How to be a nationalist 7

Like a good Indian, on Independence Day, I went to the local stationery store, purchased two Indian flags that were made in China, and put them up outside our door. The family and household staff for once, instantly approved of the placement instead of giving me conflicting bits of advice about how I could have put them up better. As I went about my work for the day, I saw that our neighbours had outdone us by not just putting up flags but also balloons in clusters of orange, white and green. They even had little India map-pins pinned to their dress.

I was briefly upset that they were proving to be better and prouder Indians than me. And then I logged into Facebook and realised that nearly everyone was a better and prouder Indian than me. They were sharing inspirational videos, posting salute-selfies (what better way to honour the army), and unverifiable news items such as “Jana Gana Mana voted best anthem by UNESCO…India RockZZ man!” Runners were running for India, artists were painting freedom fighters, and Amitabh Bachchan had not just tweeted one but two pictures of the flag. Even Flipkart was sending me cutesy emails saying “Appy” Independence Day. I could celebrate by buying discounted TVs, hair straighteners or something called the Grand Jet 350-Degree Spin Mop for just Rs. 2399! (but only on the app).

In a panic, I looked up Salman Khan’s–sorry, BEING Salman Khan’s–Twitter profile and was relieved to find that he hadn’t yet posted about Independence Day. But Salman Khan had appeared on a talk show about Geeta, the Indian woman stuck in Pakistan (Geeta Awaits Her Bajrangi Bhaijaan! #SalmanForGeeta!). He was a guest of honour guest on the show because, you know, he saved an impossibly cute Pakistani child just last month. He spends so much time BEING human like that. Not to stop there, Salman Khan was also a Hanuman devotee now. One of his tweets said, “Promise kiya tha . Overseas fans ke liye Official Bajrangi Bhaijaan pendant. Ab Dubai mein avlbl at PNG Jewellers, Meena Bazaar”.

This was getting really annoying. Salman Khan was not only more nationalist than me, he was more Hindu than me.

Even the official Facebook account of Param Shradhey Shri Radhe Maa had posted a saffron-coloured Satyameva Jayate logo, below which devout followers had written things like: “Jai Hind, I lov u @Radhe Ji.”

I decided to just give up on the competition. I resignedly deleted the picture of my polyester flags and sat down to watch some daytime TV. There was some American detective show running. The cops were pretty, funny and had perfectly coiffed hair, unlike real-life cops. It’s like nurses on TV. On TV, if you’re in a hospital, nurses will chat you up about your love-life or theirs, crack a joke, and then bring you a cupcake while the entire nursing staff bursts into an inspirational pop song. In real life, they are mostly talking amongst themselves in Malayalam while jabbing you with a needle.

Anyway, on this show, the cop character was interrogating the suspect. He smirked at him and said “Shitty situation you’ve gotten yourself into pal. “. While I was watching this idly, I noticed that the subtitles were saying something else, “Crapty situation you’ve gotten yourself into pal.”, it read. There was more to come.

Suspect: “To hell with you!”

Subtitle: “To nonsense with you!”

And so it went on. If you turned down the volume, you’d be watching a completely different and arguably more humorous show. I switched channels again and found more. The subtitles on a cooking show read, “Only use the best quality b*** for Sus*** style steak”, while the chef said, “Only use the best quality beef for Sussex style steak”.

It was a whole new world of censored TV, and as I kept watching, I felt slowly cleansed of all immorality. I may not have won the proudest Indian competition on Facebook, but I had received enlightenment on Independence Day.

Yesterday, good people, the s***** fell from my eyes. I realised there are people hard at work protecting you and me from terrible dangers such as c****** in hotel rooms, b*** recipes on TV and mini-s***** on female gurus. As they say in the W**t, the sh** has hit the pro****ial fan. But fear no more, citizens. B** Brother is watching you.


[This is a version of my column that appeared in Deccan Chronicle/Asian Age on 16th August 2015. ]

7 thoughts on “How to be a nationalist

  1. Reply Sunder Oct 9,2015 8:08 am

    Suchi, have been looking forward to your next piece in print or here.
    Its been a long gap of almost 2 months now. All ok?

    Faithful reader of your column

    • Reply Suchi Govindarajan Oct 12,2015 5:47 am

      Hey thanks Sunder. 🙂 Couldn’t write last month, but just posted a new one. Do check.

      • Reply Sunder Oct 13,2015 1:32 pm

        Thanks, read and enjoyed it as always. I take credit for spurring you back to work (:- Don’t you dare stop writing !

    • Reply Teji Jun 9,2016 3:37 am

      nice one Suchi…tell me, did you write ‘The Visit” pasted below ?

      The Visit

      Grandmother was pretending to be lost in prayer, but her prayer-beads were spinning at top speed. That meant she was either excited or upset. Mother put the receiver down. “Some American girl in his office, she’s coming to stay with us for a week.” She sounded as if she had a deep foreboding.
      Father had no such doubt. He knew the worst was to come. He had been matching horoscopes for a year, but my brother Vivek had found a million excuses for not being able to visit India, call any of the chosen Iyer girls, or in any other way advance father’s cause.
      Father always wore four parallel lines of sacred ash on his forehead. Now there were eight, so deep were the furrows of worry on his forehead.
      I sat in a corner, supposedly lost in a book, but furiously text-messaging my brother with a vivid description of the scene before me.
      A few days later I stood outside the airport with father. He tried not to look directly at any American woman going past, and held up the card
      reading “Barbara”. Finally a large woman stepped out, waved wildly and shouted “Hiiii! Mr. Aayyyezh, how ARE you?” Everyone turned and
      looked at us. Father shrank visibly before my eyes. Barbara took three long steps and covered father in a tight embrace. Father’s jiggling out of it was too funny to watch. I could hear him whispering “Shiva Shiva!”.

      She shouted “you must be Vijaantee?”

      “Yes, Vyjayanthi” I said with a smile. I imagined little half-Indian children calling me “Vijaantee aunty!”. Suddenly, my colorless existence in Madurai had perked up. For at least the next one week, life promised to be quite exciting.
      Soon we were eating lunch at home. Barbara had changed into an even shorter skirt. The low neckline of her blouse was just in line with father’s eyes. He was glaring at mother as if she had conjured up Barbara just to torture him. Barbara was asking “You only have vegetarian food? Always??” as if the idea was shocking to her. “You know what really goes well with Indian food, especially chicken? Indian beer!” she said with a pleasant smile, seemingly oblivious to the apoplexy of the gentleman in front of her, or the choking sounds coming from mother. I had to quickly duck under the table to hide my giggles. Everyone tried to get the facts without asking the one question on all our minds: What was the exact nature of the relationship between Vivek and Barbara?
      She brought out a laptop computer. “I have some pictures of Vivek” she said. All of us crowded around her. The first picture was quite innocuous. Vivek was wearing shorts and standing alone on the beach. In the next photo, he had Barbara draped all over him. She was wearing a skimpy bikini and leaning across, with her hand lovingly circling his neck. Father got up, and flicked the towel off his shoulder. It was a gesture we in the family had learned to fear. He literally ran to the door and went out. Barbara said “It must be hard for Mr. Aayyezh. He must be missing his son.” We didn’t have the heart to tell her that if said son had been within reach, father would have lovingly wrung his neck.
      My parents and grandmother apparently had reached an unspoken agreement. They would deal with Vivek later. Right now Barbara was a foreigner, a lone woman, and needed to be treated as an honored guest. It must be said that Barbara didn’t make that one bit easy. Soon mother wore a perpetual frown.
      Father looked as though he could use some of that famous Indian beer. Vivek had said he would be in a conference in Guatemala all week, and would be off both phone and email. But Barbara had long lovey-dovey conversations with two other men, one man named Steve and another named Keith. The rest of us strained to hear every interesting word. “I miss you!” she said to both. She also kept talking with us about Vivek, and about the places they’d visited together. She had pictures to prove it, too. It was all very confusing.
      This was the best play I’d watched in a long time. It was even better than the day my cousin ran away with a Telugu Christian girl. My aunt had
      come howling through the door, though I noticed that she made it to the plushest sofa before falling in a faint. Father said that if it had been his
      child, the door would have been forever shut in his face. Aunt promptly revived and said “You’ll know when it is your child!” How my aunt would
      rejoice if she knew of Barbara!
      On day five of her visit, the family awoke to the awful sound of Barbara’s retching. The bathroom door was shut, the water was running, but far
      louder was the sound of Barbara crying and throwing up at the same time. Mother and grandmother exchanged ominous glances. Barbara came out and her face was red. “I don’t know why”, she said, “I feel queasy in the mornings now.”
      If she had seen as many Indian movies as I’d seen, she’d know why. Mother was standing as if turned to stone. Was she supposed to react with
      the compassion reserved for pregnant women? With the criticism reserved for pregnant unmarried women? With the fear reserved for pregnant
      unmarried foreign women who could embroil one’s son in a paternity suit? Mother, who navigated familiar flows of married life with the skill of a champion oarsman, now seemed completely taken off her moorings. She seemed to hope that if she didn’t react it might all disappear like a bad dream.
      I made a mental note to not leave home at all for the next week. Whatever my parents would say to Vivek when they finally got hold of him would be too interesting to miss. But they never got a chance. The day Barbara was to leave, we got a terse email from Vivek. “Sorry, still
      stuck in Guatemala. Just wanted to mention, another friend of mine, Sameera Sheikh, needs a place to stay. She’ll fly in from Hyderabad tomorrow at 10am. Sorry for the trouble.”

      So there we were, father and I, with a board saying “Sameera”. At last a pretty young woman in salwar-khameez saw the board, gave the smallest of smiles, and walked quietly towards us. When she did ‘Namaste’ to father, I thought I saw his eyes mist up. She took my hand in the friendliest way and said “Hello, Vyjayanthi, I’ve heard so much about you.” I fell in love with her. In the car father was unusually friendly. She and Vivek had been in the same group of friends in Ohio University. She now worked as a Child Psychologist.
      She didn’t seem to be too bad at family psychology either. She took out a shawl for grandmother, a saree for mother and Hyderabadi bangles for me.”Just some small things. I have to meet a professor at Madurai University and it’s so nice of you to let me stay” she said. Everyone cheered up. Even grandmother smiled. At lunch she said “This is so nice. When I make sambar,it comes out like chole, and my chole tastes just like sambar”. Mother was smiling. “Oh just watch for 2 days, you’ll pick it up.” Grandmother had never allowed a muslim to enter the kitchen.
      But mother seemed to have taken charge, and decided she would bring in who ever she felt was worthy. Sameera circumspectly stayed out of the puja room, but on the third day, was stunned to see father inviting her in and telling her which idols had come to him from his father. “God is one” he said. Sameera nodded sagely.
      By the fifth day, I could see the thought forming in the family’s collective brains. If this fellow had to choose his own bride, why couldn’t it be someone like Sameera? On the sixth day, when Vivek called from the airport saying he had cut short his Guatemala trip and was on his way home, all had a million things to discuss with him.
      He arrived by taxi at a time when Sameera had gone to the University. “So, how was Barbara’s visit?” he asked blithely.
      “How do you know her?” mother asked sternly.
      “She’s my secretary” he said. “She works very hard, and she’ll do anything to help.” He turned and winked at me.
      Oh, I got the plot now! By the time Sameera returned home that evening, it was almost as if her joining the family was the elders’ idea.
      “Don’t worry about anything”, they said, “we’ll talk with your parents.”

      On the wedding day a huge bouquet arrived from Barbara.

      It said……
      “Flight to India – $1500.
      Indian kurta – $15.
      Emetic powder to puke in the morning – $1.
      The look on your parents’ faces – Priceless”
      Love Babs.

  2. Reply Prashanth Oct 11,2015 4:17 am

    Hey, Read your column in 11th October Deccan Chronicle’s oped page and decided to give your site a visit…! Awesome work Suchi… You really have nailed humor…! Keep it up…!

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