I am Indian (Part 2)

We have lived in Australia for nearly 21 years and people very often ask “Where are you from?” In years past, when I wore western style clothes and before I embraced my Indian identity they used to try and speculate, but nobody ever guessed - Eurasian. In those early days they often thought I was Spanish or South American. Most people reacted with surprise when I would laugh and say that I was from Singapore, and then explain my Portuguese/Asian heritage. They often saw my Asian-ness only after that, which I bemusedly found a little perplexing. While my Portuguese forefathers gave me my surname and baptized me with soul cleansing waters at the font, it was my Asian foremothers who gave me the beginnings of my appreciation for Asian culture, food, art and the quiet soul cleansing properties of burning incense. Thank you mama.

My beautiful grandmother, Winifred Pereira only had a limited primary school education. Yet she taught me more than many of the highly educated women that have come and gone from my life, since she sadly stared deeply into my eyes and quietly breathed her last that heartrending day in September, the year I turned 12. I admired her with every ounce of my being even though I know she was no saint and many would probably remember the imprudent things she did and said. But, are there any among us who are without our faults and failings?

Mama’s energy and ability to make the most of what little she had was astounding. Nothing was ever too difficult for her to achieve once she set her mind to it. And most of all, I loved that she knew no boundaries or class restrictions when it came to race, religion or the kinds of work people engaged in – she held close to her heart a quirky anthology of friends which perhaps one of these days I will dedicate an entire blog entry to. While many Eurasians preferred to embrace their European heritage, even though mama spoke mainly Portuguese and English with all her family and Eurasian friends, she was very much an Asian woman who spoke Malay and what must have been a smattering of fluent Indian and Chinese dialects to everyone else. I always felt when I was with her that she had an Indian soul and that she was unconsciously very proud of it. Remember from Part 1 … I wanted to be Indian.

Well, these days everyone believes I am Indian. Anyone who meets me for the first time automatically assumes that and after exchanging a few pleasantries and looking me over with smiles of amusement – I am guessing this comes from the ‘ethnic’ clothing and sarees that I always wear now, they will indefinitely ask, much to my enjoyment “Where in India are you from?”

This re-phrasing of the question actually began in 2004 – in India, would you believe? Not immediately, of course. In the first week or so, my now Indian brethren just stared, smiled and saw instantly that I was a mere tourist. After seeing His Holiness the Dalai Lama, I found quite suddenly a strange peaceful yet confusing awakening within my heart and mind as we made the long journey from Dharamsala back to Delhi. The locals from about the time we arrived in Delhi and then on our way to Rajasthan must have noticed it too, for they began to wag their heads with a new kind of acknowledged acceptance when they looked into my eyes and smiled. It happened almost overnight and without warning, suddenly they stared and recognised me as one of their own. “Madam you are Indian?” “Sir – madam is from India, nah? Punjab? Goa?” Alan and I would then tell them I was not Indian and that we were born in Singapore. I cannot begin to describe the looks of sheer disappointment, disbelief and almost distrust that would wash over their faces slowing their smiling wagging heads to a grinding disillusioned stop. They would then begin wagging their heads again while they discussed among themselves the incongruity of our answers.

Meanwhile, I would continue to stare out of the windows of our air conditioned 4 wheel drive as we drove through Rajasthan in pampered comfort. Massive billboards of Veer-Zaara, a Diwali movie release appeared at regular intersections. Starring in it was a beautiful Punjabi woman with a nose ring to die for, and that man with the eyes and the 3 part name that I had seen on Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham. My very dear friend in Perth, Agnes had lent me a copy of the movie on VCD and it had been my introduction to modern Bollywood – nearly 4 hours of escapism - singing, dancing, crying and unadulterated candy floss. Thank you Agnes - it was the beginning of a whole new world for me.

I began to wonder what Veer-Zaara was like. The movie posters appeared to have saturated the entire country and it seemed to us that the movie had the viewing masses in a terribly excited frenzy. And that man with the three part name – why was he on so many of the advertisement billboards? Pepsi, Tag Heuer, Airtel, Hyundai, Compac, ICICI Bank, some dandruff shampoo and nava-something hair oil – could they not acquire the talents of anyone else to advertise? What did I hear them call him … Baadshah. ‘Means King madam, he is King of Bollywood.’

Okay, he seemed pretty ordinary to me – but such expressive eyes, I'd give him that. Well damn, before I knew what hit me, he had me totally sucked in, didn't he? I was actively seeking those eyes out above all the dust and smells of the destitution we encountered and were trying so desperately to comprehend. He is their King. They have elevated him onto those tall billboards, to rule over all of India. Shah Rukh Khan.

And so the eyes followed me as I bought Indian clothing and began my physical makeover. They pleaded with me to look at the hawkers and vendors in the street and to try and understand how difficult and tiring it was for them to earn their 50 rupees. ($1.50) These people were like Alan and I … trying to feed their children, trying to give them an education. But unlike us, they lived in slums or along the railways in make-shift tin shacks with no running water, the railway tracks for toilets and the busy crowded road a metre from their front door - the dusty and dangerous play area of their numerous smiling children. These men and women would never go on a holiday overseas. They had already grown old before their time. They would feel like they had won the lottery, if they ever even managed that once in a life-time long crowded bus-trip to Agra to see the Taj Mahal.

The eyes watched from the sides of buildings as I grew instantly comfortable wearing beautiful shawls to cover my head before I went into a temple or a mosque. As I removed my shoes and walked bare-soled into my emotional conversion, they smiled at me from the side of drink-carts or the odd rubbish bin. A whole new way of thinking, of feeling, of devotion, of believing began for me. I was asking difficult questions and finding the answers uncomplicated and reassuring.

And so I typed my almost daily emails to Donny and Nadia, to the girls at the office. And the eyes, cheeky on the Airtel ad plastered on the glass pane next to me dared me to tell everyone - I was falling in love with India. That I had become what I always wanted to be. I was already wearing my now trademark miniature Buddha painting on a silver chain around my neck, dressing in Indian clothes with a Tibetan mala blessed by His Holiness the Dalai Lama, wrapped around my wrist. All I had to do was start drinking Mr Khan's Pepsi and saying with confidence and a wag of my head, to the hotel staff at our next destination, when asked the question ...

Haa, mei Hindustani hu. (Yes, I am Indian)

Next stop, Mumbai.