Indian Independence (?)
It was with a mix of dread and curiosity that I took my partner and his mother to the hitherto unknown location of Macgregor. Having nothing but a computer printed notice outside our local Indian spices shop as a guide, I drove and parked by a primary school last Saturday evening, hoping this would be a good, entertaining distraction for all three of us from the mind-numbing misery we've been going through lately.
Oh, it was entertaining, alright.
First off, it was odd enough that there was a celebration of India's Independence Day ( 15th August ) happening right in the heart of Brisbane suburbia. And that too, in freezing mid-winter, which to my pop-culture addled brain is more synonymous with Enid Blytonised meals of scones and hot chocolate, than the spicy channa bathura and samosas on sale in the canteen next to the school hall ( yes, VERY primary school ).
But more than that, it was strange to see so many Indians ( mainly North Indians ) streaming into the non-descript hall decked in their most expensive finery, bizarrely upgrading the social occasion by a few notches. Mami ( my partner's mum ) and I giggled at our smart casual, wise for weather but totally out of place attire, while Ram found some of the nubile pretty young things looking like Bollywood item numbers just downright scary. And I can almost see why. With straightened locks, expensive, colourful silk and brocade, drowned in costume jewellery and even more make-up if that were possible, these butterflies were fully aware of the real purpose of this gathering - to see and be seen. And hopefully to beguile the local hearthrob enough to merit a clandestine, shy "Can I get you some tea?".
Needless to say, despite being invisible in terms of fashion, we were nonetheless a little too noticed as well, being unknown strangers ( and Indian, at that. There were an Aussie couple seated to the back who blinked and stared at everything, poised to dart out if anything got too threatening. They were of course treated to delighted smiles and occasional courteous enquiries. None came our way. ) To Mami's comments that we were being checked out, and with suspicion, I reassured that she had only to mention that she was from India (*gasp*! The Motherland! ) to have half the so-called socialites fawning over her.
The show started. A set of boring speeches, a singing session with a live band ( complete with semi-celebrity turbaned singer proudly touted as a Melbourne import ), followed by a slew of dance performances and sketches - one of the real reasons for this gathering. Like every good diaspora Indian, I settled in during the introductory speech for the standard "We are Indians and we should be proud of it" tongue-wag, repeated oftentimes during that week, I'm sure, in all the various Independence Day celebrations in every little hall in the suburbs of London, Boston, Johannesburg, and more.
But this time, something rankled. Perhpas it was the presence of the Aussie couple. Perhaps I've been here too long, and more importantly, too deep. There seemed something amiss in this unabashed lauding of Indians doing well in the Western sphere, in the Western fields of science, business and technology, alongside Westerners. Like we've proven something for the rest of the world. Without knowing why, I closed my eyes and waited for the cliched reference to Hotmail's Sabeer Bhatia, and cringed when it came.
To me, the picture isn't right when all the luminaries reverently listed in one of the officials' speeches are all men, and acknowledged by head nods from an audience that were more than half women - but as daughters, wives, mothers, grandmothers. I failed to see a single woman who possessed the confidence and bearing of an independent individual. The bearing borne by the men ( yes, even the hearthrobs ) like a birthright.
To me, the picture isn't right when the Master of Ceremonies smoothly welcomes the audience to a night of celebrating the rich, ancient culture of India - which to this minority community evidently means NRI messiah Karan Johar's sappy film songs and a Shubha Mudgal hip-gyrating frenzy passed off as a Rajasthani folk dance.
But most of all, to me the picture is definitely askew when there are hundreds of Indians residing in Brisbane to make a living, but calling another country their home - and meaning it enough to feel patriotic about the overthrowing of the British in India more than 50 years ago. And proudly declaring on a podium that despite staying in Western civilisation, we Indians have maintained our Eastern values ( which apparently the West is in dearth of, while we happily cherish the trading of virginal brides for hefty dowry in 21st century Australia - calling it an 'arranged marriage' and making it the most lavish occasion in our lives ).
It makes me wonder; at the profiles of accused terrorists gracing our television screens in prime time, at the atrocius crimes they're supposed to have committed in New York and now London, John Howard's apocalyptical announcements that we ( the Aussies ) are next, at the British government's panicky call for the end of multiculturism and the need for immigrant integration.
True, this gathering isn't close to the reported jihad discussions held in suburbian madrasahs in the West, nor is there open denunciation of the West as morally bankrupt. Yet the similarities are chilling - a close knit group that steadfastly holds on to values outdated even in it's place of origin, a stubborn refusal to acknowledge inner loyalty to the temporal home, a sense of false pride and achievement at not being flexible with social mores in keeping with the times, confusing it with culture and personal identity.
I was trying to squeeze my way out of the ladies' room, unintentionally overhearing gossip about so and so's son who actually tried to (*gasp*, oh horror ) hold so and so's daughter's hand when she went by herself to the canteen - (such audacity! *swoon*) - when I suddenly revisited Malaysia, the land of my birth. Brainwashed as much as every minority community about my 'Indianness', I was nevertheless always taught to call myself Malaysian. At the most, Malaysian-Indian - but even that is only a recent development, adopted in this hyphen-loving-politically correct-multiculturist-post-modern-Western-world. The Malaysian government's stance, right from it's own independence, was that of the integration of all the various races already living there. I'm yet to decide whether it was a successful idea, but I do know that I'm as knowledgable about Christmas and Chinese New Year and Hari Raya ( Ramadhan and Eid ) as my Malaysian pals know about Diwali. I do know that my best friends there were Muslim, and that I dragged my Chinese friends to Bollywood movies in vain attempts at conversion, and had a brief but intense crush on Leong Lai Meng like every self-respecting Cantonese chick. In college, I ensured my Muslim roommates woke up in time for their morning prayer, while they clamoured for translations of various Indian sweets. I know I sound guilty of the same thing I'm critiquing the Indian community here of - harking back with nostalgia to a land long left - but I humbly maintain there's a difference. All the cross-cultural shenanigans of my Malaysian youth happened without self-consciousness, without a sense of the purposeful nobility I witness on both sides of the Aussie-immigrant interaction. We weren't loftily striving for a Utopia of cross-cultural understanding, virtuously building bridges as a symbol of the possibility of global peace. We were just being kids making friends.
After the performances ended, an interval was announced - of sorts. A regular feature of these gatherings, this was the time all the chairs were set aside, to make way for the other real reason of the night - late night partying by and for the young 'uns, Indian DJ and all, while the parents discreetly exit, pretending that the dancing session is all about...just that. That their innocent little girls ( and more importantly, innocent little boys )
will come home a trifle late but wholly unscathed.
Not wanting to subject ultra-conservative Mami to this, we made the move to leave, just as the Master of Ceremonies announced the interval. As I did so, I spotted an Indian wife seated by her husband a little far back. She was the embodiment of the chaotic, garish contradiction the Indians glorify - wearing a saree of the smoothest silk, of an ivory-cream shade finely embroidered with turquoise tulips - along with a pair of white K-Martish sneakers, while an unadorned woollen cardigan covered most of her torso. Blatantly flaunting the rules of no food or drinks in the hall, she was munching on home-brought biscuits, and sipping hot chai from a home-brought flask.
I smiled to myself as we left, thinking that some things never change. But I also stopped myself - for I think, in the current climate we find ourselves in, it's about time some things did.
Oh, it was entertaining, alright.
First off, it was odd enough that there was a celebration of India's Independence Day ( 15th August ) happening right in the heart of Brisbane suburbia. And that too, in freezing mid-winter, which to my pop-culture addled brain is more synonymous with Enid Blytonised meals of scones and hot chocolate, than the spicy channa bathura and samosas on sale in the canteen next to the school hall ( yes, VERY primary school ).
But more than that, it was strange to see so many Indians ( mainly North Indians ) streaming into the non-descript hall decked in their most expensive finery, bizarrely upgrading the social occasion by a few notches. Mami ( my partner's mum ) and I giggled at our smart casual, wise for weather but totally out of place attire, while Ram found some of the nubile pretty young things looking like Bollywood item numbers just downright scary. And I can almost see why. With straightened locks, expensive, colourful silk and brocade, drowned in costume jewellery and even more make-up if that were possible, these butterflies were fully aware of the real purpose of this gathering - to see and be seen. And hopefully to beguile the local hearthrob enough to merit a clandestine, shy "Can I get you some tea?".
Needless to say, despite being invisible in terms of fashion, we were nonetheless a little too noticed as well, being unknown strangers ( and Indian, at that. There were an Aussie couple seated to the back who blinked and stared at everything, poised to dart out if anything got too threatening. They were of course treated to delighted smiles and occasional courteous enquiries. None came our way. ) To Mami's comments that we were being checked out, and with suspicion, I reassured that she had only to mention that she was from India (*gasp*! The Motherland! ) to have half the so-called socialites fawning over her.
The show started. A set of boring speeches, a singing session with a live band ( complete with semi-celebrity turbaned singer proudly touted as a Melbourne import ), followed by a slew of dance performances and sketches - one of the real reasons for this gathering. Like every good diaspora Indian, I settled in during the introductory speech for the standard "We are Indians and we should be proud of it" tongue-wag, repeated oftentimes during that week, I'm sure, in all the various Independence Day celebrations in every little hall in the suburbs of London, Boston, Johannesburg, and more.
But this time, something rankled. Perhpas it was the presence of the Aussie couple. Perhaps I've been here too long, and more importantly, too deep. There seemed something amiss in this unabashed lauding of Indians doing well in the Western sphere, in the Western fields of science, business and technology, alongside Westerners. Like we've proven something for the rest of the world. Without knowing why, I closed my eyes and waited for the cliched reference to Hotmail's Sabeer Bhatia, and cringed when it came.
To me, the picture isn't right when all the luminaries reverently listed in one of the officials' speeches are all men, and acknowledged by head nods from an audience that were more than half women - but as daughters, wives, mothers, grandmothers. I failed to see a single woman who possessed the confidence and bearing of an independent individual. The bearing borne by the men ( yes, even the hearthrobs ) like a birthright.
To me, the picture isn't right when the Master of Ceremonies smoothly welcomes the audience to a night of celebrating the rich, ancient culture of India - which to this minority community evidently means NRI messiah Karan Johar's sappy film songs and a Shubha Mudgal hip-gyrating frenzy passed off as a Rajasthani folk dance.
But most of all, to me the picture is definitely askew when there are hundreds of Indians residing in Brisbane to make a living, but calling another country their home - and meaning it enough to feel patriotic about the overthrowing of the British in India more than 50 years ago. And proudly declaring on a podium that despite staying in Western civilisation, we Indians have maintained our Eastern values ( which apparently the West is in dearth of, while we happily cherish the trading of virginal brides for hefty dowry in 21st century Australia - calling it an 'arranged marriage' and making it the most lavish occasion in our lives ).
It makes me wonder; at the profiles of accused terrorists gracing our television screens in prime time, at the atrocius crimes they're supposed to have committed in New York and now London, John Howard's apocalyptical announcements that we ( the Aussies ) are next, at the British government's panicky call for the end of multiculturism and the need for immigrant integration.
True, this gathering isn't close to the reported jihad discussions held in suburbian madrasahs in the West, nor is there open denunciation of the West as morally bankrupt. Yet the similarities are chilling - a close knit group that steadfastly holds on to values outdated even in it's place of origin, a stubborn refusal to acknowledge inner loyalty to the temporal home, a sense of false pride and achievement at not being flexible with social mores in keeping with the times, confusing it with culture and personal identity.
I was trying to squeeze my way out of the ladies' room, unintentionally overhearing gossip about so and so's son who actually tried to (*gasp*, oh horror ) hold so and so's daughter's hand when she went by herself to the canteen - (such audacity! *swoon*) - when I suddenly revisited Malaysia, the land of my birth. Brainwashed as much as every minority community about my 'Indianness', I was nevertheless always taught to call myself Malaysian. At the most, Malaysian-Indian - but even that is only a recent development, adopted in this hyphen-loving-politically correct-multiculturist-post-modern-Western-world. The Malaysian government's stance, right from it's own independence, was that of the integration of all the various races already living there. I'm yet to decide whether it was a successful idea, but I do know that I'm as knowledgable about Christmas and Chinese New Year and Hari Raya ( Ramadhan and Eid ) as my Malaysian pals know about Diwali. I do know that my best friends there were Muslim, and that I dragged my Chinese friends to Bollywood movies in vain attempts at conversion, and had a brief but intense crush on Leong Lai Meng like every self-respecting Cantonese chick. In college, I ensured my Muslim roommates woke up in time for their morning prayer, while they clamoured for translations of various Indian sweets. I know I sound guilty of the same thing I'm critiquing the Indian community here of - harking back with nostalgia to a land long left - but I humbly maintain there's a difference. All the cross-cultural shenanigans of my Malaysian youth happened without self-consciousness, without a sense of the purposeful nobility I witness on both sides of the Aussie-immigrant interaction. We weren't loftily striving for a Utopia of cross-cultural understanding, virtuously building bridges as a symbol of the possibility of global peace. We were just being kids making friends.
After the performances ended, an interval was announced - of sorts. A regular feature of these gatherings, this was the time all the chairs were set aside, to make way for the other real reason of the night - late night partying by and for the young 'uns, Indian DJ and all, while the parents discreetly exit, pretending that the dancing session is all about...just that. That their innocent little girls ( and more importantly, innocent little boys )
will come home a trifle late but wholly unscathed.
Not wanting to subject ultra-conservative Mami to this, we made the move to leave, just as the Master of Ceremonies announced the interval. As I did so, I spotted an Indian wife seated by her husband a little far back. She was the embodiment of the chaotic, garish contradiction the Indians glorify - wearing a saree of the smoothest silk, of an ivory-cream shade finely embroidered with turquoise tulips - along with a pair of white K-Martish sneakers, while an unadorned woollen cardigan covered most of her torso. Blatantly flaunting the rules of no food or drinks in the hall, she was munching on home-brought biscuits, and sipping hot chai from a home-brought flask.
I smiled to myself as we left, thinking that some things never change. But I also stopped myself - for I think, in the current climate we find ourselves in, it's about time some things did.
posted by Sreedhevi Iyer | 7:49 am
<< Home