The stand-up comic at the Goa resort got me thinking. He did this marvelous bit on the German national character - ‘Precision’. An innocent query on a Hamburg street on how the payphone works will start with an instruction on finding the coin of an appropriate denomination in the pocket of your own trouser, go through a multi-level sequential analysis culminating in the climactic moment of “Hello, iz that Herr Gottdammerschtang….”, or something to that effect. And the French have that very French ‘its-France- after-all’ haute arrogance. Tell a French waiter it’s a beautiful day in Paris to set up a generally affectionate vibe and he will reply ‘mais oui monsieur, everyday in Paris is beautiful’ or try telling the guide that the Louvre is wonderful and he will stare into your soul to try and determine from which tribe of chimpanzees you have specifically descended, then shrug his shoulders and say “Ahh, but art is such a French thing anyway”. So what defines us Indians then? The stone of our character has been hewn and rounded into what beauteous shape by the steady flow of Gangetic influences?
Well, I think I may have the answer – The Indian character is focused on looking at the bright side of anything. And this should not surprise us. Our history can most aptly be titled ‘Chandulal and a series of unfortunate circumstances’ [or Abdul Fazal or Lemony Snicketts, Ramu Bhonsale, Gudda Naidu – just choose a name will you]. After you have been conquered, raped and pillaged by multiple civilisations – Mughal, Portuguese, British, Australian [kindly note recent cricket scores] you tend to lose your sense of humour but discover the bright side. As a civilisation serially pummeled by famines, floods, heat waves & cold snaps, film stars running you over with their SUVs, emergency, nasbandi, corruption, potholes, coalition politics, Godhra, Naxals, Chinese-building-sand-castles-outside-Arunachal-Pradesh-while-we-fiddle; anyone could lose their sense of humour but discover that intrinsically Indian silver lining expressed perfectly as “It could’ve been worse”.
Let me start with an innocent example – last night a gentle breeze caused the roof to cave in and your house collapsed [it happens, okay]. Next morning you share this calamity with the neighbours and that you managed to escape with just your shirt and pajamas. There would be an explosion of tragically commiserating noises and then – so lucky you are alive, your family of six and the mother-in-law all lived to tell the tale, good you escaped with your clothes on else the neighbours would have seen you naked and the wrinkles on your knees would have kept the Ladies club agog for months [after all, we cannot shred body parts too small to be seen with the naked eye]. You get the drift?
My entire family was wiped out under Salman’s Landcruiser at a Bandra pavement. Lucky you are a poor, starving sod – if you were wealthy and dining at the Taj Saif would have beaten your sorry a*** to soufflé and Kareena would have stiletto stamped your in-laws as a return gift, so lucky! So, the Indian character is forged of a metal that defines the optimistic side of a pessimist’s worst nightmare with hair on it.
I missed the flight because the traffic was murder, the potholes were tunnels to the centre of the Earth and every auto/ taxi driver enroute had a contract to exterminate me. So lucky you are – if you had reached in time Kingfisher would have cancelled the flight anyway without as much as an apology - leave alone a free refreshment coupon. Thank the almighty you got back home to some leftovers!
And so I conclude: just good enough maybe the enemy of perfection, but in India the bad that hits you between the eyes is just a tiny insurance premium you pay to avoid being gob smacked by the very worst. Now you might wonder how someone can write drivel like this and get away with it, but thank the Lord up above you lucky thing, just imagine if I had written a book on this subject and that had become your Psychology text book. Get it?
Well, I think I may have the answer – The Indian character is focused on looking at the bright side of anything. And this should not surprise us. Our history can most aptly be titled ‘Chandulal and a series of unfortunate circumstances’ [or Abdul Fazal or Lemony Snicketts, Ramu Bhonsale, Gudda Naidu – just choose a name will you]. After you have been conquered, raped and pillaged by multiple civilisations – Mughal, Portuguese, British, Australian [kindly note recent cricket scores] you tend to lose your sense of humour but discover the bright side. As a civilisation serially pummeled by famines, floods, heat waves & cold snaps, film stars running you over with their SUVs, emergency, nasbandi, corruption, potholes, coalition politics, Godhra, Naxals, Chinese-building-sand-castles-outside-Arunachal-Pradesh-while-we-fiddle; anyone could lose their sense of humour but discover that intrinsically Indian silver lining expressed perfectly as “It could’ve been worse”.
Let me start with an innocent example – last night a gentle breeze caused the roof to cave in and your house collapsed [it happens, okay]. Next morning you share this calamity with the neighbours and that you managed to escape with just your shirt and pajamas. There would be an explosion of tragically commiserating noises and then – so lucky you are alive, your family of six and the mother-in-law all lived to tell the tale, good you escaped with your clothes on else the neighbours would have seen you naked and the wrinkles on your knees would have kept the Ladies club agog for months [after all, we cannot shred body parts too small to be seen with the naked eye]. You get the drift?
My entire family was wiped out under Salman’s Landcruiser at a Bandra pavement. Lucky you are a poor, starving sod – if you were wealthy and dining at the Taj Saif would have beaten your sorry a*** to soufflé and Kareena would have stiletto stamped your in-laws as a return gift, so lucky! So, the Indian character is forged of a metal that defines the optimistic side of a pessimist’s worst nightmare with hair on it.
I missed the flight because the traffic was murder, the potholes were tunnels to the centre of the Earth and every auto/ taxi driver enroute had a contract to exterminate me. So lucky you are – if you had reached in time Kingfisher would have cancelled the flight anyway without as much as an apology - leave alone a free refreshment coupon. Thank the almighty you got back home to some leftovers!
And so I conclude: just good enough maybe the enemy of perfection, but in India the bad that hits you between the eyes is just a tiny insurance premium you pay to avoid being gob smacked by the very worst. Now you might wonder how someone can write drivel like this and get away with it, but thank the Lord up above you lucky thing, just imagine if I had written a book on this subject and that had become your Psychology text book. Get it?
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