Desi Manifesto Blog: The Forum for South Asian American Men

[Blogger: S.I. Short story by Anon] Before there were blogs in Bangalore and the rest of the world, those of the Baby Boomer generation simply wrote down their thoughts, or stored them away in the back of their minds for a rainy day.

However, had there been blogs, many of our now-old parents surely would have been writing. As a matter of historical preservation and perspective on a culture that changes as rapidly as any in the world, I encourage all the old fogies to put to paper their various jumbled memories of India, from its fresh independence to its current ascension on an international level.

If you have any such tales, please send them along and we’ll post them. Please include author name and any copyrights, even if you don’t want the info displayed. Enjoy.

“The Invisible Person”

An older Indian woman residing in the US returns to Bangalore, as she does every few years, during the late fall months…

The little boy came to the gate during the Pongal week. Pongal is the major harvest festival of South India.

There had been an excitement in the air – in the house, on the streets, in traffic, at the fruit and vegetable stalls, in the villages and on the roads. Freshly cut sugarcane, in purple and green, stood in tall bundles, the stalls had purple brinjal with white stripes, ripe tomatoes, ridged gourd, ladies fingers, various greens, clean and bright in wicker baskets, yellow squash, orange pumpkins, and seasonings – coriander, curry leaves, mint, a variety of chillies, lemons and limes, arranged in eye catching rows, decorating the makeshift stalls in resplendent color. “Amma, illi banni!” the stall vendors and women cried, beckoning to the women who were shopping. The flower sellers sat in a row on the sidewalk, on low stools, with bundles of jasmine, roses, geranium and tulsi, the aromatic basil used for puja or prayers. Their fragrance hung in the air.

People milled about, jostling each other to reach stalls in the crowded market. Some who liked watching the freshly cleaned market stalls observed the bargaining for a few paise, the brisk efficiency with which the owners dealt with each customer. Puja articles, camphor, cotton wicks for lamps, incense, turmeric and kumkum, the red powder used to mark Hindu womens’ foreheads, jaggery, copra, sesame seeds, dried chick peas, tiny colored candy to mix with them to distribute to women in the household and in the neighborhood were all laid out. Young girls and women dressed in brightly colored silk skirts and sarees distributed “yellu” for sesame to each other, with occasional gifts of clothes or cash. Bamboo trays in triangular shape held harvest items to be exchanged.

The boy with the trumpet was one of many who came to the gate, expecting a handout. There had been others, a woman with a decorated, beautiful cow, whose horns and hoofs were painted yellow and red, with a garland around its neck. People gave bananas and sugarcane, “for the cow” they said. Older trumpet players who stood at the gate, shouting now and then, “amma!!” for the lady of the house to give alms; they played popular Carnatic music in discordant notes till they got noticed. This boy was hardly eight, appeared to be about five, and tried to play a small size trumpet. He was dressed in shorts that were too large for his skinny legs, a soiled half sleeved shirt that hung on his narrow frame. His hair was brownish and did not have a healthy shine. He probably had not bathed or eaten in some days. I asked him what his name was, and he mumbled under his breath. I could not catch his name. He looked down, not saying much more. I asked him how old he was, and he held up 8 fingers. He did not speak Kannada, and answered in Telugu. I asked him where he lived, and he said “there.” He said “they” had taught him how to play the trumpet. I had transgressed a boundary.

No one here talked to urchins on the street – he was supposed to be invisible. I told him to wait - I would give him breakfast - he looked at me with skepticism. One member of the household asked me what on earth I was doing - I had to shoo that person away. Another female member of the household told me I should not give away food “to these street people” - they would then form a habit of coming to the door daily. The servant looked at me and said she would take breakfast out to him as soon as it was ready; in the meantime, he had started to walk away, not believing me. He had asked for “dharma.” He was called back and ate the breakfast.

I wondered about how his life must be, who was caring for him. Why was he not in school? Why did we waste so much food? There were so many malnourished children. Many schoolchildren did not have a midday meal. They went hungry from morning to 5pm when school was over. Yet they had bright smiles and were friendly. What did they do for Pongal? A great show of harvest and plenty, yet so many hungry mouths to feed.

The servants were invisible, like the boy. They were children too, worked hard from morning and slept when all the chores were over. Could they play with abandon? Could they eat when they wanted? Could they run to the neighbor’s house to watch TV? They had to stay up, wash plates of the happy party goers, celebrating Pongal, where guests were plied with foreign liquor, food was heaped on tables, and conversation happened around them. Never with them, except when they were yelled at for failing to do a chore. “Don’t worry” the hostess would say, “my girls” will clean that up. It was beneath one to pick up one’s plate to clean. It reminded me of an Indian in the US chiding my son when he tried to clean up water spilled on the floor. “We have people here to do that” he said, in an emphasis of his status to now have caterers who did the work.

Does it do more for your self-worth to wait for a child to clean your plate, or do you lose some in doing it yourself? There are invisible persons in every household assigned a lower hierarchical status. The daughter in law who does the work of cooking and cleaning while the mother entertains, the son or daughter who is less well endowed physically- of darker hue, with less intelligence, is gentler and less aggressive, who chooses not to marry and is well past the “right age,”who is not the oldest, who has a birth injury. The list goes on and on.

I saw many invisible people that I had not clearly seen years earlier. I am glad to see the invisible people.