Taking myself for ‘Grant’ed…

Ethnic classification is a big deal.  “Where are you from?’ will always be part of a first conversation, directly or indirectly, sooner or later.  Or, enquiries will be directed at the colour of your skin, your accent, the way you dress, your attitudes and, since these are all characteristic of who you are, they define you not just as a person but define your background as well!

For very long, I moved in familiar environments – everyone knew me well and so I did not have to answer questions of ethnicity. Now, once again, I move in different circles and the questions are floated afresh: ‘Are you a foreigner? Are you really an Indian? What do you do to stay so fair? How come you do things the way you do? Where does your accent come from?’ Everything is under the scanner, up for scrutiny and fair game for analysis.

I love to throw in a few personal definitions for good measure. I tell them I’m a little bit of this and a little bit of that, a patchwork bedspread, neither fish nor fowl nor good red herring, a mini-UN, a peace front for what used to be inimical nations (British, German, Indian!), a three part harmony.  

So, what does it mean to be Anglo Indian? For one, I am not tied to customs and traditions. While I love to observe from the sidelines the various rites and rituals that define a community - the links in the chain of generations – I am at the same time relieved that I am not bound by such observance (or, certain rules and regulations!)  I confess that I am sometimes the cause of anarchy.  Take for example my school classroom (a very new and learning experience).  Schoolgirls, it seems, need permission for everything.  This results in a lesson being punctuated every now and then with, ‘Miss, please may I drink water?’  Accustomed to adult postgraduate class where everyone, including the lecturer, can sip quietly from glass or bottle without interrupting the flow and concentration, I was fazed – thrown completely off balance.  At the back of my mind was an irritated, ‘Do you have to ask?’ Now, I tell them, ‘In my class, if you need to drink water, just go ahead and do so.  Just do not interrupt me.’ The girls will soon have to manage a balancing act to remember what they can and cannot do in which teacher’s classroom!  

It is typically Anglo Indian to be different and to be highly individual.  This may not have been so with the first generation of AIs who would have tried to fit in with either or all of the cultures they represented, but strong rejection led to the very distinctive identity that evolved – standalone and devil may care! If there is anything that is ‘customary’ it is that we exist in the moment, live for the day, carry no baggage and are totally spontaneous.  But we break no laws. And, yes, we are thick skinned considering the criticisms that we invite for the way we are. 

We have often been termed butterflies in the derogatory sense, and I find this amusing.  Butterflies live for just one day, but in that day they fill the air with colour and motion that are enchanting to behold.  And they infuse every moment with the useful contribution of their whole self.  One does not forget an encounter with butterflies.  Butterflies are God’s gift. And butterflies are free.

P.S. The title is a pun on my maiden name ‘Grant’!

PPS: Someone asked me, recently, what diet I observed to stay fair!  I was tempted to say, ‘Lots and lots of potatoes – eat white to stay white!”  Now that’s an AI response for you!!

Hobson Jobson

It has such a lovely ring, doesn’t it? While browsing among the shelves in a friend’s library, I came across this tome which purported to be ‘a glossary of colloquial Anglo-Indian words and phrases and kindred terms, etymological, historical, geographical and discursive’!

Being an Anglo-Indian, I was intrigued, recalling the merriment which my parents’ very AI pronunciation evoked when it came to speaking the local lingo. To illustrate: for ‘coming’ my mother would call out ‘arthur’ for ‘aata hai’. We also had a very individual and colourful lexicon, typical of the AI family. Most of the words and phrases have now been forgotten but a couple which can still rustle up a smile, when the occasion demands, are glue-pachari and muttai pink (since these words were spoken and not written, I have spelt them as phonetically as possible).

Glue-pachari, which was usually shortened to ‘gloop’, was used to indicate the kind of visitor who seemed to be attached to our chairs with Fevicol and refused to leave. As with all children, fascinated by an overheard new word, I would happily announce to my parent, ‘Ma, the gloop is here’ much to her embarrassment!

Muttai pink was the descriptive used for the virulent shade of pink found in some sweetmeats and nylon ribbons. If a colour was a shade too hurtful to the eye or showed lack of taste, the tag ‘muttai’ would be gleefully added to show one’s strong reaction.

A favourite name and person was Mr. Jerry Puranawala, the handle given to the ‘rag and bones’ man or bangarwala. With his rusty scales, doubtful weights and measures, and gunny sack he would visit our homes on the appointed day to collect old newspapers, utensils, rags and other miscellany thus helping us clean our homes and keep the piggybank rattling.

These words and phrases had a certain ring to them and added colour to the conversation; words which have now fallen into disuse, and are rarely but fondly recalled when reminiscing with a generation that is fast departing this world. Transient words which marked a time in history.