2 States
WARNING: Super long post, brace yourself. Take a break in between, if you want. On a roll because of those 3000+ worded term papers. Could have split it, but I didn't want to.
You
know that existential question a lot of people seem to feel they need to explore,
perhaps in their 20s? The “Who Am I?” question. Well, another basic question
that is quite closely connected to it is the “Where am I from?” question. And
this one is supposed to be particularly easy to answer, at least when compared
to the bigger, overarching question. How tough can it be, right?
Tough
as hell. Because some days I feel like I know who I am, but not where I’m from.
And you know, compared to some people, I’m not even quarter-way as complex. During
the course of reading what I’ve written, you’ll probably feel like I’m making a
big deal out of nothing. When I attended the Jaipur Literature Festival in
2012, I attended a session with internationally acclaimed authors who had to
talk of what ‘home’ was. Pico Iyer spoke of how he is of Indian origin, studied
in England and the US, and has been based in Japan while spending time in the US
every year. That’s a lot of different countries!
Luckily,
my identity isn’t inter-continental, as much as I’d wish for it to be. I
sometimes talk of treating my future kids as a sociological/cultural
anthropological experiment. You know, by having babies with different
citizenships while living all over the place. It’s only for fun that I say this,
because sometimes I have enough of a problem dealing with where I am from, in
the same country.
Anyway,
let’s try to figure out why I find this question deeply problematic and quite
funny, most of the time.
My
mother is Tamil, so is my father. They’re both Tamil Iyers – and as
stereotyping teaches us, like other communities, Tamil Iyers are a whole
different brand altogether, deserving memes that only we understand (read:
TamBrahm Rage). Also, the other day, I found a curious description of the movie
2 States in a newspaper – the boy is a Punjabi from Delhi (no reference to Religion
or Caste) and the girl is a Tamil Iyer from Chennai (Boom. They almost don’t
have to write Mylapore – stronghold of the Brahms in Chennai). Also, movie
characters tend to be specified as TamBrahm (Iyers or Iyengars or Youngers as
many seem to mispronounce the latter) – as if specifying caste is that
important or that Tamil people as a whole are either Youngers or Iyers.
Ma’s story:
Her
parents grew up in the South. My maternal grandmother grew up in Palakkad which
is on the Tamil Nadu/Kerala border and my maternal grandfather grew up in
Madurai. Grandma is also from Madurai, actually. All of my Ma’s siblings and
her were born in Madurai.
My
grandfather’s first job took him all the way to Shimla. So, my grandparents
spent some time there, then some in Delhi. They spent a considerable amount of
time in Bombay. My mom spent most of her life before getting married in Bombay –
except for 4 years spent in Tanjore. My Ma prefers referring to herself as a
Mumbaikar or Bombayite to this date, with much pride. She says that there was a
time when her sisters and she would even think in Marathi. Of course, studying
in Tanjore, learning a bit of Carnatic music, reading and writing Tamil kind of
helped in maintaining the Tamil identity.
Appa’s
story:
My
paternal grandmother grew up in Rangoon (Burma) for a bit and then her family
moved to Srirangam, near Trichy (due to the 2nd World War). My
paternal grandfather grew up in Trichy. Being a patriarchal (lineal?) society,
of course, when someone asks me where my ancestors are from or where in Tamil
Nadu we’re “from”, the answer is Trichy. Of course, the truth is that I have
probably visited Trichy less than half a dozen times in the 21 years of my
existence.
My
grandparents lived in Delhi after they got married. My father grew up to be a
Delhi-ite. Of course, he attended The Madrasi School or the Delhi Tamil
Education Association School. You met any Tamilian who grew up in Delhi in the
50s and 60s, there is a massive chance they attended DTEA.
Appa’s
first job took him to Chandigarh. Upon getting married, Ma joined him there.
And that was a whole different phase in both their lives. Not just because they
both grew up in big, fast-paced cities and Chandigarh was the anti-thesis of
that. It was the great big land of Punjab. My father spent 30 years there, my
mother 27 years.
As
one can see logically, my brother and I grew up in Chandigarh considering we
came into existence during our parents’ time there. Bhaiya was born in Bombay
and I was born in Madras (only because our maternal grandparents lived in those
cities). Neither of us have lived in our respective birth cities, only visited.
We
grew up with Punjabis all around us – people, food, the language. Bhaiya and I
were far too comfortable conversing with each other in Hindi. In fact, I
remember an awkward silence once when we spoke to each other in Tamil for a
total of 5 minutes. It felt too odd. I’d speak to my father mostly in Hindi,
and in Tamil mostly with Ma. We both studied to reading and writing Punjabi in
school. I’m not comfortable speaking Punjabi – I get too conscious and mess it
up.
I was
so comfortable with Punjabiyat that my parents believe I was born a Sardarni in
my previous life. As a one-year old, at a havan that my parents were
participating in, I wouldn’t stop crying no matter what anyone did. And
suddenly, my father’s friend and colleague, a tall Sardar with a turban and
huge, flowing beard turned up and I began smiling.
Of
course, interspersed with the Punjab quotient in my life were summers spent in
Madras. My thatha-paati (Ma’s parents) and my Chittis and Periamma lived in
Madras. Every summer vacation, Ma, Bhaiya and I took the GT/Tamil Nadu/Rajdhani
Express from Delhi to Madras. I think that was the only time of the year I
consciously would talk more in Tamil. I would have conversations with the lady
who sold flowers to us about my father’s travels. Sometimes when we would visit
my cousins in Pondicherry, I would bring gossip or ‘vambu’ from the neighbourhood.
When I was 8/9, my brother moved to Madras to study engineering. Summer
holidays meant visiting him as well. My cousin Archita and I have had
innumerable adventures and fights over those summers in Madras.
Madras
is indeed namma nalla Madras. Spencer’s Plaza. Bessie Beach. Maanga. Landmark
Bookstore (which I hear they’re apparently going to shut down). Grand Sweets.
Archita’s School. Malar Hospitals – where I was born. Fighting with auto walahs.
Never finding a 21L. The excitement of finally having a McDonald’s there.
Mylapore. Pondy Bazaar.
Anyway,
Chandigarh and my relationship with it probably deserves a post in itself. I
love that city to bits and pieces. Lake. Rose Garden. Rock Garden. Sector
17-19-22-34-33-11-7-everydamnedsector. School. Tuition. People – every single
one of them. Gol Chakkars. Gehris. Cycle Rikshaws.
When
I was 15, my parents and I moved to Delhi. I’m still in denial about it, in a
weird way. I’ve lived here 6 years and I cannot get myself to say that I am now
probably a semi-Delhiite (notice the ‘probably’ and the ‘semi’). Anytime my
parents talk of maybe selling the house in Mohali (a satellite town of
Chandigarh where we lived for about 5-6 years) and buying one in Delhi – I pounce
at them. It feels unacceptable. When someone asked me why I didn’t vote from
Delhi, I proudly say all my address proofs are Mohali/Punjab – I could have
perhaps found a way to get proof of living in Delhi, but like I said, I’m in
denial about it. While I have done quite some growing up in Delhi (ages 15-21),
I still say, “I grew up in Chandigarh”. I may be more settled into the groove
and the rhythm of Delhi – but I hate admitting that.
All
of this brings me to a question I have been asked more often in the time since
I joined JNU than before. And the reason it hits me most is because JNU is so
full of diversity and people who actually come here from the places they are
from.
“Where
are you from?”
I’m
originally Tamil. Well, at least my ancestors are from the land of the
Tamils. My mother and father tongue is Tamil. I’m comfortable conversing in
Tamil. But I cannot read or write it. I subscribe, consciously or unconsciously
to all those stereotypical characteristics of being TamBrahm – especially downing
filter coffee like a boss and being able to make good decoction (I have my own
Brass Coffee Filter which I intend to pass on to a son/daughter/niece/nephew
deserving of coffee legacy). I obviously have close relatives working in the
Yoo Yes – yes, in the software/computers field. We speak Tamglish (Tamil +
English). I LOVE thair-saadam. My only regrets (not) are that I didn’t learn
Carnatic Music (3 classes) or Bharatanatyam (Kathak, learnt thrice till the
first stage). I know it makes me not so eligible in the Tamil marriage market
but, I can make good vethakuzhambu. I have a funny, non traditional relationship with Maths – but I definitely had one. I drink Boost from time to
time, don’t like tea much and get judgey when I see people calling NesCafe
instant coffee as good enough coffee. No. It’s just flavoured milk.
I
grew up in Punjab i.e. Chandigarh. Our family friends were mostly Punjabi. I
can read and write the language. My heart gives a leap of joy whenever I spot
sardars or people talking in Punjabi (not in Delhi/Chandigarh but in places like Ann
Arbor, Michigan). I wouldn’t trade anything in the world for Verka – the Punjab
dairy co-op. Punjabi hospitality is the best. Once when we went to visit old
neighbours, we told each of them that we had already had dinner when we hadn’t –
and yet, we were super full once we finished meeting all of them.
I
love kadhi/rajma chawal, amritsari kulche as much as I love rasam chadam with
kovakkai curry. I love phulkari dupattas and patiala salwars as much as I love
kanjeevaram silk saarees. I feel most at home in Chandigarh. But hearing people
talk in Tamil makes me happy. Filter coffee made with Verka ka milk is the
best. I love our kalayanam saapadu, kasi yatrai as well as big fat Yash Raj type Punjabi weddings. Punjabi music beats as well as Tamil songs.
However,
like many urban Indian kids my age (unfortunately?), I’m most comfortable with
one language – English.
But
the question remains - would I fit in either state? Like, could I call either
one place the place I’m from? My
friend once coined the term Tamjabi for me. Or should I chuck both of them and
say I’m from … *gasp*, Delhi!
Except,
whenever I’ve been asked where I’m from in JNU, I reply with, “I’m Tamil but I
grew up in Chandigarh and then Delhi.” And I feel like that’s reductionism. But
there isn’t enough time to discuss and explain to people how I really feel.
Maybe I should just nod when they ask me if I’m Bengali – you know, because of those
big eyes I have.
Cultural
diversity should be a plus. But when it’s half and half, sometimes it feels
like you don’t belong to either completely; and that messes with my head.
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