"Be proud of your country, Bhikku. What else have you got to be proud of, anyway?"
-- The Diary, July 4, 503 BC
My friend A~ and I were at the gym the other day. We were about to play badminton.
A~: "Dei, let's start. Luvvaal"
B~: "Wait, wait. These cocks are bad. I'll go buy some from the front desk"
A~: "Chee, chee. Why do you want to waste money? I have more cocks, machi. They are in your dickie."
B~: "Maplai, the car is like 1 mile away, da. We didn't get paarrking, remember?"
A~: "Yeah, but the gym's cocks are 1 dollar each."
B~: "Really? Let's go to the car."
As we started walking towards the car, I noticed two white guys, giggling. As always, the sight filled me with a mixture of disgust and pity. Here they were, sniggering at us because we are cheap, we have funny accents and we say cock and dickie instead of birdie and boot. Alas! If only they could count! They would have realized that of the 25 people in the gym, 3 were white, and 22 were brown. If they had looked around a little more, they would also have realized that the gym was only a miniature of the new New World. Aye! The natives dont' realize it yet, but we have outbred them. We have won the Battle of the Baybee. We have colonized the West. New Jersey, Houston, Dallas and San Francisco, I am proud to say, are now part of Greater Tamil Nadu.
And yet, I am deeply consternated, if that's the word I'm looking for. I look below the glossy surface of our triumph, and I see that it is shallow. We rule over Whitey, but we do not behave like Kings. If a gora sahib in 19th century Brownistan wanted roast beef, he would have whipped our brown asses till we made it right. And now, when it's our turn, we merely stand in line and squeal, "Yexcuse me, could you pleeese change your gloves? I yam strict vegetarian. He, he. It is not religious, it is just cultural. Actually, hehe, I'm allergic to meat. Thank you verry much." Verily, I declare, that we are hyenas, not lions. We might have power, but we don't have pride. Indeed, when I look around myself, I see only two kinds of brown people:
1. those who want to be white, and
2. those who think they already are.
Between the two of them, these two groups have caused untold damage to our psyche. They have tarnished our image on the world stage. Brownistan is a crowded, caste-ridden hellhole, they say. It is a conveyor belt churning out an endless chain of software-writing neanderthals, they claim. Brownistan lacks justice and respect for human rights, they aver. Worst of all, they announce to everyone who would listen, that we eat with our fingers, and we do not use toilet paper.
I am a peacable man, but my blood boils at such vicious slander. I like Brownistan. Brownistan is like my neighbour's dog--it is very charming, from a distance. And now, with two oceans separating me from Brownistan, my patriotic fervor is virtually boundless. I am proud of Brownistan and I am proud of Browniyat, our beautiful way of life. The Whitey-worshipping gaddars are telling you, gentle reader, that brown skin is a thing of shame. Au contraire, brown skin is a blessing, a gift from the Gods, a passport to Jannat, as I shall conclusively prove now.
The good thing about being brown, of course, is that one can say whatever one wants. Firstly, firangis don't understand our accent, so they have no clue what we are saying about their parentage. Secondly, even if they do understand, they can't possibly take offense. Whatever it is we are accusing them of, we are probably doing it ourselves anyway. And finally, Whitey would rather kill himself than admit that a brown man looks down on him. So even if he were offended, he has to be polite. We don't. We have carte blanche, Whitey does not. He cannot even call a kettle black. He has to call it African American. We, on the other hand, can call a kettle a coolie, a nigger, an urgly black-ass modher, because we are all of the above.
If you still don't believe me, consider the tragic case of Dean Jones, the hero of that Chennai Test. Last week, he was heard on air, calling the South African cricketer Hashim Amla a terrorist. Let it be said that he had ample justification. If you take a photo of Amla, place it beside a photo of bin Laden, you'll see only one difference. bin Laden has a moustache, Amla does not. The difference is subtle. After all, a beard that size will probably hide nukular warheads, leave alone a teeny-weeny moustache. Little wonder then, that, Deano used the T-word. He deserved reassurance and a shot of Prozac. Instead, he was accused of racism and kicked out of his cush commentary job. Some people think it happened because Deano is a bigot. Some others think it happened because Deano is stupid. Bakwaas! Navjot Sidhu is both narrow-minded and stupid, but nobody ever fires him. The real difference is that Sidhu is brown, so nobody thinks he has any reason to feel superior to anyone.
There's more. Not only are we brownies free to say whatever we want, we are also completely free from fear. The white man has everything, so he is afraid he'll lose something. We brownies have nothing, so we are completely unafraid. We know life probably won't get worse than it is. When there is a bomb blast in Sri Lanka, the entire South African cricket team does susu in its nijaar and flies right back to the comforts of home. The Indian cricket team stays on, because as Rahul Dravid says, "Life isn't perfect." It is not that Dravid is braver. It is just that he doesn't even feel the need for bravery. The white man suspects his neighbour might be a terrorist and is afraid he might be killed. The brown man knows that his neighbour probably is a terrorist, but he also knows that the bomb probably won't go off. And so it is that knowledge sets us free.
To fearlessness, add stoicism. Bad things do happen to brown people; but when they do, we shrug and move on, for we know we're only paying off karma dues from previous janmas. When my white neighbour's dog stopped making poo-poo for one day, the entire family needed therapy. That same day, my friend S~'s wife eloped with a car mechanic. S~ just chuckled and said, "I must have been a bad-ass dude last time around, man. Heck, I must have kicked ass. That life was the life. This life is nothing."
The greatest thing about Browniyat, however, is not our freedom to talk, nor our fearlessness, not yet our sunny nature. Nay! The greatest thing is that (i) we can produce babies with almost no sex, just by pure will and the grace of the Lord, (ii) we know it, and (iii) we say so, in that most beautiful language, Hindi.
Three days back, United 943 took off from Washington DC, the capital of Gaad-Bless-Amezhica. Its mission was to transport a lot of free white people from DC to London, the capital of Amezhica's richest colony. One of its passengers was a 60 year-old white woman. She had been practising Kundalini yoga, and like all people who do so, she was determined to get in touch with her Inner Self, even if she had to kill half the world for it. As it turns out, she was claustrophobic, i.e., she was afraid of closed, crowded spaces. Naturally, she chose to overcome her fear by boarding a small, crowded plane. Her guru, after all, had told her to confront her fear. So she hopped into United 943, thinking it will take her to Nirvana.
It did not. It only made her afraid and nauseous. Like all white people suffering from nausea, she screamed, and threatened to douse her neighbour in nail polish. Like all white people threatened with nail polish, her neighbour thought he was going to die in the next five minutes, and squealed. Like all white people who hear other white people squealing, the passengers of United 943 thought they were being attacked by Muslim fanatics who hate their freedom to drink Diet Coke. Promptly, they called in the military. The military send in F16 fighter jets, which accompanied United 943 to the Boston Logan airport, where it landed.
The word got around to Brownistan, and caused great amusement. Reporters went out into the city to find out what people thought about the matter. One of them cornered Yendukulapatti Srinivasa Rao, known as YSR, who was travelling on a crowded Hyderabad bus. Right at that moment, YSR's privates were being crushed by a somewhat thick-set man who was being thrown into him every time the bus bumped into a pothole. But YSR did not feel claustrophic, or afraid of death, or concerned about the future. He knew that mere pressure will not take his system to production stop. He winced with pain, but overall, he was feeling good. Just then the reporter asked him about the United 943 incident. YSR smiled, "East or west, India is best. We are not afraid of yennything. We will be great nation." Both the reporter and YSR smiled. The moment was happy enough, but then, something happened which can only happen in a land that has an ancient culture, and can express its erudition in that most beautiful of languages, Hindi. YSR started singing. He sang, softly but firmly, in his slightly husky voice:
"Saare Jahaan se accha,
Banaate hain baccha.
Hum bulbulein hain uski,
Phat gayi Nirodh jiski..."
Everyone in the bus stood to attention. "Jai Hind," they cried.
Believe it, gentle reader. Whitey don't have nothing on us. We rule.
-- The Diary, July 4, 503 BC
My friend A~ and I were at the gym the other day. We were about to play badminton.
A~: "Dei, let's start. Luvvaal"
B~: "Wait, wait. These cocks are bad. I'll go buy some from the front desk"
A~: "Chee, chee. Why do you want to waste money? I have more cocks, machi. They are in your dickie."
B~: "Maplai, the car is like 1 mile away, da. We didn't get paarrking, remember?"
A~: "Yeah, but the gym's cocks are 1 dollar each."
B~: "Really? Let's go to the car."
As we started walking towards the car, I noticed two white guys, giggling. As always, the sight filled me with a mixture of disgust and pity. Here they were, sniggering at us because we are cheap, we have funny accents and we say cock and dickie instead of birdie and boot. Alas! If only they could count! They would have realized that of the 25 people in the gym, 3 were white, and 22 were brown. If they had looked around a little more, they would also have realized that the gym was only a miniature of the new New World. Aye! The natives dont' realize it yet, but we have outbred them. We have won the Battle of the Baybee. We have colonized the West. New Jersey, Houston, Dallas and San Francisco, I am proud to say, are now part of Greater Tamil Nadu.
And yet, I am deeply consternated, if that's the word I'm looking for. I look below the glossy surface of our triumph, and I see that it is shallow. We rule over Whitey, but we do not behave like Kings. If a gora sahib in 19th century Brownistan wanted roast beef, he would have whipped our brown asses till we made it right. And now, when it's our turn, we merely stand in line and squeal, "Yexcuse me, could you pleeese change your gloves? I yam strict vegetarian. He, he. It is not religious, it is just cultural. Actually, hehe, I'm allergic to meat. Thank you verry much." Verily, I declare, that we are hyenas, not lions. We might have power, but we don't have pride. Indeed, when I look around myself, I see only two kinds of brown people:
1. those who want to be white, and
2. those who think they already are.
Between the two of them, these two groups have caused untold damage to our psyche. They have tarnished our image on the world stage. Brownistan is a crowded, caste-ridden hellhole, they say. It is a conveyor belt churning out an endless chain of software-writing neanderthals, they claim. Brownistan lacks justice and respect for human rights, they aver. Worst of all, they announce to everyone who would listen, that we eat with our fingers, and we do not use toilet paper.
I am a peacable man, but my blood boils at such vicious slander. I like Brownistan. Brownistan is like my neighbour's dog--it is very charming, from a distance. And now, with two oceans separating me from Brownistan, my patriotic fervor is virtually boundless. I am proud of Brownistan and I am proud of Browniyat, our beautiful way of life. The Whitey-worshipping gaddars are telling you, gentle reader, that brown skin is a thing of shame. Au contraire, brown skin is a blessing, a gift from the Gods, a passport to Jannat, as I shall conclusively prove now.
The good thing about being brown, of course, is that one can say whatever one wants. Firstly, firangis don't understand our accent, so they have no clue what we are saying about their parentage. Secondly, even if they do understand, they can't possibly take offense. Whatever it is we are accusing them of, we are probably doing it ourselves anyway. And finally, Whitey would rather kill himself than admit that a brown man looks down on him. So even if he were offended, he has to be polite. We don't. We have carte blanche, Whitey does not. He cannot even call a kettle black. He has to call it African American. We, on the other hand, can call a kettle a coolie, a nigger, an urgly black-ass modher, because we are all of the above.
If you still don't believe me, consider the tragic case of Dean Jones, the hero of that Chennai Test. Last week, he was heard on air, calling the South African cricketer Hashim Amla a terrorist. Let it be said that he had ample justification. If you take a photo of Amla, place it beside a photo of bin Laden, you'll see only one difference. bin Laden has a moustache, Amla does not. The difference is subtle. After all, a beard that size will probably hide nukular warheads, leave alone a teeny-weeny moustache. Little wonder then, that, Deano used the T-word. He deserved reassurance and a shot of Prozac. Instead, he was accused of racism and kicked out of his cush commentary job. Some people think it happened because Deano is a bigot. Some others think it happened because Deano is stupid. Bakwaas! Navjot Sidhu is both narrow-minded and stupid, but nobody ever fires him. The real difference is that Sidhu is brown, so nobody thinks he has any reason to feel superior to anyone.
There's more. Not only are we brownies free to say whatever we want, we are also completely free from fear. The white man has everything, so he is afraid he'll lose something. We brownies have nothing, so we are completely unafraid. We know life probably won't get worse than it is. When there is a bomb blast in Sri Lanka, the entire South African cricket team does susu in its nijaar and flies right back to the comforts of home. The Indian cricket team stays on, because as Rahul Dravid says, "Life isn't perfect." It is not that Dravid is braver. It is just that he doesn't even feel the need for bravery. The white man suspects his neighbour might be a terrorist and is afraid he might be killed. The brown man knows that his neighbour probably is a terrorist, but he also knows that the bomb probably won't go off. And so it is that knowledge sets us free.
To fearlessness, add stoicism. Bad things do happen to brown people; but when they do, we shrug and move on, for we know we're only paying off karma dues from previous janmas. When my white neighbour's dog stopped making poo-poo for one day, the entire family needed therapy. That same day, my friend S~'s wife eloped with a car mechanic. S~ just chuckled and said, "I must have been a bad-ass dude last time around, man. Heck, I must have kicked ass. That life was the life. This life is nothing."
The greatest thing about Browniyat, however, is not our freedom to talk, nor our fearlessness, not yet our sunny nature. Nay! The greatest thing is that (i) we can produce babies with almost no sex, just by pure will and the grace of the Lord, (ii) we know it, and (iii) we say so, in that most beautiful language, Hindi.
Three days back, United 943 took off from Washington DC, the capital of Gaad-Bless-Amezhica. Its mission was to transport a lot of free white people from DC to London, the capital of Amezhica's richest colony. One of its passengers was a 60 year-old white woman. She had been practising Kundalini yoga, and like all people who do so, she was determined to get in touch with her Inner Self, even if she had to kill half the world for it. As it turns out, she was claustrophobic, i.e., she was afraid of closed, crowded spaces. Naturally, she chose to overcome her fear by boarding a small, crowded plane. Her guru, after all, had told her to confront her fear. So she hopped into United 943, thinking it will take her to Nirvana.
It did not. It only made her afraid and nauseous. Like all white people suffering from nausea, she screamed, and threatened to douse her neighbour in nail polish. Like all white people threatened with nail polish, her neighbour thought he was going to die in the next five minutes, and squealed. Like all white people who hear other white people squealing, the passengers of United 943 thought they were being attacked by Muslim fanatics who hate their freedom to drink Diet Coke. Promptly, they called in the military. The military send in F16 fighter jets, which accompanied United 943 to the Boston Logan airport, where it landed.
The word got around to Brownistan, and caused great amusement. Reporters went out into the city to find out what people thought about the matter. One of them cornered Yendukulapatti Srinivasa Rao, known as YSR, who was travelling on a crowded Hyderabad bus. Right at that moment, YSR's privates were being crushed by a somewhat thick-set man who was being thrown into him every time the bus bumped into a pothole. But YSR did not feel claustrophic, or afraid of death, or concerned about the future. He knew that mere pressure will not take his system to production stop. He winced with pain, but overall, he was feeling good. Just then the reporter asked him about the United 943 incident. YSR smiled, "East or west, India is best. We are not afraid of yennything. We will be great nation." Both the reporter and YSR smiled. The moment was happy enough, but then, something happened which can only happen in a land that has an ancient culture, and can express its erudition in that most beautiful of languages, Hindi. YSR started singing. He sang, softly but firmly, in his slightly husky voice:
"Saare Jahaan se accha,
Banaate hain baccha.
Hum bulbulein hain uski,
Phat gayi Nirodh jiski..."
Everyone in the bus stood to attention. "Jai Hind," they cried.
Believe it, gentle reader. Whitey don't have nothing on us. We rule.
