Dogs and Indians
Dogs and Indians.
Nikhil Velpanur.
Awaiting publication.
August 2008. 9pm. My favorite watering hole.
Fresh out of the shower, dressed in this brand new jacket and converse shoes, i was feeling like a million bucks.
Generous pints of chilled beer, succulent snacks, flowing conversation, great crowd. I was making eye contact with that pretty girl at the next table, Led Zeppelin playing at just the perfect volume. Nothing could get better. Even the barman knew the day was special, and was sneaking a quick drink behind the counter, so as not to be left out from the happiness of the evening.
The pub door opened, and these 2 men entered. The tall one had a crumpled shirt, short pants and ruffled hair. The short one had these beady eyes, a torn shirt, and pants that had seen better days. They both had traces of Sunna on their faces - an indication the whitewash and paint work for the day was done. One glance at both of them and only one word popped into 60 minds that evening - labourer.
The evening had shifted gears. From being a safe space for the monied class, the pub had just become another streetside bar where anyone could enter and buy a drink. People were shifting uneasily in their seats, waiting for the labourers to get out so that they could get back to their perfect evening.
The thought bubbles popping up above people’s heads could almost be seen.
What the hell are these labourers doing here? What made them leave the squalor of their slums and come into our space? How can they afford a drink here? They are supposed to be doing what normal labourers should - have a quick shot of whiskey at a roadside bar to forget their problems, stagger back home and beat their wives. No, they dont belong here.
The 2 labourers could feel this unspoken hostility come down on their realities like a thick fog. But they bravely made their way to the bar counter, looked around hesitantly, fumbled with a menu lying on the counter and hesitantly asked the barman for a drink.
There are things more important to a pub than just selling alcohol. Creating a great atmosphere to keep his regulars returning was a very important mandate of the barman. Knowing he would be making the crowd uncomfortable, he indicated to them that they would not be able to afford it, without even an attempt at subtlety.
One of the labourers pulled out a bundle, with what looked like a bunch of notes. Yes, he could afford it and the barman knew it. But he continued to refuse, and asked the waiter to show them out. The labourers had failed.
They just did not have what it took to walk into an upscale pub and order a drink. They were at the effect of a smooth rejection, an almost practiced act by the barman.
The unwritten sign on the wall was just forming as they made their way out - Dogs and labourers not allowed.
Many moons ago, Jamshetji Tata built the Taj Mahal hotel in Mumbai as an act of defiance, after being thrown out of the elite Royal Bombay Yacht Club and told that Dogs and Indians are not allowed.
Those days, dogs and Indians were not allowed. Today dogs and Indians are still not allowed.
The shiny-disco-shoes-party-boy wearing a loud Tommy Hilfiger tshirt and throwing a fake accented drawl is allowed.
A girl with her perfectly coiffured hair, metal stilettos, hanging onto an LV clutch with her impeccable manicure and studded nails is allowed.
But a wild haired, crumpled shirted, shifty eyed barefoot man is not allowed.
A cotton sari clad dark lady with matted hair and a naked child is definitely not allowed.
Justice for all?
Who cries those silent tears? Will the growing contempt among one population have an equal and opposite reaction, as nature teaches us?
What would cause a young impressionable boy to be conned by a psychotic fundamentalist into going and beating up girls his own age? Is it because he never had a mother or sisters? Is it because he gets off on punishing women as a fetish, or feels male through acts of irrational machismo? Or was it because his overtures were rejected by one of the girls there?
Maybe he doesnt feel one with the rest of us. The girls were not part of his country, his culture. Instead of protecting a fellow citizen of India, he chose to beat the damn alien up.
Those silent tears welling up in those eyes found its outlet.
This is my India. This is where I was born, and this is where i will die. A country so steeped in the class divide that there are 2 populations forming. And both of them hate each other.
Ladies and Gentlemen, dont be surprised by the Pub attack. Dont be surprised by the Taj Mahal hotel burning. Things are going to get much worse.
And guess what. We brought this upon ourselves.
Disclaimer: I love my beer, I love my pubs and the entire ‘Pub culture’, I love women wearing their skirts upto their navel, I love listening to Bob Marley and drugged american poets, and I love wearing Che Guevara tshirts and speaking about revolution. I visit temples, do the Gayatri Mantra, read the Ramayana, and have a healthy appreciation for everything that is Indian or Global. Im not a religious bigot, and it makes my blood boil to see a man lift his hand on a woman, or misuse public sentiment for their dirty political machinations.
