Generally, a person’s identity is deeply rooted in where one belongs. Sometimes this sense of belonging is a given but in an increasingly fluid urban space, there is also the impression of choice that comes into play. Believe it or not, even after all these years in Delhi, I still face the difficulty of being accepted as a person of the city despite accessing all kinds of rights, including the electoral franchise. I am still asked “Where are you from?” when out on the streets or meeting new people. When I answer factually, saying, “I’m from south Delhi,” they ask the same question a second time with stress on “where”. Then I understand that they wish to know which state I belong to, if not which country!
Thankfully, today most people’s mental map of India includes a region called the Northeast; but when I was a student, I often got into endless bouts of explaining that Manipur or Nagaland are not somewhere in China or Thailand! This is the experience of many people from the Northeast, especially those with predominantly East Asian features. Some years ago the governor of Arunachal Pradesh, PB Acharya, while commenting on the general ignorance of the Indian public about the region, made an outrageous statement that caught some attention. He said, “…the people of India know more about America than the Northeast.” I believe it was not an outlandish statement but that it points to a truth that needs redressal and not dismissal. I can only hope that people are more informed nowadays.
However, even after locating the states of the region as part of the larger Indian imagination, another trouble remains – the acceptance of being from Delhi. Can a person from the Northeast belong to the city? One may say, it depends on how the individual approaches the question. But the question “Where are you from?” certainly has the aspect of “exclusion”. I don’t see such questions being asked of my friends, be they from Himachal Pradesh, West Bengal, Bihar, Rajasthan or other states. So I’ve now come to conclude that most people’s understanding of Delhi is of it being a place devoid of people who look “like” me.
What I mean is that I continue to meet more people who are willing to consider me “not” from Delhi than those who would accept me as one who has made Delhi his home. Hence, over the years, I’ve come to the conclusion that it would be easier for a person from across the northwestern border of India to pass off as an “Indian” in the capital than for a person from the Northeast to be accepted as fellow Indians. Given the nation’s geographical size and diversity, it seems quite possible for many groups to pass as other nationalities. I say this from the vantage point of being from a region with porous international borders. Just as cheap Chinese goods and illegal drugs get easy access through some of the favourable entry points of the region, the nationalities of people are also blurred. Even as the population of Northeast people grows in the capital city, another challenge looms large because they remain a visible minority owing to their physical features, which Sanjib Baruah calls “a battle over images”.
This, then, begs the question, “What does an Indian look like?” For a country like India, it’s difficult to project a single image of Indian-ness, even though there are concerted efforts to create a sort of homogenous entity. The mind-boggling cultural, linguistic and ethnic diversity defies all such attempts. Yet, despite valid concerns raised against creating homogeneity of the Indian identity, there are zealous proponents of such ideologies from time to time. Perhaps we’re living through a period of their dominance right now. However, this is not something new. I think for a long time now, some ideas of India seem to have sold better across the world. I remember my relatives in the US would often say that people there wouldn’t believe they were Indians; instead, they were treated as East Asians. So, clearly, elsewhere too, there seems to be a unique image of an Indian. Perhaps the debate around identity will take different shapes and sizes.
While this goes on, I’m reminded of a powerful poem, “What Does an Indian Look Like”, by Cherrie L Chhangte, a poet from Mizoram who critiqued the much-hyped notion of India’s diversity because it seems to provide lip service only. While lamenting that minorities are often “sidelined, side-tracked, side-stepped”, she ends on a satiric assertion:
I am a curiosity, an “ethnic” specimen.
— An Indian looks like me, an Indian is Me.
Politics, history, anthropology, your impressive learning,
All unable to answer the fundamental question –
“What does an Indian look like?”
Quite often, I find myself concerned about the safety of my family members. Unfortunately, even after staying in a neighbourhood for so many years, I do not really know others who stay in the vicinity. It feels strange, but this appears to be the case with most people. You just don’t know people around – no interactions, no socialising. Everybody is busy with their own life, work or other stuff. But there is also an uneasiness to being friendly because sometimes your friendliness can be misread. Perhaps the fear psychosis has gripped the social mindset to such a point that one is reduced to isolation. Or perhaps it’s an exceptional case with me/us feeling “unsafe”.
As a parent, I don’t let my kids step outside the door on their own, forget about letting them go down the building or onto the roadside near the building to play by themselves. When I was growing up in the hills of Manipur, we were always out on the streets with friends. Our parents were least bothered about our whereabouts, which is not to say that they weren’t concerned about us – but, instead, that used to be a socially conducive environment for children and the parents didn’t need to panic. The last time we went to visit my birthplace, one of my kids asked, “How is it that everyone knows you by name?” There was puzzlement in that question – a sense of incomprehensibility for the young mind. Needless to say, it springs from their own experience of growing up in the city where we often shield them. Yes, certainly, there is a difference in the milieu of the locality. But it nevertheless made me ask myself if the city creates its own fear syndrome?
I remember once I forgot that it was time to pick up my daughter from her school. My wife happened to call just about that time and upon realising it, she became really panicky. You can imagine what might be rushing through the mind of any parent in that situation – the “what ifs” – which can make you lose your heartbeat till the time you have your child right in front of you. The paranoia can be quite deadly!
Sometimes, looking from a little distance, I muse at the impatience of parents/guardians who wait at the school gates to pick up their wards. Their focus is quite acute as they look through the stream of kids flooding out. At times, the rush to pick up their kids is quite amusing, as though someone else would grab their children before they could, even though they hold their parent/guardian ID in their hand. Of course, one can understand the anxiety of parents as undesirable incidents get reported once in a while – kids being kidnapped right outside school or other unwelcome events involving kids. After all, why take chances? That also explains the heightened security measures in school vicinities, mostly by school authorities.
I think big cities like Delhi harbour a sense of danger at multiple levels. There is the fear of the unknown that can strike you anytime, which haunts life in the city. And for a visible minority like the Northeasterners, the anxiety of being reduced to an “easy target” adds to the fear even more. Almost on a daily basis they, especially the women, are teased on the streets, directly or indirectly. At times, it becomes obvious that predators try to take advantage of their vulnerability or “outsiderness”.
Excerpted with permission form ‘Edgy in the City’ by Veio Pou in But I Am One of You: Northeast India and the Struggle to Belong, edited by Samrat Choudhury and Preeti Gill, HarperCollins India.
