Being proudly Indian
I have always been very proud of being
an Indian to the core. Despite a lifetime in the Far East, my father, a proud
media man in the INA (Indian National Army of Subhas Chandra Bose), never gave
up his Indian passport. In college, I even won a Femina Best Letter award for a
letter in which I wrote that I felt truly Indian because few people recognized
me as a Sindhi. Most took me for Punjabi, Maharashtrian, Bengali, even Muslim,
depending on the clothes I was wearing when I met them.
Then I became even more Indian: a Sindhi
married a Punjabi, children born
and bred in Gujarat, a Sindhi-Parsi son
in law, a Sindhi-Gujarati daughter in law and another Kashmiri. Sara
Hindustan Hamara!!
I was born in Singapore and brought up
in Jakarta, Indonesia. That made for an
Overseas Indian mentality which looks back at India with a romantic attitude,
enhanced memories of a happy childhood and detailed ones of India’s
drawbacks. Fortunately I returned to
India at age 13, an impressionable pre-teen and proceeded to fall in love with
India and absorb her astonishing values and variety.
The reason for the early return to
India was my father contracting Parkinson’s and being advised to return home.
Before coming back, my father took my mother on an extended Far East tour to
meet her brothers at Phom Penh, Saigon, Manila, Hong Kong and Japan; also
obviously the hope of finding some cure for his then little-known ailment.
My three sisters and I set off for
Bombay from Singapore in a liner. One the first day in the Indian dining room,
the waiters piled our plates with rice and topped it with dal, vegetables and
curd quite indiscriminately. We turned up our noses and declared haughtily,
“This is not how food should be served.” Before we reached his table, the
Captain had been apprised of our complaint. Thenceforth, we supped at the
Captain’s table and partook of excellent meals served in all the style that
bespeaks A Captain’s Table.
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