“Yella North Indians” were unfortunately the only words my keen ears could collect from all what was being said. The sulking faces, their discussion no longer mattered to me who was listening with intent till then. It was as if a performance of a veteran Khayal vocalist at a curve of its architectural expansion suddenly collapsed due to a technical failure of the music system and a shrieking noise erased the effect of all what had been laid earlier. My baby steps of life in the deep interior of South India were greeted and marked by my inauspicious categorisation as a ‘North Indian’. To be frank enough, in other scenarios of light pleasantries and I-hit-you-and-you-hit-me-twice of verbal duels, I don’t mind people calling me names. It is due to this laissez-faire address policy that depending on the situation, location and the social coterie I am in, I have gotten used to be problematically referred to as a Maratha in friendly banter (prompting me to say the often misused ‘ata majhi satakli’), then, as a Brahmin, Puneri one at that, then, at other times as an austere Chitpavan (without being one) and finally, simply and lovingly as a benign Paresh Rawalesque Marathi – Marathi as a whole defining entity within which can be subsumed other identities of caste and region. Interestingly, all these addresses have happened mostly in Delhi where I have spent a fair number of years. The funny part is what follows: while in Delhi, along with my regional and caste affiliations, I am also considered as a South Indian! So, when I was referred to as a North Indian in the South of India, I felt particularly targeted at that maladroit address. I felt like a smashed potato from a miserably failed bataté vada sandwiched between a crispy chennai dosai and a butter soaked paratha. What made me look like someone from the North? How do we make out someone from the North? Or what does it really mean to be from the North? (or from the South) Or inversely, what was it that I lacked, not to be welcomed as one of theirs or not to be befriended as a part of the South Indian fraternity?
These questions pertain to my day to day life and I think they relate to all of us, Indians in whatever part of the country we are in. The world for most of us is neatly divided, into North and South, as if one can either belong to the North or to the South. In such a scheme of things, how does one relate to someone who considers him/herself neither from the North nor from the South or, better, considers as possessing certain traits from both without considering oneself as belonging completely to either. To add to my woes, be it in the South or North, there is hardly any consideration for one’s belongingness to the West or East of India.
In my case, as a friend illuminated me on the issue, there is hardly anything visibly distinguishing a characteristic to be called a Marathi or to belong from Maharashtra. I started to think on these lines about Bollywood popular culture to understand the portrayal of my breed. Bollywood films have provided us with sufficient doses of sexual innuendos of a Marathi/Konkani woman. We have all seen Laxmibaai as ‘kaamwali’ baai draped in her 9 Yards sari. No wonder then, the scantily clad Katrina Kaif in ‘Chikni Chameli’ carries forth in terms of her attire the legacy of Madhuri’s ‘Humko aaj kaal hain’ – a musically beautiful song from the film, Sailaab. But that pertains to the female gender and even so, reflects little of how an urban Marathi woman would look like. A Marathi working/middle class woman is possibly seen to be independent and has all the liberal values incarnated in the city life of Mumbai. What about a Marathi male, urban prototype then? Amol Palekar comes alive to my mind so effortlessly singing the eternal search of a house in his, “Do deewané shahar main...” This was “Gharonda” in 1977 and the search of a house, though an important theme doesn’t quite translate the uniqueness of anything Marathi. Since the 1980’s, Bollywood has engaged with the urban life in new ways and the cinematic representation does register elements from Marathi culture. However, the experience of modernity and of the urban life as portrayed by Bollywood of post 90’s doesn’t necessarily differentiate between a Marathi and his ‘North Indian counterpart’. The often repeated image of working class Mumbaikars struggling against all odds to make out a living is rather a set of different identities – of castes, regions and class. Mumbai becomes a city of dreams and ambitions of anyone ready to struggle and excel. Unfortunately, films pertaining to the underworld, Mafia like “Vaastav, Satya”, as also the lighter ones as “Munnabhai MBBS,” and one man armies of local Rowdies (Ghulam, Rangeela, etc.) glorify the street and its heroes occupying a space between the rich and the poor, the legal and the illegal. One can observe a typical Mumbaiiya accented hero here with his stereotypical expressions of ‘bolé to’, ‘aapun’, ‘ané ka, jané ka, khané ka’, etc. which may be at times actually quite removed from a typical middle class Marathi family. I start to get a feeling that stereotypes work better, at least, you have an image to model from. A stereotype can give at least something to associate with.
If the filmic representations are not strong enough to paint a visibly different Marathi man, there is a further lack of imagination of a Marathi identity due to a general resistance towards Hindi in Tamil Nadu. We are all aware of the stiff resistance to the 3 language policy in Tamil Nadu. For whatever reasons, the imposition of Hindi hasn’t worked, as it has in other states. Slightly bigger cities in Tamil Nadu may have got some exposure to Hindi film industry but, Bollywood Films dubbed in Tamil are still shown in smaller cities. (Some time back, I couldn’t stomach the idea of watching Padmavati in Tamil!) Preserving one’s language, customs, traditions and thus a certain sense of self is indeed praise worthy. The regional language for local governance has its benefits too. However, the strong linguistic regionalism can be a huge barrier in incorporating those who do not speak Tamil. In fact, this regionalism works to such an extent that all speakers of Tamils – regardless of their caste and regional inflictions are regrouped as one against all others. The category of all others too, becomes ossified into one whole where even a Marathi, Kannadiga or Gujrati not so fluent enough in Hindi are considered as a North Indian. Such a process entails a simultaneous erasure of all differences between those speaking Tamil and accentuating the differences of this one group vis-à-vis all those who do not know Tamil. It also unfortunately leads to an erasure of all differences among those not speaking Tamil and coming from other states. The different dimensions of one’s identity of people coming from Madhya Pradesh, Haryana, Himachal Pradesh, etc. are reduced to one: of not knowing the local lingua, of their non belongingness to Tamil.
The identity of a so called North Indian is constructed as a negative one - one who lacks Tamil primarily linguistically and then, culturally. This is the situation not just in the South but also in certain other regions of India. The fault line varies depending on the location. In the North, if you speak Hindi not so fluently and happen to be in the region that lies anywhere below Madhya Pradesh, then you are eligible to be a South Indian. While down South, especially in Tamil Nadu for example, you just have to be unfamiliar with Tamil and you are eligible to be a North Indian.
If language acts as an instrument of social exclusion, there exist other layers too to accentuate the differences between intimate outsiders and remote outsiders. If Biharis are known to possess certain traits and are not welcome in a particular state, those from the states of the North East of India face other forms of marginalisation. For that matter, the North-East becomes one unified whole with no particular importance given to other identities that may exist in the respective states. We hardly care about how a Manipuri would be different from someone from Nagaland. It is precisely for this reason that we should open ourselves to others, promote our local cultures, languages, literatures and economies. Instead of spending lakhs of Rupees and visiting only the cleanest localities and monuments of Europe’s glorious past, we shouldn’t shy away from visiting our remote villages and understanding their life and their cultures. Promotion of local economies is one of the best ways to generate revenues, knowing ourselves better and building tolerance vis-à-vis others.
There may be a slight exaggeration in this piece about how people from other states are made to feel outsiders, but such regionalisms, be it in Mumbai, Chennai or Shillong, run counter to the ethos encapsulated in Unity in Diversity that we often boast about. We are proud of the fact that our identities are constructed in myriad ways and that this plural identity formation has at its base something common to our Indian-ness. So, if that is really the case, why do we continue to remain hostile towards “outsiders” – the people from other states?
These questions pertain to my day to day life and I think they relate to all of us, Indians in whatever part of the country we are in. The world for most of us is neatly divided, into North and South, as if one can either belong to the North or to the South. In such a scheme of things, how does one relate to someone who considers him/herself neither from the North nor from the South or, better, considers as possessing certain traits from both without considering oneself as belonging completely to either. To add to my woes, be it in the South or North, there is hardly any consideration for one’s belongingness to the West or East of India.
In my case, as a friend illuminated me on the issue, there is hardly anything visibly distinguishing a characteristic to be called a Marathi or to belong from Maharashtra. I started to think on these lines about Bollywood popular culture to understand the portrayal of my breed. Bollywood films have provided us with sufficient doses of sexual innuendos of a Marathi/Konkani woman. We have all seen Laxmibaai as ‘kaamwali’ baai draped in her 9 Yards sari. No wonder then, the scantily clad Katrina Kaif in ‘Chikni Chameli’ carries forth in terms of her attire the legacy of Madhuri’s ‘Humko aaj kaal hain’ – a musically beautiful song from the film, Sailaab. But that pertains to the female gender and even so, reflects little of how an urban Marathi woman would look like. A Marathi working/middle class woman is possibly seen to be independent and has all the liberal values incarnated in the city life of Mumbai. What about a Marathi male, urban prototype then? Amol Palekar comes alive to my mind so effortlessly singing the eternal search of a house in his, “Do deewané shahar main...” This was “Gharonda” in 1977 and the search of a house, though an important theme doesn’t quite translate the uniqueness of anything Marathi. Since the 1980’s, Bollywood has engaged with the urban life in new ways and the cinematic representation does register elements from Marathi culture. However, the experience of modernity and of the urban life as portrayed by Bollywood of post 90’s doesn’t necessarily differentiate between a Marathi and his ‘North Indian counterpart’. The often repeated image of working class Mumbaikars struggling against all odds to make out a living is rather a set of different identities – of castes, regions and class. Mumbai becomes a city of dreams and ambitions of anyone ready to struggle and excel. Unfortunately, films pertaining to the underworld, Mafia like “Vaastav, Satya”, as also the lighter ones as “Munnabhai MBBS,” and one man armies of local Rowdies (Ghulam, Rangeela, etc.) glorify the street and its heroes occupying a space between the rich and the poor, the legal and the illegal. One can observe a typical Mumbaiiya accented hero here with his stereotypical expressions of ‘bolé to’, ‘aapun’, ‘ané ka, jané ka, khané ka’, etc. which may be at times actually quite removed from a typical middle class Marathi family. I start to get a feeling that stereotypes work better, at least, you have an image to model from. A stereotype can give at least something to associate with.
If the filmic representations are not strong enough to paint a visibly different Marathi man, there is a further lack of imagination of a Marathi identity due to a general resistance towards Hindi in Tamil Nadu. We are all aware of the stiff resistance to the 3 language policy in Tamil Nadu. For whatever reasons, the imposition of Hindi hasn’t worked, as it has in other states. Slightly bigger cities in Tamil Nadu may have got some exposure to Hindi film industry but, Bollywood Films dubbed in Tamil are still shown in smaller cities. (Some time back, I couldn’t stomach the idea of watching Padmavati in Tamil!) Preserving one’s language, customs, traditions and thus a certain sense of self is indeed praise worthy. The regional language for local governance has its benefits too. However, the strong linguistic regionalism can be a huge barrier in incorporating those who do not speak Tamil. In fact, this regionalism works to such an extent that all speakers of Tamils – regardless of their caste and regional inflictions are regrouped as one against all others. The category of all others too, becomes ossified into one whole where even a Marathi, Kannadiga or Gujrati not so fluent enough in Hindi are considered as a North Indian. Such a process entails a simultaneous erasure of all differences between those speaking Tamil and accentuating the differences of this one group vis-à-vis all those who do not know Tamil. It also unfortunately leads to an erasure of all differences among those not speaking Tamil and coming from other states. The different dimensions of one’s identity of people coming from Madhya Pradesh, Haryana, Himachal Pradesh, etc. are reduced to one: of not knowing the local lingua, of their non belongingness to Tamil.
The identity of a so called North Indian is constructed as a negative one - one who lacks Tamil primarily linguistically and then, culturally. This is the situation not just in the South but also in certain other regions of India. The fault line varies depending on the location. In the North, if you speak Hindi not so fluently and happen to be in the region that lies anywhere below Madhya Pradesh, then you are eligible to be a South Indian. While down South, especially in Tamil Nadu for example, you just have to be unfamiliar with Tamil and you are eligible to be a North Indian.
If language acts as an instrument of social exclusion, there exist other layers too to accentuate the differences between intimate outsiders and remote outsiders. If Biharis are known to possess certain traits and are not welcome in a particular state, those from the states of the North East of India face other forms of marginalisation. For that matter, the North-East becomes one unified whole with no particular importance given to other identities that may exist in the respective states. We hardly care about how a Manipuri would be different from someone from Nagaland. It is precisely for this reason that we should open ourselves to others, promote our local cultures, languages, literatures and economies. Instead of spending lakhs of Rupees and visiting only the cleanest localities and monuments of Europe’s glorious past, we shouldn’t shy away from visiting our remote villages and understanding their life and their cultures. Promotion of local economies is one of the best ways to generate revenues, knowing ourselves better and building tolerance vis-à-vis others.
There may be a slight exaggeration in this piece about how people from other states are made to feel outsiders, but such regionalisms, be it in Mumbai, Chennai or Shillong, run counter to the ethos encapsulated in Unity in Diversity that we often boast about. We are proud of the fact that our identities are constructed in myriad ways and that this plural identity formation has at its base something common to our Indian-ness. So, if that is really the case, why do we continue to remain hostile towards “outsiders” – the people from other states?
