{"id":228,"date":"2023-07-22T20:50:15","date_gmt":"2023-07-22T20:50:15","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/sinhainstitute.com\/blog\/?p=228"},"modified":"2023-07-22T20:50:15","modified_gmt":"2023-07-22T20:50:15","slug":"part-22-and-mary-ann","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/sinhainstitute.com\/blog\/?p=228","title":{"rendered":"Part 22: And Mary Ann"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

\u201cRocket gadi<\/em> (car), rocket gadi<\/em>!\u201d children in my neighborhood one day shouted to reach the road to see a new car. It was a glossy, sky blue sedan \u2013 grand in appearance and longer in size than the usual sedans we saw on the road. The high and bright rear red lights stood out. The design gave it a striking look. Inside was a handsome western man in gold rimmed glasses and dark blue striped shirt. He was smoking a pipe. His face and neck were bronze-red in color \u2013 not the usual white that you would see in the regular Caucasian people. There was graciousness in his look. Though the youngsters tried to dignify the automobile by comparing it to a rocket you won\u2019t really blame them for their ignorance. Because none had seen a rocket in his life except that he knew that it was an engineering marvel. Somehow, the shape and the extravagant look of the car suited their imagination. And the kids followed it as far as they could. The car, however, left the running kids behind in cloud of dust. And it vanished soon after. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The uniqueness of the car made us believe that it must be an American car. We felt \u2018smart\u2019 enough to know that no one else could have manufactured such a marvelous machine. And though the passenger was American his bronze-red skin color convinced us that he could not be of European origin. We theorized that this man must be the real American: a \u2018Red Indian\u2019. Who else inside an American car would be smoking a pipe? Because we knew that pipe smoking originally came from the Red Indians. We sympathized with that \u2018Red Indian\u2019 man. We were also taught that a European navigator named Columbus sailed from Genoa to find an alternate route to India. But he arrived in a new land that he mistook as India. So he called its inhabitants Indians. But the new land was really America.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I forgot that story of the nice car and its \u2018bronze-red\u2019 passenger soon after. And it remained buried in my memory when I made it to America many years later.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And now many of my colleagues and friends are regular Americans \u2013 mostly white in skin tone but also black, brown, yellow and many in between. We marvel at America as the melting pot of the world, except when racism pops its head up during brutality against blacks and immigrants or international terrorism or financial crises that affect this land in regular succession. But the memory of the car still remained hidden in me as I fought for everyday survival to reach the semblance of the mythical American dream. Till one day I traveled to my \u2018old India\u2019 as an American tourist – rather as an \u2018American Indian\u2019 tourist.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The group I was traveling with stayed in a lodge in front of a huge gray white granite rock in the Aravalli hills in Rajasthan. The lodge, a beauty of the middle age Indian architecture, belonged to the family of Maharaja of Jaipur. And though old it bore the elegance of its royal owner. The Maharaja\u2019s family stayed here when they came out for hunting excursions in the countryside. From my room, behind an expansive open roof, I could see the statue of a white elephant perched on the top of the high rock. Blooming bougainvillea on all corners of the charming residence created a memorable ambiance. As I looked around with my camera in hand to take some pictures of the surroundings my Canadian neighbors John and Mary Ann came out of their room nearby. They both appeared fresh and happy. As they looked around from this second floor roof in the afternoon shade I could tell that Mary Ann had finished her shower. She sat on the sofa set at a corner of the roof. She softly brushed the handle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis is the kind of residence my family would be living in my childhood,\u201d Mary Ann longingly said as she tried to strike a conversation with me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow nice!\u201d I stayed short.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I did not want her to know that I would not have had an opportunity to enter into such a residence ever had I not migrated to America.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI lived like this for the first eight years of life,\u201d she mentioned. \u201cYou know I was born in India?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo kidding?\u201d my surprised American vocabulary popped out spontaneously.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mary Ann softly looked down. She was serious.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBorn in India?\u201d I could not stay silent. \u201cWhere in?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBombay,\u201d she said softly. \u201cI learned to speak Hindustani before I even learned to speak English.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhoa,\u201d I exclaimed. I realized a real history was unfolding in front of me. \u201cI would have never thought that I would meet someone like you in India.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And I waited for more.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mary Ann\u2019s parents belonged to the last batch of British administrators and technocrats who arrived in India to serve the queen in those waning days of the Empire. Her father, a Scotsman was an engineer for the imperial army. And her British mother was one of the many secretaries that Lord Mountbatten had in many of his regional offices.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe was a man of a lady,\u201d Mary Ann was fond of her mother. \u201cTall and handsome she would go out hunting on high boots riding her horses.\u201d She took a breather. \u201cShe was also a MI-6 agent.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was absorbed in her story.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhen India was given independence my parents were still working for the new Indian government,\u201d she continued. \u201cBut like other British folks at that time they remained undecided about what they would do next: move back to England or go to Australia; or what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDifficult choices,\u201d I chimed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI was born after India was given independence,\u201d she continued. \u201cI was eight years old when my parents decided to move back to London.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNice,\u201d I might have been a little too quick to point that out to her. \u201cSo you are an Indian by birth.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell,\u201d she slowly moved her head back and forth, looking down with a conflicted smile on her face. \u201cYes, you can say that\u201d.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mary Ann appeared to be apprehensive of that prospect.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy family felt insecure in India,\u201d She said. \u201cThere were signs of intolerance against the British bureaucrats. And so my parents left India.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She paused.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cInteresting,\u201d I gently replied. \u201cAnd my family came to India for safety. We became refugees here.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I realized that we both were the victims of greater geo-politics of that period. India did indeed gain independence from British colonialism. But it was partitioned into two different countries. And the fallout from the partition changed so many of our lives forever.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut my family could not stay in England for very long,\u201d Mary Ann said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIn Ottawa,\u201d she said. \u201cMy father became a Canadian civil engineer working for the federal government.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mary Ann and John belonged to the group of visitors with which I traveled to India. Most of the group was from Europe, North America and Australia. Except for me, an Indian American, others were all Caucasians. Now living in Ottawa, Mary Ann decided to travel to India, where she was born after India gained independence from Britain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes,\u201d she repeated absorbingly. \u201cWe left for England when I was eight years old; lived there for two years and then moved to Canada with my family.\u201d She paused a bit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She could not finish her story when our tour director rushed in looking for us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHere you are,\u201d Mr. Tripathi feigned surprise. \u201cWe have a meeting for our next trip. How many of you would like to join the leopard watch party tomorrow morning.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We went to see the leopard early the next morning in an open Jeep. These are the animals that the Maharaja and his royal guests hunted in the Aravalli hills. Distant hillocks covered the vast expanse and the main mountain range was visible not far away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The distant sharp peaks in the Aravalli hills made me remember that I might have seen such peaks somewhere else, in America. And yes, it was in the south-west USA: the peaks of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. I went there to visit the ancient pueblos in the Native Indian reservation. Apache and Navajo Indians lived there from prehistoric periods. Europeans colonized the land and called the inhabitants Indians. That moniker still remains. In the reservation we moved from one house to the next. Poor inhabitants sold traditional silver and jade ornaments, clay pots and strands of dry lavender stalks that they burned to ward off mosquitos. And they all wanted to talk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI am Tony,\u201d one shopkeeper introduced himself to me. \u201cWhere are you from?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI am coming from San Jose,\u201d I answered. \u201cIt\u2019s near San Francisco in California.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But in the USA if you are not of Caucasian origin then the \u2018where\u2019 in the question always subtly demands another answer: \u201cWhich country have you originally come from?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBefore that I came from India,\u201d I told Tony before he could ask me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou know you are from that India for which the European colonists arrived here and colonized our land,\u201d he smiled ruefully. \u201cYou are the real Indian.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd you know what,\u201d I wanted to dignify him. \u201cYou are the real American.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Tony remained silent. There was pain in his look. He must have heard such answers many times before.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo you have a real American name?\u201d I asked Tony.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes,\u201d he said. \u201cEagle Blue fox.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cEagle, Blue, fox,\u201d I repeated the words softly. \u201cBut those are European words \u2013 eagle and blue and fox,\u201d I demanded more. \u201cWhat is the name in your native language?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Tony gave me his name in his native language. But I could not understand it and that sounded very different.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWould you write it for me?\u201d I was about to ask for paper and pen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy people use only spoken words,\u201d he said, \u201cbut not written. The young people in the tribe are in the process of creating an alphabet.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We spent hours going from one stall to the other. The sellers did not appear to be healthy. Many looked amputated. I learned that a very high percentage of the native population suffers from diabetes, a result of moving away from their traditional plant based diet to the cheap European fast food.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At the end of the day we went out to dinner in an upscale native restaurant in the reservation. It was run by native people and the restaurant served pre-colonial Native American food. The young server explained about the authentic tribal food that we were served.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis is pre-contact diet,\u201d the server explained. \u201cOur people were expert agriculturist\u201d.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s pre-contact?\u201d I was amazed by the explanation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s before the Spanish colonists arrived in our land,\u201d he said. \u201cThey brought European foods and changed our native Indian diet.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThank you,\u201d I expressed my gratitude to the ancient people. \u201cYou know I am from another India.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI know,\u201d he was quick. \u201cMy father is from India.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d I was loud. And I was surprised. \u201cWhere are you from?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cKarachi, Pakistan\u201d he smiled. \u201cMy name is Ibrahim.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I learned that Ibrahim arrived in New Mexico as a student. And to earn an extra income he works in the restaurant. His look and skin color matched very elegantly with the native people here. His father was born and grew up near Delhi before he migrated to Pakistan after the partition of the Indian subcontinent. Ibrahim still thinks that his father is Indian. But a young man from the Indian sub-continent serving and explaining Native American food in America?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was then that I remembered the visitor in my childhood. He was driven in a shiny sky blue car with rather elongated front and rear lights. His skin was bronze red. And we children theorized that he was the \u2018Red Indian\u2019 from America – the real American. But during my trip to the pueblos I realized that my childhood visitor could never have come from these Native American people. These people were too poor, too malnourished and diseased. Their skin tone was faded brown, rather chalky. They looked older than their biological age. Their shape and image stripped away my long held imagination of the true \u2018Red Indians\u2019 of America. And the natives didn\u2019t have enough educated youths to serve the rich non-native clients in an uber-modern restaurant in the reservation. So they had to hire a South Asian student to serve and explain the pre-colonial native food and agriculture. I woke up to a new reality.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As our trip in India was nearing its end, one morning I was sitting alone at the breakfast table in Jaipur. Most of the clients in the restaurant were of Caucasian origin from the West and Australia and New Zealand. The server brought the toast and omelet to my table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSir,\u201d he softly asked me, \u201cYou are Indian. No?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes,\u201d I looked up at him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFrom America?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI guessed correctly,\u201d He seemed happy to have his countryman in America. \u201cNot many Indian people here can afford to come to this restaurant.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh.\u201d I was not sure how to respond.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was like in the restaurant in the Native American reservation, where the native people could not afford to dine. I felt emptiness in me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cVery nice to meet you Sir,\u201d he smiled and promptly left for his manager\u2019s call.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Before we said goodbye to each other, Mary Ann and John informed me that they would come back to India again, \u201cTo visit the south of the country.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cKerala,\u201d she said with some emotion in her voice. \u201cI have not seen this country where I was born.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I smiled at her, \u201cNeither have I.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mary Ann must have grown soft for this land over time. As people grow old, they seem to mellow from many mental restrictions that afflict them in their midlife struggles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I looked at the distant Aravalli peaks. I did not feel about the Sangre de Cristo Mountains in the same way when I visited the pueblos in America. I just visited them then. Saw what I could through my naked physical eyes. Over time I realized that the American visitor in that shiny sky blue sedan in my childhood must have been a European American who got his bronze-red skin color from the \u2018tan\u2019 he had in the Indian sun. And I learned that the \u2018rocket car\u2019 he was driving was a vintage Cadillac from the 1950s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now I am an American citizen. In the race profile of this country I am an \u2018Indian American\u2019. And Tony, my shopkeeper friend in that Native American pueblo is an \u2018American Indian\u2019. Look at how we order our past and present nationalities to identify us. My travel director Mr. Tripathi is an Indian, I mean an \u2018Indian Indian\u2019. And Ibrahim\u2019s father in Karachi must be called an \u2018Indian Pakistani\u2019. These are our identities – insignias that we are stamped with in the travesties of where we ended up living. The waiter at the breakfast table staring at me, who I know knows me – the \u2018Indian American\u2019 – more than he knows the White European Americans, is also an Indian. And so are his coworkers. And Mary Ann too.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cRocket gadi (car), rocket gadi!\u201d children in my neighborhood one day shouted to reach the road to see a new car. It was a glossy, sky blue sedan \u2013 grand in appearance and longer in size than the usual sedans … Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[1],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/sinhainstitute.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/228"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/sinhainstitute.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/sinhainstitute.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/sinhainstitute.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/sinhainstitute.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=228"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"http:\/\/sinhainstitute.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/228\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":230,"href":"http:\/\/sinhainstitute.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/228\/revisions\/230"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/sinhainstitute.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=228"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/sinhainstitute.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=228"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/sinhainstitute.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=228"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}