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Choices
By Mehru jaffer
If
life is all about making choices then I was exposed to them very early
in life. As far back as memory is able to take me there was always a
large spread before me with a vast variety in between the attractive
but very imperious ways of the mother on one extreme and the down to
earth and liberal charm of the father on the other. The saving grace
remains that I do not recall ever being cornered into a situation that
was reduced to a drastic choice between either this or that.
The
mother was convinced that with the British gone and landlordism
abolished the next best thing to do was to look out for one another.
She could say what she liked about her kith and kin but no one else
was allowed to point a finger even at the oddities within her large
family. The father felt little fascination for such tribal like
loyalty and continued to put into practice what he constantly preached
that one did not have to be related by blood to him to ask for his
help and advice. And both in their own way, one so feudal and the
other so futuristic, spent an entire lifetime making sure that I would
grow up to be strong and independent enough to look after myself.
During
visits to the ancestral village in the bowels of Uttar Pradesh the
mother made us follow her into the dimly lit inner chambers of a home
where women were served by other women and dressed somewhat similar to
characters in the Bollywood film, Umrao Jaan Ada. But I also
accompanied the father to the huts of Harijans living in another
corner of the village to share their stories and the produce of the
season with them. Not much was forbidden really except the telling of
lies and being lazy. The purdah was on its way out but the jeans were
not quite the in clothes to wear.
Back
in Lucknow there was English in school and Urdu at home. Almost like
stereotype characters in some Hindi films the closest friends came
from families that were Anglo Indian, Hindu and Muslim. This was the
inner circle that spent a lot of its time desperately trying to lead a
life in imitation of Enid Blyton’s Famous Five or Secret Seven the
number always dependent upon whether the Parsi friends who paraded in
and out of our lives at will were in or out. No shame was ever
experienced at sharing bites from pork delicacies with Joan and Neelam
fed herself upon beef kebabs without guilt in our kitchen while all of
us drenched each other in water dyed in colours that were more vibrant
than those of the rainbow on the Spring festival of Holi. And all that
we may have shed along the way in leading a life that seemed so
idyllic and sizzling in the steam of such a delicious melting pot were
probably bits and pieces of unwanted prejudice and pettiness.
What
is annoying therefore are all the choices that the powers of today are
trying to force upon me in my mid life. It is either you live in India
or not a word against what is happening here is something that I hear
more often than not these days similar to that other maxim that to be
Indian is to be Hindu?
From
a purely personal point of view the most irritating of them all, even
more irritating than the other ridiculous choice given to us that
either you are with or against us in this war, is the attempt to try
and force me to choose between the spirit of Islam and the sword. Is
it any wonder then that my world seems to be getting more and more
topsy turvy with each day?
And
I am convinced that the culprit is the on going hallaballooo over God,
King and Country. It is not the talk though that is the problem really
but this nagging feeling that the spirit seems all wrong bringing to
mind the ancient proverb that the wrong man doing the right thing
usually turns out wrong.
What
a pity then for all our children who will in the end inherit the mess
we are bound to leave for them in this otherwise most marvellous world
of ours.
-----Mehru
Jaffer
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