Madrasi

My first job, Ranchi.

I was supposed to meet my new colleagues, for the first time, in the foyer of a hotel. I was supposed to meet a Bangali and a Sardar. The Bangali was also a new recruit of the company. This plan was made because the company did not have an office yet and the Sardar's house itself was the 'office'.

When I entered the foyer and asked for the Sardar at the reception desk, they had no clue. The Bangali was already there. He overheard me and came and introduced himself to me. Now both of us waited for the Sardar to arrive.

He walked in after the Bangali and I had the time to get to know each other and have a chat. As the Bangali and I introduced ourselves to him, there was some confusion in the Sardar's. I noticed it and wondered why.

After some days, the Sardar told me the reason for his confusion. When he saw a dark, snub nosed, short man and a fair, long nosed (Aryan, according to him) and tall man, it was “obvious” to him that these were the “Madrasi” (even though I was from Mysore, Karnataka) and the Bangali respectively.

When the introduction was the other way round, of course, there was confusion.

This is something that I came across very often in those days and those parts*.

*See “Mysore? Dirty Place!"

Made in …

I was, in October 1985, in the coastal town of Bude in the west coast of England for a weekend. I arrived there after a long journey by bus and train and was really tired. I checked into a small hotel and decided to take a shower before exploring the town.

I went into the small cubicle of the bathroom and had a hot refreshing shower. I pulled the huge turkey towel from the rack and started drying myself. The feeling was extraordinary. The towel was huge and soft and very absorbent. I was dry in a jiffy. I fell in love with the towel and decided to find out where it came from and buy one exactly like that – provided, of course, that I could afford it.

I looked for the label and stood there staring at it. Binny, proclaimed the label. And very helpfully clarified, “Made in Bangalore”. Right 'next door' from Mysore, where I came from.

Not “Made in India” mind you!

Marx

I was visiting London on a weekend. My aim was to see the grave of Karl Marx in Highgate cemetery. When I went there I discovered that there were two parts to the cemetery, old and new. I also found that “Marx is in” the new part and I made my way to the grave.

As I was walking along, I came across a lady and she cheerfully informed me, “Karl Marx is here you know!” “That is why I am here!” I informed her, equally cheerfully.

Her reaction intrigues me even today.

She gave me a ‘haughty’ “there are others too you know.” and stomped off.

Perhaps, the fact that the ‘devil incarnate’ Marx was buried there was of scandal value to her and the fact that this black man had come only to see the grave of Marx must have offended her.

I did discover that there were, indeed, ‘others’ too. Great men I admired and hero-worshipped in my boyhood: Michael Faraday, for instance.

As I was walking around, I heard one of the people say “Do you know? Bronowski is here?” For a moment I was confused. I thought Bronowski was dead. Then I saw what the person meant. There was a small square plaque marking the place where Jacob Bronowski is buried.

I also meat a dear old lady at the grave of Marx and she described herself as an American Communist. I made the mistake of saying, “I did not know that such a thing existed.” Of course, I was being flippant. I knew the many American communists past and present. I had read and heard a lot about their witch-hunt by MacCarthyism. And many more who were branded as a red, pinko, commie and persecuted - definitely one of the darkest periods in American history.

The lady later sent me a book written by her husband about his experiences in jail.

(Picture from wikimedia)

Propganda - Did You say?

It was the year 1985. I was in England for three months. As it was my first foray outside India it was an eye opener, in many ways.

While there, my colleagues and I had the opportunity to talk to many people. We talked about various issues and often both they and we had to question our basic assumptions about various things.

One day, I said something about what I had read about ‘Russia’ – the Soviet Union, in fact. Alan, a genial Scot, dismissed it with, “Ah, there is so much of propaganda there”. That was a red rag to the bull in me. “Do you mean to tell me that you people in the ‘west’ are not propagandised?” He felt that there was no propaganda in the west.

I asked him to do an experiment. “Watch the news for the next one full week and observe the camera work carefully, whenever there was any news about the Soviet Union. Come back after that and we will talk about it”, I said. He agreed.

At the end of the week, he was back and had the grace or honesty to admit that there was, in fact, propaganda on British TV too.

What you would see is this. There is some news about the Kremlin. The camera slowly zooms in on the tall tower inside with the red star on its apex. But the camera is behind a fence. There is a large tree nearby whose branches have bowed low and you see the Kremlin through the fence, through the leaves of the low hanging branches. This unconsciously gives you the feeling that the cameraman is actually hiding while shooting.

You come away with the feeling that Russia was a very secretive place (Compared to the west, it was) where the brave BBC team went and shot at some risk (completely incorrect).

Propaganda, did you say?

I am guessing here when I talk of the two following incidents, but I have strong suspicion that my guesses are correct.

One of my senior colleagues from the marketing department had to go to the Soviet Union on business. On his return, he was describing what he saw there. “It is such a drab place. Apartment blocks after apartment blocks, all alike, like stacked boxes of matches.

My guess is that he had never sat in the window seat while flying to or from Bombay. If he had, he would have seen the slums stretching for kilometres in all directions. Then, he would have probably found the drab identical apartments beautiful.

Another instance was when a director of the company visited Japan and came back with glowing stories about their quality consciousness and the training everyone he met had undergone in matters quality. “Ask anyone and you get the same answer. They have been trained so well” was how he enthused about it all.

My guess is, if he had been to the Soviet Union instead and had seen something similar, he would have come back and wrinkled his nose and said “Aw, they are all brain washed. You ask anyone and you get the same answer”.

I guess, I guess right.

Two Languages

In England, my land lady and I were having a chat about things Indian - the number of languages, the many dialects and such things. I took out a currency note and showed the languages on it.

My landlady, Sandra, asked how many languages I knew. Three: Kannada – my mother tongue, Hindi that I had (not) studied in school but had learnt in Ranchi, and English. I knew a wee bit of Bangali too as most of my friends in Ranchi were Bangalis. I had learnt the script and could read at least the name boards.

How about other Indians? Most educated Indians know two languages, at least, and many know more, etc. Not an exact picture, but the best possible one.

My landlady said, pensively and self deprecatingly, “I can manage only two languages myself”.

The daughter, Sarah, was incensed that her mother was lying. “Momma, what two languages do you know?”

“English and slang…..”