You can take the Brits out of India….
I read an article by a German journalist a while ago wherein he wryly observed that you can tell if one country has truly conquered another when the subordinate country has embraced customs of the dominant country. He chose the enduring impact of England on India as an illustration and focused on the excessive consumption of tea on the sub continent. Imbibing a sweet milky chai is a national pastime and not altogether logical, given the climate. The Indians may have initially been forced to embrace this British convention but there are no current indications they wish to forsake it now. Morning and afternoon tea are sacrosanct in all castes and classes and I suspect Mumbai boasts more High Tea Parlours than London itself.
Cricket is a religion here and includes the burning of effigies of the players (and Coach Chappell – I think he was a wise man to resign) when the national team disappoints. During the World Cup, the men on campus spent hours pouring over newspapers and immersed in debates as they all sought to create the “Dream Team” and claim victory in a local newspaper competition. The Australian men were equally ridiculous about this and relished the opportunity to join with the local zealots and their passion for this sport. It is difficult to explain how much the culture of cricket permeates this nation. Everywhere in lanes and streets and every available space, children and men alike establish impromptu games of cricket that can last for hours in the heat of the day. Cricketers share an equal spotlight with the darlings of Bollywood in the well remunerated field of advertising. National matches, particularly those against Australia or Pakistan are painstakingly dissected and analysed for weeks after the event. There is a fabulous Nike add airing at the moment based on a spontaneous game of cricket played on the tops of buses in a typical Indian traffic jam. It is set to very funky music and makes for great viewing. I hope it airs internationally because it truly captures the passion the locals hold for this game.
Clubs and Gymkhanas are prevalent in all the major cities and you know you have made it when you are a member of a club. Not surprisingly, cricket tends to be the focus of most social clubs with large shady terraces overlooking lush ovals where the sons of wealthy families wile away their afternoons in semi-serious cricket matches. Spectators languidly lounge in large cane chairs sipping fresh lime sodas as the overhead fans gently assist with airflow. The Poona club boasts a large Billiard Hall where players are provided with drinks, nibbles and even a cue assistant / coach whose primary purpose seems to be to discreetly prod you with the bridge cue when it is required and then pretend it was your idea to use it all along. There are also tennis and badminton courts, a swimming pool and lounges reserved for playing Bridge. Waiting lists to join these clubs are very long and fees are exorbitant, particularly in view of the fact the décor is shabby chic in its best light. However being a ‘club member’ is worth every lahk and members do not seem to have noticed that their fees are not reflected in the facilities they enjoy.
The locals also have a passion for titles and leave the motherland for dead in the meticulous application of terms of respect. As we drive through the area of Camp where all the military barracks are situated, we are inundated with signage indicating the residences of Major Generals, Captains, Colonels etc…. our children’s tennis coach is Captain Sonny Jacobs owing to a previous career in the navy. Universities hand out titles very liberally to anyone with deep pockets and consequently every second man over fifty is Doctor something or other. I am Mrs McNamara, because Ms Conlan didn’t wash for one second with anyone here and despite my protests to the contrary, it was unanimously determined that I must be Mrs McNamara because I am married to Mr McNamara, Sir! Every post pubescent girl is referred to as a spinster, but that was no consolation to Sally who was smugly introduced to all staff of her first day of teaching as “Miss Sally Robertson, SPINSTER!” by a married member of staff. Mind you, our middle aged residential nurse is very proud of her spinsterhood and will correct anyone from the Principal down if they dare to address her as ‘Mrs’. “I’m Miss K” she declares with loud hostility echoing a famous Dick Emery skit.
There is also a paranoid awareness of heritage among the locals and you can cause a member of the middle class no greater offence than by referring to their parent as a manual laborer. Our students are constantly accusing each other of blue collar associations. Cameron was forced to suspend one of our Year 9s for bailing up a Year 7 in a closed room and proceeding to assault him. “He called my father a roti (flat bread) maker!” the aggrieved Year 9 declared. The Year 9 student’s mother was outraged. “People have killed for lesser insults!” she exclaimed to Cam, apparently implying that the Year 7 had got off lightly with a beating.
The notion of “Sparing the rod = spoiling the child” is still very much alive on the sub continent. I was at a gathering last week where a western teacher from another school was explaining that there appeared to be an epidemic of face slapping students among the dormitory matrons. One poor child with a stinging cheek had gone to see the school counsellor for some advice about mending the rift with his matron. Armed with new skills and strategies from the counsellor, he returned to the matron to provide a reasonable account of his actions and was slapped not once, but twice, for his efforts. We recently had a lovely, gentle Year 1 child join us even though his parents who have been here for several years are leaving the country in June. I said to Chris, “Surely it would have been less disruptive to leave him at his previous school.” “Not if the child’s teacher is in the habit of shaking 6 year olds!” Chris replied. There was an article in the newspaper last week about a man who is applying to have proceedings re-opened in relation to an assault he had incurred while at school several years earlier. He and some friends had been swimming in a tank one hot morning before school when they were approached by the deputy head master. The deputy only managed to collar one of the boys. He called the whole school to assembly and for three hours proceeded to parade the boy naked before the entire school and beat him at regular intervals. The boy was so traumatized by the experience, he dropped out of school. He tried to bring charges at the time but not one of the staff or students present for the three hour ordeal would testify. The only witness to come forward was the child’s best friend and his evidence was dismissed as biased and unreliable. The Deputy Head Master was promoted.
Ultimately the most British aspect of all that is British in India falls within the 3rd culture realm of expatriates residing in India. I hasten to add that I am referring only to certain expatriates residing here and the view I have formed is clearly prejudiced by my own experiences and observations. There is an international women’s group and generally speaking, ex pat women are either all for it or they find it a bit off. It is an uncomfortable feeling that is hard to put a finger on, but there is something about the way some of these women conduct themselves that is, well, wrong. The great thing about international social groups is that they provide a fabulous support base for the non working spouse in a foreign land. Such groups are a great source of networking and information for otherwise lonely, housebound (usually) women trying to make a life for themselves while their spouses gain unique professional experience. Because we came here in group and we all work at the school and reside some distance from town, we have not accessed this type of network vigorously. Indeed, we have found fraternizing at the races and the local pool resort provides us with more than enough opportunities to regularly meet and socialize with other ex pats. But I have to say I am very glad of the fact that our involvement in formal ex pat groups is limited. The shortcomings of this group are not deliberate so I am reluctant to be too critical. But some of the women who embrace the ‘whole ex pat thing’ remind me of a British reality series that aired a few years ago where an ordinary family were put in as Lord and Lady of a Manor and were so enthusiastic about their new roles, they forgot who they were. Of course, their illusions of grandeur were what made the series so interesting because we watched them with amusement and some discomfort as they assumed all sorts or airs and graces. Attending a ladies’ lunch frequented by some of the more “ra ra” of the Pune ex pats is not dissimilar to an episode of the said series. The only one I attended (again I must emphasis that, as my experience is limited, my observations may be unfair) was comprised of a series of discussions about the quality and caliber of, ahem, ‘servants’, which 5 star resorts to frequent in Dubai, which yogi (yoga teacher) had the best behind, and who was next going to Europe to top up the community nappy supply (disposable nappies are quite plentiful in Pune but are apparently substandard for delicate western bottoms- Seb must be a bit daft because he can’t tell the difference). The afternoon culminated in an hour long discussion about whether to allow the drivers to drink alcohol at the upcoming series of Christmas parties, “You can’t trust them and, after all, they are there to drive us home”. The most disillusioning conversation I had for the afternoon was with a young Australian girl who has accompanied her partner to India. I suggested to her that we might meet up again at the Sunday races and she replied, “We don’t tend to go on Sundays because it is our driver’s day off.” It is quite disconcerting to consider that an Aussie couple in their early twenties are so ‘Rajish’ they will not even contemplate driving their own car or, heaven forbid, catching an autorickshaw for a 15 minute ride because it is unthinkable and beneath them. I’ll bet a significant number of their peers are thumbing their way around South East Asia with nothing more than a backpack and bed roll. I managed not to roll my eyes at the time but was astounded to hear the same girl had proffered the same explanation to Jenny at a party 3 months later – I was hoping she had grown a spine over Christmas.
The local middle class and the ex pats who have become a bit above themselves relish the blatant tiers in this society and freely acknowledge they could not enjoy their current lifestyles without them. There are so many people in this country in desperate need of work and food that you can literally employ any number of people to perform the most menial tasks for a piddling fee and if you are dissatisified with their performance, there are ten others lining up to take their place. Such a situation encourages exploitation and does nothing to foster loyalty. Often, those with resources are indifferent to the impact of their actions on those they exploit, but the resentment of the exploited is there and it can be palpable. Ideologically, there is a chasm between being treated as an employee and being treated as a servant. While snubbing one’s nose at those you consider menial is not considered by most locals to be solely a western trait, using wealth and resources to dominate and control others is considered the ultimate manifestation of all that is western. This perception must surely fuel the East-West resentment, particularly when westerners earn fat salaries in India but hassle local staff who work seven days a week over their request for a few extra rupees. India may have inadvertently absorbed many habits of its pre-independence occupier but there is scant affection here for the Queen or her western associates.
Those are my musings for the month. Life at school is as insane as ever, if only I could elaborate. I did have an interesting time giving a mini law lecture to the secondary students about the elements of common law assault and the fact that looking sideways at another student is not sufficient justification for whacking the sideways gazer. Apparently the Chairman held an event in the school’s Assembly Hall the following day for some British Lord or other and the whiteboard with my scribbles about ‘mens rea’, aggravated assault and mitigating factors provided a weird back drop for this regal occasion.
We have decided not to go to Aurangubad over Easter for several reasons
a) The reality of containing Sebastian in a little car for 6 hours does not appeal;
b) The central event in a Passage to India was partly inspired by an incident at the Ajanta Caves involving a women having a nervous break down and frankly at this stage, I do not wish to tempt fate
c) The median daily temperature in Aurangubad at this time of the year is about a gazillion degrees which leaves about 10 minutes after dawn breaks to explore the caves before everyone melts into a puddle of perspiration
d) We can suddenly afford to fly to Goa because Chris and I were cast as models in a Jet Airways brochure shoot (We understand Brangelina may be slightly concerned about the rising Chrielia phenomenon!)
e) It has been a very demanding term and all we want is to eat, sleep and play on a gorgeous beach for a week – so that is what we are going to do!
Cricket is a religion here and includes the burning of effigies of the players (and Coach Chappell – I think he was a wise man to resign) when the national team disappoints. During the World Cup, the men on campus spent hours pouring over newspapers and immersed in debates as they all sought to create the “Dream Team” and claim victory in a local newspaper competition. The Australian men were equally ridiculous about this and relished the opportunity to join with the local zealots and their passion for this sport. It is difficult to explain how much the culture of cricket permeates this nation. Everywhere in lanes and streets and every available space, children and men alike establish impromptu games of cricket that can last for hours in the heat of the day. Cricketers share an equal spotlight with the darlings of Bollywood in the well remunerated field of advertising. National matches, particularly those against Australia or Pakistan are painstakingly dissected and analysed for weeks after the event. There is a fabulous Nike add airing at the moment based on a spontaneous game of cricket played on the tops of buses in a typical Indian traffic jam. It is set to very funky music and makes for great viewing. I hope it airs internationally because it truly captures the passion the locals hold for this game.
Clubs and Gymkhanas are prevalent in all the major cities and you know you have made it when you are a member of a club. Not surprisingly, cricket tends to be the focus of most social clubs with large shady terraces overlooking lush ovals where the sons of wealthy families wile away their afternoons in semi-serious cricket matches. Spectators languidly lounge in large cane chairs sipping fresh lime sodas as the overhead fans gently assist with airflow. The Poona club boasts a large Billiard Hall where players are provided with drinks, nibbles and even a cue assistant / coach whose primary purpose seems to be to discreetly prod you with the bridge cue when it is required and then pretend it was your idea to use it all along. There are also tennis and badminton courts, a swimming pool and lounges reserved for playing Bridge. Waiting lists to join these clubs are very long and fees are exorbitant, particularly in view of the fact the décor is shabby chic in its best light. However being a ‘club member’ is worth every lahk and members do not seem to have noticed that their fees are not reflected in the facilities they enjoy.
The locals also have a passion for titles and leave the motherland for dead in the meticulous application of terms of respect. As we drive through the area of Camp where all the military barracks are situated, we are inundated with signage indicating the residences of Major Generals, Captains, Colonels etc…. our children’s tennis coach is Captain Sonny Jacobs owing to a previous career in the navy. Universities hand out titles very liberally to anyone with deep pockets and consequently every second man over fifty is Doctor something or other. I am Mrs McNamara, because Ms Conlan didn’t wash for one second with anyone here and despite my protests to the contrary, it was unanimously determined that I must be Mrs McNamara because I am married to Mr McNamara, Sir! Every post pubescent girl is referred to as a spinster, but that was no consolation to Sally who was smugly introduced to all staff of her first day of teaching as “Miss Sally Robertson, SPINSTER!” by a married member of staff. Mind you, our middle aged residential nurse is very proud of her spinsterhood and will correct anyone from the Principal down if they dare to address her as ‘Mrs’. “I’m Miss K” she declares with loud hostility echoing a famous Dick Emery skit.
There is also a paranoid awareness of heritage among the locals and you can cause a member of the middle class no greater offence than by referring to their parent as a manual laborer. Our students are constantly accusing each other of blue collar associations. Cameron was forced to suspend one of our Year 9s for bailing up a Year 7 in a closed room and proceeding to assault him. “He called my father a roti (flat bread) maker!” the aggrieved Year 9 declared. The Year 9 student’s mother was outraged. “People have killed for lesser insults!” she exclaimed to Cam, apparently implying that the Year 7 had got off lightly with a beating.
The notion of “Sparing the rod = spoiling the child” is still very much alive on the sub continent. I was at a gathering last week where a western teacher from another school was explaining that there appeared to be an epidemic of face slapping students among the dormitory matrons. One poor child with a stinging cheek had gone to see the school counsellor for some advice about mending the rift with his matron. Armed with new skills and strategies from the counsellor, he returned to the matron to provide a reasonable account of his actions and was slapped not once, but twice, for his efforts. We recently had a lovely, gentle Year 1 child join us even though his parents who have been here for several years are leaving the country in June. I said to Chris, “Surely it would have been less disruptive to leave him at his previous school.” “Not if the child’s teacher is in the habit of shaking 6 year olds!” Chris replied. There was an article in the newspaper last week about a man who is applying to have proceedings re-opened in relation to an assault he had incurred while at school several years earlier. He and some friends had been swimming in a tank one hot morning before school when they were approached by the deputy head master. The deputy only managed to collar one of the boys. He called the whole school to assembly and for three hours proceeded to parade the boy naked before the entire school and beat him at regular intervals. The boy was so traumatized by the experience, he dropped out of school. He tried to bring charges at the time but not one of the staff or students present for the three hour ordeal would testify. The only witness to come forward was the child’s best friend and his evidence was dismissed as biased and unreliable. The Deputy Head Master was promoted.
Ultimately the most British aspect of all that is British in India falls within the 3rd culture realm of expatriates residing in India. I hasten to add that I am referring only to certain expatriates residing here and the view I have formed is clearly prejudiced by my own experiences and observations. There is an international women’s group and generally speaking, ex pat women are either all for it or they find it a bit off. It is an uncomfortable feeling that is hard to put a finger on, but there is something about the way some of these women conduct themselves that is, well, wrong. The great thing about international social groups is that they provide a fabulous support base for the non working spouse in a foreign land. Such groups are a great source of networking and information for otherwise lonely, housebound (usually) women trying to make a life for themselves while their spouses gain unique professional experience. Because we came here in group and we all work at the school and reside some distance from town, we have not accessed this type of network vigorously. Indeed, we have found fraternizing at the races and the local pool resort provides us with more than enough opportunities to regularly meet and socialize with other ex pats. But I have to say I am very glad of the fact that our involvement in formal ex pat groups is limited. The shortcomings of this group are not deliberate so I am reluctant to be too critical. But some of the women who embrace the ‘whole ex pat thing’ remind me of a British reality series that aired a few years ago where an ordinary family were put in as Lord and Lady of a Manor and were so enthusiastic about their new roles, they forgot who they were. Of course, their illusions of grandeur were what made the series so interesting because we watched them with amusement and some discomfort as they assumed all sorts or airs and graces. Attending a ladies’ lunch frequented by some of the more “ra ra” of the Pune ex pats is not dissimilar to an episode of the said series. The only one I attended (again I must emphasis that, as my experience is limited, my observations may be unfair) was comprised of a series of discussions about the quality and caliber of, ahem, ‘servants’, which 5 star resorts to frequent in Dubai, which yogi (yoga teacher) had the best behind, and who was next going to Europe to top up the community nappy supply (disposable nappies are quite plentiful in Pune but are apparently substandard for delicate western bottoms- Seb must be a bit daft because he can’t tell the difference). The afternoon culminated in an hour long discussion about whether to allow the drivers to drink alcohol at the upcoming series of Christmas parties, “You can’t trust them and, after all, they are there to drive us home”. The most disillusioning conversation I had for the afternoon was with a young Australian girl who has accompanied her partner to India. I suggested to her that we might meet up again at the Sunday races and she replied, “We don’t tend to go on Sundays because it is our driver’s day off.” It is quite disconcerting to consider that an Aussie couple in their early twenties are so ‘Rajish’ they will not even contemplate driving their own car or, heaven forbid, catching an autorickshaw for a 15 minute ride because it is unthinkable and beneath them. I’ll bet a significant number of their peers are thumbing their way around South East Asia with nothing more than a backpack and bed roll. I managed not to roll my eyes at the time but was astounded to hear the same girl had proffered the same explanation to Jenny at a party 3 months later – I was hoping she had grown a spine over Christmas.
The local middle class and the ex pats who have become a bit above themselves relish the blatant tiers in this society and freely acknowledge they could not enjoy their current lifestyles without them. There are so many people in this country in desperate need of work and food that you can literally employ any number of people to perform the most menial tasks for a piddling fee and if you are dissatisified with their performance, there are ten others lining up to take their place. Such a situation encourages exploitation and does nothing to foster loyalty. Often, those with resources are indifferent to the impact of their actions on those they exploit, but the resentment of the exploited is there and it can be palpable. Ideologically, there is a chasm between being treated as an employee and being treated as a servant. While snubbing one’s nose at those you consider menial is not considered by most locals to be solely a western trait, using wealth and resources to dominate and control others is considered the ultimate manifestation of all that is western. This perception must surely fuel the East-West resentment, particularly when westerners earn fat salaries in India but hassle local staff who work seven days a week over their request for a few extra rupees. India may have inadvertently absorbed many habits of its pre-independence occupier but there is scant affection here for the Queen or her western associates.
Those are my musings for the month. Life at school is as insane as ever, if only I could elaborate. I did have an interesting time giving a mini law lecture to the secondary students about the elements of common law assault and the fact that looking sideways at another student is not sufficient justification for whacking the sideways gazer. Apparently the Chairman held an event in the school’s Assembly Hall the following day for some British Lord or other and the whiteboard with my scribbles about ‘mens rea’, aggravated assault and mitigating factors provided a weird back drop for this regal occasion.
We have decided not to go to Aurangubad over Easter for several reasons
a) The reality of containing Sebastian in a little car for 6 hours does not appeal;
b) The central event in a Passage to India was partly inspired by an incident at the Ajanta Caves involving a women having a nervous break down and frankly at this stage, I do not wish to tempt fate
c) The median daily temperature in Aurangubad at this time of the year is about a gazillion degrees which leaves about 10 minutes after dawn breaks to explore the caves before everyone melts into a puddle of perspiration
d) We can suddenly afford to fly to Goa because Chris and I were cast as models in a Jet Airways brochure shoot (We understand Brangelina may be slightly concerned about the rising Chrielia phenomenon!)
e) It has been a very demanding term and all we want is to eat, sleep and play on a gorgeous beach for a week – so that is what we are going to do!
posted by Celia @ 6:32 AM
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