I am soooo Indian…

The ongoing Gorkhaland movement has stirred a lot of debate and discussion in the social media front regarding the statehood demands of the Gorkhas of Darjeeling district. Debate is a productive method of solving problems as long as the parties stick to the topic instead of attacking someone’s personal life or questioning their nationality.

I’ve come across many posts where people go all guns blazing at one another with no logic or rationality in their words. A discussion that starts off with Gorkhaland ends up with me having to prove my nationality.

Let’s settle this nationality debate once and for all.

“Yes, I am a Nepali and yes, I am an Indian.”

But how is this possible? If you are a Nepali, you must be from Nepal, right? Nope. Not necessarily. My ancestors have been where they’ve always been, just the borders changed. Ethnically, I am a Nepali: I speak Nepali, I wear Daura-Suruwal, I listen to Narayan Gopal, I enjoy eating sel-roti, hell I even get excited when someone puts on Bhim Niroulas ‘Sunday morning love you’ but my Nationality screams Indian.

I am so Indian that every time Honey Singh plays in a wedding, I can’t stop myself from dancing like crazy. I am so Indian that I’ve seen Mihir die and live, die and live, die and live again and again. I am so Indian that when Ganguly took off his shirt on the TV, I did the same in my living room before mom walked in and beat the crap out of me for jumping on the sofa. I am so Indian that I prefer lassi over coca cola. I am so Indian that I line up outside the box office for every Salman movie. I am so Indian that I eagerly wait for Flipkarts big billion day. I am so Indian that I ask for one extra sukhi Puri after enjoying my panipuris. I am so Indian that no Marvel or DC character can ever excite me like Shaktimaan used to. I am so Indian that every time India is about to lose a match, I turn off the TV, and turn it back on five minutes later to see if anything magical has happened. I am so Indian that every time someone talks about fighting corruption, I put up a Facebook post supporting them. I am so Indian that every time a communal riot hits the country, I feel like a room in my house is on fire. I am so Indian that every time a soldier dies in the borders, I feel like a family member has gone missing. I am so Indian that every year on the 15th of August I celebrate the freedom our ancestors have gifted us.

The same freedom which grants the people of Darjeeling the constitutional right to demand their own state. The same freedom which gives you the right to disagree with their demands.

Let’s practice this freedom with dignity and by not hurling abuses at one another or by questioning ones nationality cause we belong to the same soil, we live in the same soil, we die in the same soil.

Remember when you were two?

Remember when you were two. You don’t, right? Neither do I. But I am sure that I was peeing, eating and sleeping the whole time. The only struggle that I may have had to face was when I had to chew my food or get up from my bed to pee (which didn’t happen often). I grew up and three years later I was a little naughty boy studying in class one. The struggles of life had grown with time and so had I. I didn’t pee in my bed except for the exceptionally cold nights and neither did I find chewing laborious, instead I found it exceptionally pleasing specially if it were the chocolates that I bought with the money that I borrowed from my fathers wallet without telling him. But life isn’t a cakewalk, I came to realize very early. Apparently, a ten or twenty goes unnoticed but when you take a hundred, you are caught and so was I.

A tight slap on my cheek and a scolding that lasted for a solid sixty minutes was the worst I had to face when I was five.

And then there is this girl who was raped by three men from her neighborhood. Her parents were out to work and she was playing outside her house when three drunken men lured her into a room with a chocolate and did the heinous. Then on the same day, a few hours later another girl, this one of two-and-a-half-years of age, was out with her grandmother to watch Ram win over Sita but then there was a power cut for a few minutes and her whole life was darkened. Attracted by some music from a nearby park, she let go of her grandmother’s hand and in the darkness was abducted by two alleged rapists and an hour later was found abandoned in a park.

The only mistake of these two kids was that they were outside their homes (not that being inside guarantees them any safety). The other mistake and the most important of all was that they were girls (not that a boy is guaranteed safety, the earth is jam-packed with pedophiles). And sadly for the two-and-a-half-year old even her Ram couldn’t save her from the Ravaan.

Like I said, most of us do not remember our younger days. Lets hope that neither do these girls. But all we can do is hope. The pain has been so deeply engraved in their hearts that forgetting this would require a miracle.

Sometimes I just wonder, what’s wrong? I guess everyone asks the same question, at least once a day, when they go through the news. Do you get an answer? I don’t. If anyone does find an answer, do let me know. Till then lets hope that the next day’s news carries something pleasant.

Being Indian, with great difficulty.

Two printed sheets under the college letter head, bright green ink highlighting the Principal’s signature and now this stamp over the two papers meant the end of running around hurriedly door to door trying to make myself clear by degrading my English language or showing off my fragmented Tamil skills. In short, administrative work is always a pain in the rear and my rear had swollen to an immeasurable size and all I wanted to do was get the hell out of that college.

I had traveled for three hours on a crowded bus from Salem to Dharmapuri and from Dharmapuri to Periyampatti on a hot summer afternoon to fill the required admission forms and submit the admission fee for my brother, Arun’s, Post-Graduation course. He had made it sound so easy when he told me, over the phone, what needed to be done, “Go to the ATM…withdraw money…go to the office…fill the required form…submit the required documents and fee…get the signature of the Principal in the Bonafide and expenditure sheet…” What he failed to mention was the long wait for the people in the administration office to show up for work, explaining to them why I wanted the admission form, an even longer wait for the Principal to show up, making small talks with him, him finding faults with the admission form, him whining about the careless attitude of the administration, the return to the administrative office to fill another form, returning to the Principal’s office, more small talks, more whining about the incompetent administration, signature of approval from the Principal, return to the administration office for the Bonafide and Expenditure sheet, return to the Principal’s office for his signature on the Bonafide and Expenditure sheet, him finding fault with the content of the papers, the return to the administration office…FINALLY!!! getting the signature on the Bonafide and Expenditure sheet and then coming to this cabin for the Principal’s stamp. After the final stamp, I was a free bird. I would then take a bus back to Salem and another one to my hostel and take a nice bath before going to sleep. But that would be too early for bed. I could watch Mary Kom in Salem before going to the hostel.

“Where are you from?” the guy with the stamp asked, returning me the two stapled papers with the Principal’s stamp over it.

“Sikkim.” I said forwarding my hand to take the paper.

“Sikkim?” he questioned and took the paper back. “Capital of Bhutan?”

I smiled. People never stopped surprising me with their answers. This answer deserved a hearty laugh but acknowledging that this was an office and I was the only sane person, I controlled. The incident of a bus ride came to my mind when the conductor asked us, me and my brothers, where we came from. I replied Sikkim and he nodded his head in recognition. Of course he couldn’t fool us but the other passengers thought that the conductor knew where Sikkim was. He smiled at their mental incapacity and replied coolly, “Sikkim…South Africa…West Indies…same same.” The other passengers face brightened as they learnt a new thing today. One even asked me if I knew Brian Lara. I wanted to say yes but Arun, the short tempered of our lot, told him to mind his own business. Disappointed, the man returned back to enjoying the sight of the landscape.

But he was a conductor. This was an important man in an office. He had a huge cabin besides the Principal’s office. One needed to be highly educated or the HRD Minister to get an office like that.

“Sikkim is an Indian state.” I said.

“It’s capital?”

“Gangtok.”

He didn’t look happy with my answer.

“Come with me.” he said and stood up from his chair, walked outside and locked his cabin, which had to be a dowry gift since he was neither the HRD minister nor did he sound educated.

We took the stairs to the admission hall throughout which I tried to explain to him the geographical location of Sikkim. “Sikkim is an Indian state that shares its border with Nepal, China and Bhutan.” I even made a drawing in thin air but the guy wasn’t listening. This same attitude during his geography class might have resulted in the dimwit that he is today.

He walked inside the admission hall where all the important people of the college sat, the Director, the Principal and a few boot lickers whose job was to nod whenever the Principal spoke. The Director was an old chap who reminded me of the stingy Anupam Kher from the movie Ram Lakhan. Earlier, he had called me closer and asked me my hostel bill. “45000… mess included.” I replied. “What do they give for breakfast?” he asked. “I wake up late. I’ve never had breakfast in the hostel.” I was completely disinterested replying to his questions. He sensed it and stopped with the queries.

“Sir, Sikkim is outside India. He needs to have additional documents.” He started off placing the papers on the desk. He asked for the admission form and started going through it.

“Sir, Sikkim is a part of India. It’s simple GK.” I said gritting my teeth. The situation was getting on my nerves and repeatedly calling Sikkim outside India added to my desire to punch this nincompoop in the face.

It’s an Indian state you moron, these were the six magical words I wanted to hear from the Principal but even he looked confused. He went through the register to see the address. It just said Sikkim. He went through all the original documents and nowhere was it mentioned that Sikkim was a part of India. “Sir anyone from outside India needs other documents as well.” The stamp guy said. I took out my phone and started Googling the Indian map to give him a nice lesson on India.

“Is it Arun Kumar Timshina’s admission form?” a boot licker asked while ‘loading’ appeared on my phone. The Principal nodded. “He is an old student, sir. He wants to continue his ME in our college.”

“So he is an Indian?” The Principal asked.

The boot licker gave a halfhearted nod.

The stamp guy was called outside by someone and the Principal kept on staring at the papers. “Sir, I have to leave.” I said. The internet was as slow as most of the people sitting inside the hall and it couldn’t load the Indian map. The Principal kept staring at the papers so I took them from his table and marched out of the hall. I had had enough of these idiots for a day. The admission was done, cash was paid, I had the Bonafide and expenditure sheet in my hand, there was very little that these mutton-heads could do.

Earlier, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to watch the movie but after the whole episode I had to cool off. I took the next bus to Dharmapuri and then to Salem, afraid that I wouldn’t be in time for the movie. Thanks to the speed maniac on the wheels I reached Salem way before time.

After innumerable jewelry ads the movie began. Five of the eleven people inside the hall were the hall staff and were enjoying their break by sleeping inside the AC hall. The movie started and ended. We all stood up, except those five, for the national anthem towards the end. The national anthem always gave me Goosebumps but today I experienced something more. My eyes dampened and hands shivered as I sang the national anthem under my breath. At one point, my voice cracked and I couldn’t sing any further. Still I moved my lips and completed the anthem.

I am an Indian by heart. I live in Sikkim, a small Indian state that shares borders with China, Nepal and Bhutan. My mother tongue is Nepali, a prime reason why people confuse me to be from Nepal. I only tell them one thing, don’t confuse my ethnicity with my nationality. But they don’t understand because ethnicity is too huge a word for them. My friends say that I am lucky not to have any oriental feature. A person with small eyes is stared upon like a circus clown and often taunted as a Chinese. I have big eyes and yet I feel like an outsider. Think about the majority of the North East with their oriental features, how alienated they are in their own country.

Sikkim, Manipur, Assam, Meghalaya, Nagaland, Tripura, Arunachal Pradesh and Mizoram, is it that hard to remember these eight North-Eastern States? Or is it done intentionally? I prefer to believe that these people are brain dead cause if it’s intentional, then…then there is nothing I can do…nothing that this frustrated Indian can do.

I am an Indian by heart. I just hope that one day they will understand.