on our old foes? Well, yes! I see it as a Machiavellian plot, designed to shake our confidence, maybe even demoralize us.

  Why do we have to keep defending our policies vis-à-vis China? Why do we find ourselves getting a bit of an inferiority complex when puffed-up investment bankers point out the advantages China has over India? Why don't we dare to challenge their views, or speak up? We can so easily shut up the doubting Thomases by pointing out India's true trump card—our biggest advantage— democracy. Yes, we are (still) a free people. Nobody can (with impunity) come around with bulldozers and clear a few square miles overnight, in order to attract foreign capital by allowing hi-rises to come up in the vacated plot. We have systems in place that safeguard the interests of our people. Forget corrupt officials bending the rules. The point is—the rules exist! Do we say that to those smug people who are telling us ‘China is a more attractive destination to park funds in…’? Yeah, honey. So go park your bloody funds there, for all we care…

  We don't realize our own strengths. We don't recognize our potential. We also join the chorus, and we are the first ones to trash ourselves. It's a kiddish, knee-jerk reaction. We think we are pre-empting the critics. In fact, we are aiding and abetting our own downfall. The new ‘fear’ is that China is likely to take away our lucrative diamond-cutting business. ‘If that happens five years down the line Surat will sink,’ says a wild-eyed diamond merchant as we talk quietly during a rooftop soirée. ‘What is Surat doing about it?’ I ask, thinking it to be a pretty normal question. He looks totally stumped, as if such a thought is alien. He starts stammering: ‘Oh… I mean… yes… we should do something…’ See? There's no ‘Plan B’ in place. In India, there never is. If ‘Plan A’ bombs, we go back to the drawing board and reinvent the wheel.

  This is seriously frustrating. But we refuse to address it as a national malaise. This is where we need to open our eyes and learn from more aggressive economies. How to leverage an advantage? Nobody has a clue. By the time we wake up, someone else has grabbed the idea and run with it all the way to the bank. Even our great IT story just ‘happened’. There was no method to that madness. But now that it has happened, are we thinking twenty years down the line? Forget twenty… I'll settle for five. Nope. We are busy showing off our newly-acquired prowess and greedily counting the numbe
r of newly-minted billionaires making the Forbes 500 List. So, okay, tiny little Japan is ahead of us on that list. But still. Those who are skeptical about the list itself have every right to feel that way. It is not as big a deal as it is made out to be. But, our new Big Boys on the block get a kick out of such recognition. And, I guess, it's okay to feel ‘First World’ when, for decades, we've all had to endure the ‘Third World’ stigma. Finally, we feel we can walk tall, with our chests out. Our glamorous industrialists can dominate Davos, flash their diamond-dripping wives and let the other veterans know we've arrived. How? Oh… that's easy. By throwing the noisiest Bollywood-style bashes in that one-sleigh Swiss town. If the locals don't like it, they can lump it. For, our fellows know that it's only money that sings in this part of the world. And desi money is hitting all the high notes.

  Behind all the bluster and posturing, are our industrialists really all that secure? We are busy buying out global conglomerates and spreading our wings, but scratch the surface and the mental make-up of even our most highly-rated businessmen remains pretty dated, if not medieval. Family-run empires have been slow to professionalize, preferring to manage their vast, publicly-listed companies like personal fiefdoms… er… mom-and-pop shows. Those that have gone forward in a modern manner have done so by relying heavily on foreign advice. The World Bank gurus continue to pull the strings, even if they do so behind the scenes. We still take our cues from foreign ‘experts’. Nothing wrong with that—why not pick the brains of those who've been there, done that? But in the process, I fear, we may damage our own unique approach to entrepreneurship.