Tuesday, March 31, 2009

An Unacknowledged Diaspora

The annals of world history do clearly record
The aftermath of Partition and the bloody discord
The violence, the horror, the grime and the gore
On trains that plied from Amritsar to Lahore

But not even a footnote in history’s dusty archives
Makes mention of the hundreds of thousands of lives
That were left to ponder their future and fate
Upon the creation of a new Indian state

For what would now the Anglo-Indian do
Under the rule of leaders, alien, hostile and new
Would he be allowed to continue, to play his part
As into an independent age, did this new nation start?

Or would he become an alien in his motherland
A stranger who did not to know where he could stand
In the hopes, aspirations and dreams of this new nation
Would he be allowed his colony and his railway station?

Or would he have to leave it all behind
And in a new nation, fame and fortune find
Could he continue to teach, dance and drive
Or, in the land of his birth, would he no longer thrive?

These questions must have accompanied every family meal
For apprehension, fear and doubt, he did surely feel
And, on the day, a nation was set free
He was fettered in the chains of uncertainty

And thus began a diaspora of which very few know
An event in our history that no archives show
The migration of “half-castes” to England and Australia,
With only pennies in their pockets and a lot to fear

Many, of course, chose to continue and stay
While they prayed for the ones who went away
To corners of the world, far and wide
From the railway colony that was once their joy, their pride

Of this exodus, no historian makes mention
Its impact on history seems to deserve no attention
But to a now fast dwindling community
It’s part of their history, their very identity.

Monday, March 30, 2009

AN ANGLO-INDIAN ICON

This poem is inspired by a recent photograph of the railway institute in Arkonam. I do not know if such is the state of railway institutes elsewhere in India. However, I am sure many in AJJ will relate to this poem.

I stand here now, lonely, lost and decrepit
For I no longer seem good enough and fit
To be the host of any joyful celebration
Such is my fate, such is my station.

Weddings I have hosted, many dances too
Under my eye, many lads and lasses grew
And at Chrismas time, I was so full of cheer
For it was the best time of the year

Alone and with heavy heart, I now recall
Crowning the May Queen, hosting the June ball
Watching parading lads and lasses in fancy dress
Smiling, when a priest, would another wedding cake bless

I was the heart and soul of any festive season
And to many people I was the reason
They could shout “Housie” or dance the night away
Or with fun and frolic, Wheel of Fortune, play

Yes, my red brick walls and my creaky wooden floor
Saw a wonderful, enterprising community grow
One that filled me with their music, cheer and dance
But, alas, now I am no longer given the chance

Which is why I can only stand here and simply cry
While the grass that does, around me, wither and dry
And wonder where all those people have now gone
As I gaze out at the railway tracks, with a memory forlorn

Yes, as the trains whizz past, taking people here and there
I can only silently stand, gaze and stare
At a period in time, when I could proudly boast
That, of the entire town, I was the toast

So, my friend, if anything, let this my verse pay tribute
To an Anglo-Indian icon – the good, old, railway institute.

Christmas Cheer

It’s a December evening, we’re back from school
The house feels nippy, as a breeze nice and cool
Wafts through the trellis, while Papa gives a rendition
Of carols that herald an annual family tradition

Mummy’s come back with bread, eggs and flour
We little children, get ready for many an interesting hour
Of digging our fingers into a tub full of batter
As the house vibrates with loud, cheerful chatter

It’s that time again, that time of the year
For, cul-culs and cake and Christmas’ cheer
To roll out on forks, an Anglo-Indian delight
And to grease the cake tins with all our might

As "Mum-mum" calls out for us to ‘take care
Or we might fall into the oil that’s boiling there’
Which is ready, of course, to crackle and splutter
As we dip in forked creations of eggs, flour and butter

The whole family sits at the dining room table
Each one doing what he or she is able
And stories are told of Christmases past
While ros-a-cookies are, into the boiling oil, cast

When the whipping and blending has been done
And the cake’s in the oven, it is time for more fun
So we lick our fingers with many a hearty smack
At left-over batter, a tasty pre-cooked snack

That comes for us, only once every year
A time that is filled with memories dear
As carols croon in the chill evening air
And family stories, Papa, does joyfully share

It’s been years now, since I have had such fun
And I hope, I can, one day relive it with my son
Those hours spent in a house on a railway colony
Hours that I now recall, with a smile and much glee.

Monday, March 23, 2009

ONE OF A KIND

Quite recently to a spring dance I went
Where many a happy hour was spent
With my wife who is a Malayalee
And diverse friends who danced with glee

On this night, “tradition” was the theme
But, to many, it did quite rightly seem
That I wasn’t in the proper attire
For someone who comes from India

The veshti from the South, the sherwani from the north
With intricate colours and textures wrought
Would have, with chappals, added to the “desi” touch
As would the kurta, pajama and such

To clearly explain why I was in coat and tie
I had to point out where my origins lie
And, hence, began a tale about the “dingo”
A culture and community of which very few know.

For, despite being the bastards of colonial rule
We pioneered the Indian railway, telegraph and school
And created our own mix of culture and community
A brand with a unique Anglo and Indian identity

We are English by name and Indian by birth
A community that loves laughter and mirth
A culture unique to both, India and the world
Forged from a spirit, daring, adventurous and bold

Our culture is as diverse as it is unique
For there is a common touch to our food and music
As there is to the language we speak, write and sing
Though from wide corners of India we spring

We might be the leftovers of a British empire
But our food has its own flavour and fire
For, if you’ve tasted coconut rice and ball curry
You would not leave the table in a “hurry-burry”

And when the heavens pour down and cry
Be sure there’s pepper water and beef fry
Or if “Santa Claus is coming to town”
There’s ginger wine to knock him down

With cul-culs, rosacookies and Christmas cake
That the entire family did, joyfully, make
Or he could even try our dawl, rice and vindaloo
For these are, our favourites too.

The most interesting trait of any ‘dingo”
Is the unique touch he adds to his lingo
For, down south, he’d say “Enna da maacha”
While waving to a friend at a corner quite far

When my wife speaks to her father, she calls him “Papa”
A term we use for grandpa, and for, grandma it’s “Nana”
Who can give you a “kottu” if you are bad
And tickle you with “bully ants” if you are sad.

Or they might have even given you the “fijacks”
If you, “little bugger” had done something behind their backs
Or while eating cutlets on the way to Velankanni
You say the rosary and sing “Serangani”

We love our music, song and dance
And at festivals you can see us prance
With the chacha, foxtrot and the jive
To the tunes of a band, that is vibrant and live

At your wedding, the “Grand March” is played
And with confetti, you are loudly sprayed
While the band plays Engelbert Humperdink
A toast is raised and glasses clink

Charley Pride and Jim Reeves may quietly croon
On nights when the family sits under the stars and the moon
Or you might play the guitar under the trees
And enjoy your booze in the afternoon breeze

In different corners of the world, we now reside
But in our heritage we take great pride
For even though our “fathers” once left us behind
We blended in and created a community, one of a kind

So, if my English name with my Indianness, one cannot relate
This poem I will recite, or this tale I will narrate
To give them a picture of the good, old Anglo-Indian
A community that was once conceived in sin.