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Being Indian does
not mean embracing all things ethnic and eschewing all things foreign. Nor does
it mean being so besotted with the west, that nothing Indian is good enough.
The trick lies in appreciating and adapting what is best in both cultures.
Of late, much has
been said and written about blindly aping the west and adopting alien cultures
and mannerisms. This is justified under the classification of patriotism and it
would take a brave soul to pick up this particular gauntlet. I do not profess
to be brave but in my opinion, this ready-made package of sentiments is so
often-mouthed, so often written about, that it stand in danger of becoming yet
another cliché. Then again, it is the catch all ‘mantra’ of patriotism that
finds an instant response across the length and breadth of our country.
Such sentiments,
I would think, propound a theory that while not entirely devoid of truth, tends
to tar everything with the same [locally
made] brush. It is a theory that eyes all things ‘foreign’ with skepticism and
suspicion, which is ironically enough, a throwback to the war-time Britain,
when patriotism stalked the streets, bludgeon in hand and self-righteous gleam
in eye, scouting the unwary victim. The understanding implicit in this theory
that if you want to be Indian, you’ve got to like Indian, buy Indian, breathe
Indian. And nothing else. Or else.
Now, I am an
Indian as the next Indian. I love a plate of biriyani just as much as I love
buffalo wings. I can perch on a ‘moda’ [with
the mandatory cushion of course] as comfortably as I can sink into a bean
bag. If I fancy the idea of strewing the floors of my house with bright durries
well, I’d still like to buy a washable Belgian carpet. And I enjoy wearing my
well washed Diesel’s just as much as I luxuriate in the feel of a Benarasi.
Okay, so I have
had to fall back on some puerile comparisons. But by now, it must be pretty
obvious that I am an advocate of the middle path. I believe that neither the
east nor the west is bad. Both have their strong points and it is up to us whether
to discard them or make them part of our lifestyles.
The point is, why must we feel guilty about enthusing over
‘The Wasteland’ without praising Madhusudan Dutt in the same breath? Why must
we carefully balance our enthusiasm for Godard with a mention of Ray’s magic
touch. Why must we sound semi-apologetic about going in for a music system with
Japanese name tag?
Let’s look beyond the ethic chic jungle. The real India, if
I may fall back on another show-worn phrase, goes beyond mirror-work wall
tapestries and outsize pieces of unglazed pottery. The real India is a land of
tempers and boundless warmth, of petty jealousies and unstinting generosity, of
kinship and camaraderie. And above all, of tolerance.
I firmly believe that we, the ubiquitous middle class, know
all about that India. Of course, there will always be the privileged set with
their Swiss bank accounts, their Lalique crystals and their houses on the
French Riviera. Just as there will always be the compulsive Swadeshi set who
eschew all things ‘phoren’ in the belief that these are tainted with an admix
of corruption, amorality and general decadence.
I hold my belief for those of us in the middle. Those of us
who can laugh at Bappi Lahiri’s obviously lifted tunes as we can deride Michael
Jackson’s obsession with all things white. Those of us who see the US of A as a
land of both opportunity and oppression rather than as a land of plenty and
green. Those of us who can enjoy a Premchand story as much as one O Henry’s tale.
And for those of us who yearn to go abroad in the belief that travel truly does
broaden the mind. There is really no getting away from the fact that, ruled as
we were fir ages by foreigners, some of their customs and rituals have
inexorably seeped into the Indian psyche. All I ask is that we allow the famed
Indian habit of tolerance to permeate all things western, too. If we have some
great things going for us in India, as indeed we do, well, the west has a lot
of good things to offer too – not the least being advanced technology, tastier
cheese and a better range in children’s clothing!
Let us not be ashamed of wanting the occasional streak of
wanting to shake a leg to Bon Jovi, of wanting our children to enjoy their Enid
Blyton.
Which brings me to another touch topic.. English. Now I
happen to know a lot of people who feel as passionate about this beautiful
language as I do. I refuse to see English as only a legacy of colonialism. It
is only inevitable fact that much of the world’s body of literature, of
science, of knowledge itself, is in English and while translations are freely
available, some of the flavour is invariably lost in the process. I advocate
fluency in one’s mother toungue, one’s national language is a necessity. My
only question is, why should acquiring this proficiency involve a compulsive
running down of English?
If you met someone who wants to settle his Tina or Tony ‘out
there’ consider that until both Tina and Tony decide where they fit, they won’t
be of any use to India. If they exercise their ‘go-west’ ghosts, it will be the
return of the prodigals. If they don’t, that is all right, too. We have enough
talent, here.
But if you meet someone who is trading his Kolhapuri
chappals for a pair of Nike, someone who raves about Oliver Stone’s JFK without
a mention of Adoor, someone who says he loves Ibsen but does not add that he
swooned over Bollywood’s latest offering – recognize that you are in the
company of a truly integrated soul, who is living in the India of his dreams.
An India where he can sing ‘We shall overcome’ to the tune of ‘Hum honge
kamyaab’. Or vice versa
