My friend Vasanthi Hariprakash is an excellent journalist. She is professionally very competent, of course. But more importantly, her journalism always remains rooted in the human dimension, and never gets lost in meaningless jargon or lurid sensationalism. She observes, chats, listens, and reports on real issues that affect all of us. That gives her a […]
Of Sandwiches and Stereotypes
My friend Vasanthi Hariprakash is an excellent journalist.
She is professionally very competent, of course. But more importantly, her journalism always remains rooted in the human dimension, and never gets lost in meaningless jargon or lurid sensationalism.
She observes, chats, listens, and reports on real issues that affect all of us. That gives her a lot more credibility than those who sit in ivory towers and have no idea about life outside those elite circles.
Her recent report on her visit to an “Old Age Home” in Bengaluru was widely appreciated for its warmth and compassion. And for the way it showed the general public how every little contribution of time, money or expertise could help organisations that look after the most vulnerable sections of our society.
There was a newspaper article, and a follow-up video clip and discussion on social media.
A few of us expressed our views about the need for a more balanced coverage of the issue. Vasanthi explained that her 700 word article could not possible cover all angles comprehensively. But she has been listening to different strands in the discussion. The rest of this post is mainly an elaboration of my responses to that post.
We need to stop swimming round in a stagnant pond of platitudes, and acknowledge that eldercare is a complex issue. There are very few heroes or villains. Just millions of humans, struggling to balance all their loyalties.
So, the discussion needs to factor in human nature, human needs, human weaknesses, human limits. Not deify or demonise any generation. Without nuance, we cannot understand the issue – never mind finding any solutions.
In the West, there is less taboo about adults discussing their parents as just human beings. The vast majority have genuinely positive, loving things to say about their parents. Just as in India.
The difference is that when a relationship has not been perfect, there is more freedom to talk about it, and not to be immediately condemned as a traitor to the family, culture and nation.
The old saying was “Do not wash your dirty linen in public.”.
Now, we acknowledge that those who dirty the linen, should not be allowed to hide behind a misplaced sense of loyalty. This applies to any form of injustice within families, or in the wider society.
Super-Senior citizens should never suffer in silence if their adult children neglect or actively abuse them. But nor should carers be taken for granted, and trolled for not being silent martyrs.
Two very positive aspects of Indian culture – respect for elders, and cohesive families. We need to cherish these aspects, and be very proud of them. It is only right that elders should live in dignity, and their adult children should take on responsibility for their care. But there should also be more compassion for the carers, and more professional support for them.
What goes round, comes round. Our elders looked after us when we were helpless, we reciprocate that love and care.
So far….the platitude works. But is life really so simple and straightforward? How easy is it to translate theory into viable, sustainable practice?
The media in India is quick to post sensational headlines about helpless old people who die alone, after being abandoned by their heartless, selfish offspring. The film industry glorifies filial devotion above all other loyalties The wife is labelled a shrew and a home breaker if she so much as suggests setting up a nuclear family.
There have been court verdicts where the judge has ruled that it is cruelty to separate a man from his parents. Legitimate grounds for divorce. One does not need to be a militant feminist to see the bias…..separating a woman from her parents is enshrined in patriarchal, patrilocal traditions.
Most sensible families work round these traditions, and find compromises that work for all parties. Large numbers of career women have their own parents close enough to help with childcare. In India, and the diaspora. In laws are not always ogres – large numbers of them get on very well with their daughters on law.
And yet….there is a large elephant in the room.
As far as the Indian media is concerned, ALL old people are unselfish, altruistic angels. If there are any rifts, the the younger generation is ALWAYS to blame.
There is deafening silence, when it comes to the voice of the carers. These people are the sandwich generation, whose children still expect some input from them. Emotionally, socially, sometimes financially too. Some of them/us even dare to dream of some joy for ourselves too.
Growing old in itself is no great achievement. I have reached 62, because I was born in 1958, and am still alive. I am sharp tongued and prickly now. If I survive another 20 years, I am unlikely to morph into a bland and cuddly old woman.
Dementia will probably make me more difficult to live with.Dementia does sometimes change the personality quite radically. But more often, it just removes the filters, and exposes thoughts that have been there all along.
Not all old people are demented. Some were bossy in their youth, and get bossier as they grow older. When challenged, the play the Age Card.
One deeply annoying and unhelpful Indian platitude is “Old people become like children, we only must adjust, no?”
Think about it…
If your child makes unreasonable demands, would you just meekly pander to their whims? Would you let them get away with being seriously rude to you?
There are some genuinely heroic carers who cheerfully and patiently deal with tantrums and harsh words from their elders. Hats off to them. I know many of them personally.
Sadly, there are also crocodile-tear commentators. Such people do not inconvenience themselves even one jot, but are full of sympathy for the supposed victims of uncaring carers. From the comfort of their armchairs, they coo “Aunty/Uncle…. if you are lonely, you can always ring and chat with me. Your son and daughter in law are probably too busy to talk to you.” Vulnerable old people fall for the sweet talk, and pour out their hearts to these gossip mongers. The primary carers do all the work, and are labelled Baddies.
There will never be any clear statistics about elders/parents who use emotional blackmail and passive aggression to send their adult children on guilt trips. The abuse is too subtle to show up on any radar. But my unscientific sample shows numerous examples of Indians in their 40s, whose single status is primarily due to the pressure to put their parents first. Marriages that do not happen, marriages under strain, marriages that break up. People who give up their own ambitions, chances of promotion, travel, even educational opportunities for their children….because grandpa develops chest pains if he cannot not get his way.
Where is the coverage of these injustices? The demoralising effect of demanding, domineering elders does not make interesting headlines. This is not as drastic as physical abuse, or dowry harrassment. But it is still injustice. People hurriedly change the subject, because it is boring and embarrassing to hear about households which are not all lovey-dovey.
Indian society needs to accept that respect has to be earned, not demanded. And that it has to be a two-way process. A parent-child relationship is not a commercial transaction. ” I carried you in my womb. You owe me a lifetime of blind obedience”.
A very wise friend once told me “That debt is repaid when you raise your own children. Everything else is goodwill and generosity”.
NRIs are particularly hit by lazy stereotyping. The media wheels out the tear-jerking Chitthi Aayi hai scenario – selfish, heartless son who abandons his parents to go earn big bucks in phoren.
Mischief making maamis boasting about THEIR perfect child, who bought them a 3 bed room flat in Mylapore, fully airconditioned. “I am.lucky, not all sons are so generous, poor X mami is still struggling in her small flat”
Mamas whose sons return to settle in India, because their visas run out. “MY son told his company they could keep their 6 figure salary …he refused to live far from the parents who worked so hard to educate him”
Take it all with a pinch of salt, gentle reader. There are always several sides to each story.
Immigrant or expat?
What kind of Pravaasi??
I have been following an interesting debate on British media.
The Left-leaning papers agree that there is a distinct whiff of racism and snobbery in the way these words are used.
The literal meanings are quite neutral.
An immigrant is a person who migrates into another country.
Opposite of emigrant ie one who leaves his/her “native” country.
“Native” is a confusing word.
Not always synonymous with birthplace/janmaboomi.
Some of us were born where our parents lived at the time.
British “comedian” Bernard Manning argued that a dog does not become a horse just because it is born in a stable.
There are some in Britain who refuse to see why that “joke” might be perceived as racist.
Still a minority, but who knows where Brexit will lead?
But let us assume you were born in your “native place”.
Then, you move to a different country and make a home there.
If you were born in a third world country and move to an affluent one…you are an immigrant.
Poor AND brown/black. Definitely immigrant.
Before the influx from Eastern Europe, many white Britons assumed that whites are never immigrants .
Racists have had to rethink their definitions in recent years.
Expat is short for expatriate.
One who has moved out of his/her patria ie parental country.
As in “Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.”
(Sweet and fitting it is, to die for your fatherland)
If you are a rich and/or posh Brit who decides to go live in Monaco or the Bahamas, you are an Expat.
Never an immigrant.
If you are a middle or working class white Brit who has a villa in Spain….
Still expat, not immigrant.
You do not even have to learn the local lingo – just speak English loudly, clearly and patronisingly.
But hang on…
Most people in my social circle do not fit tidily into either category.
Skin : brown
Tax bracket : often 40% +
Quick to point out that every penny is hard earned , not scrounged.
My views on that are not B&W.
But right now, I’m discussing the words immigrants and expats.
Not privilege or denial.
Or disingenuous.
What should we call ourselves?
Many of us come from privileged, elite Indian families, and are used to looking down our noses at “ordinary” folk.
We are khaas, not aam.
People bow down to US.
Not the other way round.
Some have lots of money “back home”.
Others have had generations of “high status” , based on caste, education, high prestige jobs, fluency in English….whatever.
If you think the Brits are Top Snobs…. you have obviously not interacted with enough Posh Indians.
When it comes to casually assuming that one is superior to everyone else in the room…..
We take the cake….and the curry 🙄
So, from now on, I shall refer to myself as an expat.
The neighbourhood racist may think I’m just another immigrant.
And that I fast for Ramadan.
But inside my immigrant exterior, there beats an Expat heart.
I have brinjals on my brain.
Why?
Because one of the strangest rules of Iyer orthodoxy is the ban on brinjal and moringa/drumsticks on holy days.
Why?
Because they vaguely resemble foods that do not grow on plants.
Other plant-based foods are banned altogether. Mainly because they either did not grow in the Kaveri Delta in the 1930s, or were eaten by “common” people.
Mushroom, lauki, red spinach, poi sag, potol. All👎
Beetroot is slowly making inroads into orthodox kitchens, as it has “health benefits”. Ditoo ivy gourd(kundru/dondekkai)
“Hers not to question why
Hers but to cook and fry” 😉
Brinjal. Indish word, as far as I know.
Known to British shoppers as aubergine.
American Iyers call it egg-plant.😱
Relax.
Yaggoo is allowed, if it is paid for in daalars. $$
Whether they eat it on Ekadashi, I have no idea.
I avoid discussing food with certain American Iyers.
Carbs’n’Quinoa talk is not good for my mental health.
Triggers homicidal rage 😉
Not everyone takes to aubergine.
But it is a favourite in our household.
Tastes good in everything from bharta to lasagne to mousakka to rasavangi to vangibhaat to baba ghanoush.
Greeks and Bengalis also love it, so the girls did not need any induction.
I like a splash of good mustard oil in my bharta.
The rest of the family reacts with horror and Shiva Shivaa.
Including the young lady who was Ms Bhattacharjee before she became Mrs Narayan 🙄
So I use a smidgeon on Coleman’s English Mustard in the main dish, and drizzle some mustard oil onto my share.
The wordnerd in me could not resist a little etymological research.
Both brinjal and aubergine are derived from the Portuguese beringela.
Which is turn is a variation of Arabic al-badinjan.
Which came from the Sanskrit vatimgana, via Persian.
Brinjal is a globe-trotter, like Aesop’s fables 😉
I am told that the Sanskrit word literally translates as wind-gone.
Much traditional medicine is preoccupied with ridding the body of nasty stuff… especially vayu(wind).
Me, personally… I’d rather enjoy the taste while I eat, rather than think of the benefits at the other end.
A Bengali relative once asked
“Is this an Iyer obsession?”
Nope.
It is pan-Indian.
Have you seen the film Piku?
I rest my case.
As for the aubergine’s vegetarian credentials…
A British-Kannadiga friend served fish fingers to her children.
“What is that, cutlet?” asked visiting vegetarian mother in law.
“Howdu. Neer badnekai” (water-aubergine)
Now British vegans eat banana blossom fishy-pie and jackfruit pepperoni.
25 years ago, Indians already knew about Faking It😉
Eating out is not just about food.
My generation can usually rustle up a meal that is healthier and tastier than what most restaurants can offer.
Cheaper too, obviously.
But the whole idea is to rise above mundane practicality.
Eating out with friends or visiting relatives is a way of sharing a meal in neutral territory. The hard work is outsourced, and everyone is relaxed enough to be good company.
Eating out on special occasions is to make the person/ people feel like valued VIPs, at least for the day.
Delhi, Kolkata, Mumbai and Bengaluru embraced eat-out culture long before traditional Mylapore society did.
Not just those who physically lived in Mylapore; but also those whose minds were Mylapore… regardless of where their body lived.
I remember the time when it was still rather scandalous to be seen eating in a restaurant( fondly known as woe-tell)
One elderly couple, whose children had all settled in the US.
The mama and mami were great fans of classical music. They often walked down to one of the many concert halls in the area, listened to a recital, ate some idli in the canteen, took an auto-rickshaw back home at around 9pm.
The poor mami was written off as slovenly(thuppu illathavaL) and shameless; mama as henpecked and shameless.
“Imagine, at their age, swanning around concert halls after dark, and eating in woe-tells because she is too lazy to cook at home”.
In Kolkata, KomaLa Vilas in Lake Market was one of the earliest idli-vada-dosa places.
In the early 1970s, it was OK to go to the store section and buy freshly roasted coffee beans or freshly milled coffee powder.
But to eat at the attached canteen ??
A relative told me this story about two of her Lake Market neighbours.
Neighbour #1 was sitting and enjoying a hearty Sunday breakfast with her husband and children.
Neighbour #2 “Yenna mami, tippan-ah?”
ie I notice you are eating out?
Neighbour #1 “Illey mami. YeNNai taytchu kuLikkireyn”
No, dear. I’m enjoying an oil massage and steam bath”.
If you did not get that joke…it is because you lack those vital Tanjavur-Trichy genes that help process killer sarcasm and crushing put-downs 😉
In my age group, the bulk of the cooking is still done by the lady of the house.
A meal out is shorthand for
“You deserve time off on your special day”
The actual food is a bonus…what makes it special is the opportunity to be top priority, to be off-duty, to dress in impractical clothes, to be Cinderella at the ball rather than at the fireside.
Eating at woe-tells out of neccessity is one thing.
When I see lonely young techies(of any gender) chomp through a solitary meal at “home-style” eateries….I want to hug them, take them home and make them hot dosa and filter kapi, as I do for my kids.
Will probably get arrested if I actually do so.
“Deranged Aunty kidnaps software engineer in Silicon City”🙄
To eat out as an indulgence, that is completely different.
Weekends mean nothing, if you have not worked during the week.
Not everybody will understand the disproportionate joy I feel when the cheese’n’tom sandwich is brought to my table by a smiley assistant…and I have not had to buy the bread, justify my choice of bread, buy the tomatoes, make sure there are no older tomatoes in the fridge, slice the tomatoes, buy the cheese, grate the cheese, make sure cheese packet is correctly resealed, grind the pepper, cut the sandwich, wash the chopping board, wipe the worktop etc etc etc
Never underestimate the morale boosting powers of the simplest meal out 😂
I speak as a person who has NOT solved all her own problems…anxiety, insomnia, IBS, mood swings, BMI threatening to move from merely Overweight to actually Obese,Type 2 diabetes..to name a few 🙄
But my gut instinct tells me it is unhealthy and unrealistic to rely on any ONE magic wand.
In practice, I am not a great role model or advertisement for ideal lifestyle choices .
But I do stand by my belief in the theory that we need variety and moderation, rather than evangelical belief in a single miracle solution….whether that is gym, yoga, meditation, religion, talk therapy, restricted diet, tulsi tea, apple cider vinegar, quinoa, whatever…..
Each one of these may well have benefits.
But to suggest that any one of them will help with your Hb1Ac as well as your spare tyre, squint, bad manners and paranoia…
Insult to intelligence?
Willing suspension of disbelief?
Many in my circle are first generation immigrants with hyphenated Indian identities.
Interersting how each of us has a unique blend of desi and Western tastes that works for us.
Sometimes, it is a mixture…..completely British or American at work, completely Indian at home. And other times, there are various shades of chemical compounds and fusion. A lot depends on how we lived and thought before we left India.
Contrary to what some of our white friends may imagine, we did not all leave behind one homogenous lifestyle , speaking “Hindu” and eating curry night and day.
I find most of my East-West choices relate to language, food, and music.
I grew up feeling quite comfortable in English, Hindi, Tamil and Bangla.
The English I learnt at school was a standardised Indian Convent language, with a smattering of local accent and vocab, depending on the location of each specific convent. Big Doc has absorbed some of these, and recently described someone as “Quite Bhodrow” ie civilised/refined 😂
On a tangent…
Thanks, Aditi Roy Ghatak for showing that a w helps to guide readers to the correct vowel sound. Otherwise, we get abominations like Call-Kata. GRRR
I had access to the very best of English books, and occasionally to cassette tapes on loan from the British Council. Pre TV, pre internet. No access to British tabloids or regional accents or Street Slang.
Indian society is hierarchical. So is Indian education. The actual pecking order is not always unanimous. A may feel superior to B, and vice versa. It is my subjective view that my teachers taught me the best English available in India.
Also, all 4 of my grandparents could read and speak English. My mum’s branch of the family were/are particularly Westernised in their speech.
So I have very little excuse to speak or write grammatically wrong English.
And definitely no right to make fun of people with different lingustic backrounds.
Laugh WITH …🤣
Laugh AT …NO!😡
Be prepared to receive as well as to give…Difficult, but only fair.
What I consider top layer convent and ‘public’ schools…they taught a dialect that was pretty close to RP/BBC English of the 1950s and 60s. We were trained to think directly in English, rather to to translate in our heads. During school hours, except during Hindi lessons, we were expected to speak only English.
Not all English-medium schools foster idiomatic English that can be used internationally. Most of them offer high quality education, especially in Maths and science. But the English their students speak is very strongly influenced by the home or local language, producing a multitude of Indish dialects. These are colourful and eloquant, and valid within India. But sometimes not fully intelligible to people outside.
Even very competent Indian doctors sometimes speak of having a conservatory in the backside.
Many British doctors and their spouses come from very moneyed backgrounds “back home”. That comes with an inbuilt level of confidence-bordering-on-arrogance.
This lot assume there is no room for their English to improve.
So they just pin on an upper crust accent but carry on using Indish terms that baffle many English people.
Notably “Passed out” to describe their year of graduation.
They also happily mispronounce words and names from all Indian regions except their own little froggy-well.
And then, there are those whose life in India did not involve speaking much English. Contrary to what some posh Indians think…..this does not mean they are any less intelligent or competent. Culturally, they are often miles ahead of metropolitan English speakers. I am very grateful to my father and to Jadavpur Uni….for teaching me to respect Indian languages, and never to confuse social polish with actual content.
When people come come over to the UK with minimal English , they learn their idiom from the people around them. Very often, they pick up regional English accents, because they have less to unlearn. And they tend to use more fillers like Y’know, Know what I mean, To be honest with you, Like, etc.
With food too, the level of adaptation varies hugely.
I grew up on a basic diet of simple, nutrititious Tambrahm cuisine.
Competitive gourmet cooking was not a priority in my family, nor were labour-intensive festival feasts.
But we were enthusiatic eaters-out. We travelled a lot, and ate at dhabas and restaurants.My parents had friends from a wide range of backgrounds. Both vegetarian, but no hangups about the caste or religion . So we learnt to appreciate authentic regional home cookery, and the stories behind each dish. Pizza and pasta were not so freely available then. But we did enjoy “continental” foods like the veg baked in cheese’n’ cream.
Fortunately, Big Doc is also a Foodie sans Frontiers . We taught our boys to actively enjoy different foods, not just tolerate them and yearn for rasam while in Rome. Both are enthusiastic home cooks as well as discerning eaters-out.
But that is not universal amongst our fellow NRIs.
In the early days, it surprised me when a high earning lady doctor …..who wore skirts to work, and drove an expensive car…still struggled terribly to eat a meal that was not from her specific region in India. I have watched people smother their pasta or jacket potato in chilli flakes and tabasco sauce.
And there I was… greasy haired non earner, non driver, most comfortable in Indian clothes ..yet completely relaxed about un-Indianised Welsh or Italian or Moroccan cuisine.
Took me a long time to realise that I was making a false correlation between clothing, earnings and openness to unfamiliar foods.
Perhaps women who were forced to underplay their Indianness in the workplace, felt the urge to overplay it at the dining table.
I have learnt to accept that the majority of British Indians will go into an Italian or Chinese restaurant and choose the spiciest item on the menu. And then add extra jalepano, chilli flakes, chilli oil . It happens within India too….Cabbage and potol in samburr, curry leaf in chholey aka channa masala..
Whattodoo mantra helps me to keep the rants within some limits. 😉
I hit the wall when it comes to music.
My tastes set in concrete before I was out of my teens.
I love Mozart. But when I listen to the original I still hear Itna na mujhse tu pyar badhaa. All symphony orchestras remind me of Raj Kapoor. Menuhin of Lalgudi Jayaraman and Ravi Shankar.
After the severe scolding from Sridhar, I know a lttle bit about hiphop and rap music. But you will not find me simmering sambhar with those lyrics playing in the background.
Carnatic music, I admire hugely. But my understanding is shallow. Only a few selected pieces move me to tears… MS singing Akhilandeshwari, MLV’s Venkatachala Nilayam amongst them. Often, I sit ignorantly through concerts, ogling the Kanjeevaram saris and breathing in that heady cocktail of jasmine strands and pilter kapi rather than triumphantly slapping my thigh when I count the tala cycle correctly
At 60, I cry over the same music that moved me at 16.
Golden Oldie Bollywood…Talat, Saigal, Mukesh, Geeta Dutt, Suraiya.
Semi classical and ghazals. Girija Devi, Begum Akhtar.
Hindustani classical..Abdul Karim Khan, Bade Ghulam Ali Khan…Younger artists, I enjoy. But I like timeless classical more than fusion, when I hear Kaushiki Chakraborty sing both.
Not one single pop, or rock band…though I do like jazz. The only English lyrics close to my heart are songs by Paul Robeson.
Many of my friends in India were as into Beatles and Abba as any British born teenager of the time. Just that I was born old…an youth culture never appealed to me 😬
Resolved not to be so judgemental about those who masalfy ALL their food.
It takes all sorts!
It is not that I do not want to be more open about music.
Just not “abling”.
My cousins Vijay and Jai stayed with us for a few months, around 1967. Their father was on an international fellowship. Their mother had the chance to join him for the second half of his stay.
The two younger cousins Sudha Subrahmanyam and Sanjay went over to Bengaluru so our maternal grandparents could look after them. But V&J were in High School, and needed to stay on in Delhi.
Our household had moved to South Extension by then. My brother, my parents, paternal grandparents, and two uncles who were much younger than my dad. Add two teenage boys to that…..a LOT of food was cooked in that kitchen, with hot rotis often from the tandoor at the end of our street.
Vijay was (and still is!)a very kind and caring Big Brother. So is Jai…but never as transparent as V.
Back in 1967…J told me he had special powers.
Look, he even had a soap with his name on it. Had I ever seen a Saras or Chachu soap? No.
Was there any Raghu soap or a Vijay soap? No and No . Just Jai.
So, I should listen to him, and have some respect.
I am not sure his children will approve of the Romantic Fragrance.
But I need to have my revenge for being conned half a century ago.
PS Jai soap was a Tata product 😉
Because I have no clearly defined “home town” or “native place”….
I am free to love different places in different ways, without feeling too much guilt.
Global person, me.
But also Indian, Tanj-Iyer, Delhi-wali, Kolkatan, British, Northern/Yorkshire.
And Bengaluru resident. Part time, at least.
India is a hierarchical society.
Pecking orders are all important, even now.
Each city/ region thinks it is so obviously and vastly superior to all others…what is to even discuss?
Bengaluru, formerly Bangalore.
I have a huge amount of affection for this city…both past and present.
Memories of idyllic childhood summer holidays. Both my parents have many relatives with strong Bengaluru connections…some dating back to nearly a century.
It was not a random choice when we considered a place for our India Base.
Both of Big Doc’s sisters have flats in B’luru, and several of his cousins live there.
The weather is a huge factor.
And relative freedom from the entrenched attitudes which suffocate us in Mylapore.
(That is specific to our immediate circle…not necessarily a judgement of Mylapore as a whole. )
So..
I am Bangalorian, like President Kennedy was ein Berliner.
Even though my Kannada is still shamefully poor. The spouse has joined Kannada lessons. Sadly, I have missed this course.
But there is always a semi- before the name of the city…Semi-Bangalorean, Semi-Kolkatan. My identity is inevitably hyphenated. That helps me look in from the outside, as well as the other way round.
With Kolkata…things are quite simple.
Those not in love with the city, think it is the ultimate in chaos and shabbiness.
Native Kolkatans think the rest of India can go jump…too philistine to even show up on their radar. Can’t even say the name propaadly🙄🙄
Delhi has the arrogance of a capital city, compounded by a certain amount of Hindi Chauvinism. Tambrahms from Delhi feel superior to those from Deep Dark South. Sprinkle their Tamil liberally with Hindi words, to make sure they are not mistaken for Mayiladuthurai Madrassi. 😉
Bangalore has the most interesting mix of perceptions.
In my family, certainly, the Bangalore branches saw themselves as more modern, liberal and cosmopolitan than their Chennai bretheren.
Many Old Bangaloreans assume they are just born superior to the rest of the human race. Undisputed Fact…why this talk of perception and all?
Sadly, not everyone shares that view.
I know a young Tambrahm woman who grew up in Bengaluru, and married a Matunga Iyer.
Apparently, her mother in law had initially worried about the match….would a Bengaluru girl be modern enough for her Mumbai raised Princeling?
The girl’s mother told me her side of the story.
“Hehehe they were not sure if she’d be modern enough! This is Bangalore. Not some corner of Trichy or Tanjavur. We have so many pubs here!”
Whattosay situation. 😂🤣
Keep your mouth shut Mrs N. Just file this info in your head.
Quote about the English is even more true about Indians.
Random Rambles 