INDIANS IN AUSTRALIA - Racism

One Desi man's encounter with Racism

A desi means a person of pure Indian origin who has settled outside india and wants to live the way Indians live in India

When I was a child growing up in a refugee colony in Delhi, one of neighbours sold their house to an Anglo-Indian family. The anglo-indian family with a mother and three daughters, father visiting them occassionaly from England was a puzzle for me as a seven years old child. Me and my sisters were forbidden to play with the malechas as were most of the other kids on our almost exclusive west Punjabi Hindu refugee majority street. I could never understand why I cannot play with them and their english sounding names like Rosemary used to perplex me. My parents never gave me any explanation of what was wrong with that family and why I could not play with those girls. My sister used to talk to Rosemary sometimes both hiding under the night jasamine tree which was rooted on our side of the fence but was protroduing into the neghbour's side. Some times I would stand near them and listen to their conversation. While my sister talked about her friends and her school, Rosemary was preoccupied with her father taking the whole family to London next time he comes.

A few years later, the neighbours, demolished the house and built a three story building in its place. While Rosemary and her family were using the ground floor and the first floor, the top floor was rented to a Madrasi (an Indian from Southern India). Again, I was restricted. While I was not allowed to go inside the anglo's house, I could go to the Madrasi house but not eat anything there. My older sister once explained to me that even though the Madarasi's are good people, they are smelling the fumes coming form the meat eaters kitchen and therefore have not remained pure any more. Madrasi family of a young couple and a four year old son were a curiosity for us all. I heard from other kids on the street that the Madrasis are very skinny because they eat rice all the time, they DO NOT eat wheat, what a disgrace!!!!! A group of kids including me starting teasing the Madrasi man. As he would walk past us on our street, one of us would follow him and shout Idli, Sambar, Dosa etc. The Madrasi man would keep walking as if we did not exist. We were punished by our grand father when he saw us doing that one day. We were all made to go to the Madrasi house and touch the feet of the Madrasi man and seek his forgiveness.

A few years later, my father rented another house in a different part of Delhi and me with my parents and sisters, moved out of the joint family house. I never heard anything more about Rosemary until I visted my old cousin sister whose family was still living in the house next to the anglo's. I was surprised to hear from my cousin that Rosemary and her family have finally moved to London. Our pure vegetarian family could not celebrate for the new neighbours were a sikh family who despite being asked, not to by their Guru, eat meat at their home. My sister was glad that our family does not have to suffer the fumes of the meat bar b que any more but her happiness was hiding the sadness of a having lost a friend.

As I grew up and got involved with many religious and patriotic activities, I learnt that British were oppresors of the Indian people. I learnt about the atrocities committed by General Dyer in Jalian wala bagh massacre and the sacrifices of martyers like Bhagat Singh. Suddenly the prejudice of my parents towards British and anyone associated with them started making sense. I was told that Anglo Indians are either fully British or were loose Indians who mixed with malechas, the uncultured ones. I met a few anglo indian boys in my University but was not able to mix with them or befriend them.

My first real contact with a true anglo-Indian came when my father in law was seeking to obtain protection from the Supreme court of India against arrest by the police in a food case. Since he was not much educated but was ready to spend any amount of money, we decided to hire proper legal advocate. The advocate he was recommended by some others turned out to be an anglo-indian. Not only was he an anglo-indian, he was a very powerful advocate as well as a politician. He had family friendship with the ruling Gandhi family and was a nominated member of the Parliament. I went eagrly to his office with my father in thinking that we have found the right solicitor. But what a disgrace for a human being his behaviour was. When we reached there and waited three hours to see him, we heard him yelling abuses at his office workers, showing contempt for his clients and their Indianness. He was throwing papers at the face of his assistent Ramesh and everyone was scared to go and talk to him. We got an audience of two minutes with him after yelling back at him for making us wait so long. The anglo advocate did appear in the court and won the case for us, but I was left to wonder, what are these ex Britishers who hold such a contempt for our Indianess, are doing in India.

My job took me to an arabian gulf country in a University. One of the secrtaries there was an Indian girl from Bombay. I had never met anyone from Bombay before and to impress her, I said, so you must be speaking Marathi at home. "No", she replied, we speak English at home. Must be one of those convent educated neo Indians who think and act like Britons, brown sahibs, of pure Indian descent but feel proud in following British fashions rather than Indian. "So, you speak English at home but your mother tongue must be Marathi." I asked. No, my mother tongue is English. I remained puzzled for quite sometime. How can an Indian born in Bombay claim English to be her mother tongue. Aah, she must have converted to christianity and is now disowning her language as well as the religion, I thought. That girl and I used to talk often about so many things including where to get the best Samosa in Kuwait but she never told me that she was an anglo. She married a co-worker who was from England and they both left their job and returned to London. It did not occur to me at that time that she is an anglo and that is why she was emphatic in claiming that her mother tongue is English and not Marathi.

I migrated to Australia in 1980's. My initial fear was that Australians will be like British and they will look down upon me like British used to look down upon Indians as their slaves in pre-1947 India. My fears were soon laid to rest. Australians I found were some of the most open, friendly and fair people. To put ice on the cake, my Australian office coleague used to tease our new coleagure from England by calling him Pommy. It was a lesson for me that not all white peole are as bad as the Britishers of per-1947 India.

A female divorced co-worker in my job seemed to know a lot about India. To me she looked like any other Australian and I was surprised at her knowledge of India. She once asked me what is my opinion of anglo-Indians. I blurted my usual prejudice that they were Indians of loose character who mixed with the Britishers. She became a little aloof from me that day onwards which I could not understand. After a few months, She left the job in Sydney and retired to country area. A few years later, someone at the office told me that Jane has died and he also whispered in my ear, "Do you know, she was born in India and was an anglo-Indian." I regreted my indiscreetioon in insulting her but had no way of apologizing to her. I decided that day I will not be voicing my hatered. IT also set me on a journey to know more about anglo-indians and to examine th e reasons for my prejudice again.

In 1987, me and my wife were being shown a house by an Australian real estate agent. After seeing the house, the agent asked us our opinion about the house and if we were interested in buying it. The old man was a pushy salesman and I liked the house. I started discussing the house with my wife in Hindi. Both of us had a habit of switching to speaking in Hindi if we did not want people around to know what we were talking about. We both liked the house and after the discussion was concluded, I turned towards the real estate agent and before I could open my mouth, he said to me " So you both like the house". My jaws dropped because the agent was speaking to me in Hindi. It was apparaent that he was understading each and every word of what we had said to each other, including some not so nice remarks about his sales tactics.

It turned out that the real estate agent was born in Delhi and had studied in Dehradun. His parents had moved to Australia after 1947. He told me how much his parents loved and missed India and I could see moistness in his eyes as he told us of a few places in Delhi that he had memories of. The emotions in his now choking voice were no different than the emotions I had felt when my father and his brothers would sit in a winter day, outside their warandah in Delhi and reminiesce about their home which was now in Pakistan. All my hatred of British and low opinion about anglo-indians came to a crashing end as I realized that this man loves India perhaps more than I do. I learnt a lesson on that day that human beings are same everywhere and our prejudices against some are more to do with not having shared any common feeling with them than the injustices committed by their group in a different place and time.

This encounter was soon followed by another incident. With two young children and my wife, we boarded a taxi in Newyork city. I was a rich tourist in the city and did not even look at the taxi driver. Me and my wife started chatting to each other in our native tongue Punjabi. A few minutes in our journey and I was annoyed to hear a question from the taxi driver, "Which part of Punjab are you from?". I am from Delhi, but my parnets had come from Pasrur near Sailkot in Pakistan. My good manners forced me to ask against my superior instinct, "Where are you from". I am from Pakistan Sir. He Replied, "I am from Pasrur too. After a long time, I have heard someone speaking with my native accent." I felt flattered by his statement that I have Pasrur accent. I have never been to Pasrur, I have never seen Pasrur or Pakistan. I have heard a lot about it from my father and uncles. But before I could say it, I got reminded of many stories of atrocities heard from my grand mother that Muslims had committed over Hindu women during the 1947 partition of India into India and Pakistan. I stiffened my lips and searched the taxi for any sign of this man's religion. I did not find but was certain, that he must e a Muslim, a descendent of one of those people, beacuse of whome, my family had to leave their home. I decided not to carry our conversation further with this low caste taxi driver from my enemy country.

Soon, we reached our destination. The meter was about thrity US dollars. I took out three ten dollar bills to hand over to the driver and was determined on my mind that I will not give any tip to this Pakistani. The taxi driver politely refused to take the money. "You are from my native place, I will not charge any money from you.". I insisted that he must take the money but soon realized that he sees me as one his village brothers and I will be insulting his feelings if I push any more to pay the fare to him. I changed my tact and asked him that I acknowledge his brotherly love towards me but thirty US dollars is a lot of money for him, he should at least take $20. He refused and left.

I was standing there looking at my sons to see if the boys have found out how racist their father had been thinking and how stupid the previous generation always is. I still do not know it to this day. Although both have them have grown up and are working now, I dare not ask them. To my shame, my wife knows what exactly my feelings were towards that taxi driver in the begining.

On return to Australia, I found that there are a large number of young Pommys (an Australian slang from British people) who come to Australia in search of work. These young boys and girls belong to a newer generation than me. They are a newer generation than the Britishers who had left India. It is a delight to meet these people. Most of them feel much more at home with Indian food than with Australians. I am told that if you grow up in London, you are bound to grow up on Indian currys and culture.

I look back at the time when I was told not to play with Rosemary and sometimes want to go to my father and accuse him of being a rasicst. I hold my horses. My father was only protecting me from diluting my culture in his own way. Apart from prohibiting me from playing with Rosemary, he also imbibed in me many virtues of human values. It is those virtues which have given me the understanding and courage to go beyond petty racism and truely understand the meaning of "The whole world is one family"

Story written by : Surinder Jain, Sydney, Australia (all rights reserved)

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