Are You...? You Don't Look Like...

To be honest, I have actually quite enjoyed the guessing game. But now that I love all things Malayali, I tell my friends "I may have been born a Bihari, but I will die a Malayali!"

“Are you sure you are a Bihari? Are you sure none of your ancestors were Tamilian?”

I nodded—I was sure on both counts.

My Geography teacher Mr Kripal Singh had asked this question in front of the whole class in standard eight. I really don’t remember why he needed to establish my identity in the class that day. There were enough Tamilian and Bihari in the mix, just in case.

“I think you are lying,” he had said to end the conversation.

And I thought, for the first time in my life, “Why (the fuck), would I lie about being a Bihari”.

In my little head, the southern states (or any state) were better and far superior than Bihar. Thanks to Lalu, Bihar was the pits.

I didn’t pursue this any further. No fighting for my rights, identity, etc. He wasn’t going to believe me anyways. I was simply relieved that my mildly amusing humiliation had finally drawn to a close.

No one, I have met, has ever believed I am a Bihari. They say — I don’t sound like one. I get this bit. But they also say — I don’t look like one. Now this bit I don’t get. What does a Bihari look like?

Maybe I should get back to that junior in school who asked me “Have you been missing Sunday mass. Aren’t you Malayali Christian? You look like one.”

It must have been the look and not the colour. All my Malayali and Tamilian classmates were very fair people. I was melanin-rich! Plus my name didn’t really help in locating me on a map.

Anyway, at one point even my dad—my very own dad— fell for the ‘you look like a Tamilian’ stereotype. While deciding colleges, he suggested Stella Maris College in Chennai. “You will gel well there,” he had said. My marks pipped my looks and I came to Delhi instead.

The stationery shop bhaiyya at my college, Sri Ram College of Commerce, came close to placing me in the Hindi heartland. “Aap UP ki lagti hain.” This was in 1998. I was yet to meet my Lucknow husband.

Then several years later an old taxi driver in Lucknow said, “Aap yahin ki hain? Aap ki zubaan saaf hai”. This was 2008. By now I was now married to the Lakhnavi.

The Mallu Couple in 2006; The Oxfam twins—Ranjana and I—in 2008; Spanish in 2016-HOW???

At work—newspaper, TV—the Bengalis spoke to me in Bangla and the Mallus in Malayalam. At Oxfam India, I was often confused with Ranjana, which meant I was considered a Bong. And because I travelled to Odisha for work a lot, some believed I was Odiya.

In Ethiopia, a shopkeeper of Indian origin decided I was Ethiopian and spoke to me in Amharic. In Mexico, they thought I was Mexican (How????). In Paris, someone said Spanish (HOW???).

But Sri Lanka takes the cake.

I was on a reporting assignment along with another colleague and my local contact was a Sinhalese Induni Chathupama. Induni was taking us around different temples in Anuradhapura and we arrived at this small beautiful temple around dusk. The temple was lit up with hundreds of lamps. It was gorgeous. I was too engrossed taking photos from my relatively new D-90. And I walked right inside the temple premises. Now I did not realise that this was only open to Sri Lankans; foreigners weren’t allowed to enter the main temple area.

Anyhow, when I turned around to speak to Induni, she was still at the entrance, arguing with the watchman. She looked furious. Her curls were in a frenzy. Her hands were angry. I ran towards her.

“You—can’t—go—in.—Only—Sri Lankan—nationals—can.—It—is—written—here.” He was stabbing at a plaque with one hand as he slow-explained every word with his other hand. It was like watching dumb charades on cheat mode.

She did the same. “I—am—from—here.—SHE—is—from—India.—Check—HER—passport”. She was pointing at me, ready to stab me with her fingers, if the need arose.

Induni really wanted to go inside the temple, I was merely intrigued by the architecture and the lamps. At this point my hands were already in my bag and fishing out my passport. The watchman was relentless.

“No—madam.—She—is—Sri Lankan.—She—looks—like—one—of—us.—YOU—look—like—an— Indian.” He told Induni.

My hands stopped. I looked at Induni. She froze. She was fuming. I was still but my head was bursting with the Raavan laugh.

I tried again. “Sir, I am Indian…”.

“No madam, you are lying.”

LYING. AGAIN. That was it.

This amusing humiliation had to end then and there. My photos were done, Induni was no longer interested in the gods, and that guy wasn’t going to believe us anyways.

We left. But only after Induni gave him a piece of her seething mind in the choicest Sinhala and shoved my dark blue Indian passport right in his face.

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To be honest I have actually quite enjoyed the guessing game (being called a liar was the exception). Still do. If someone genuinely wants to know, the sequence of answer is “I am from Jamshedpur, I am a Bihari.” Udit is a little more orthodox. You can feel him cringe if anyone mentions him and Uttar Pradesh in the same breath. “I am from Lucknow,” he insists.

Jamshedpur is my identity. And being Bihari a fact. But things have slightly changed now that I love all things Malayali. I tell friends (anyone who would care to listen) that “I may have been born a Bihari, but I will die a Malayali!”

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Feb was a dry month. I was/am still stuck with myriad questions in my head. Although identity is not one of them, this was a piece waiting to be uploaded. I guess it is good enough to break the rut. Thanks to

Natasha Badhwar

,

Roshni

&

Udit Misra

for steering me back on track.