Loving the country, from a distance

One of the somewhat unusual aspects of my work is that there are periods of intense activity that are followed by a complete lull. In the first, there isn’t a moment to scratch one’s head and in the second, there is time enough to count the follicles off one’s pate. Similarly, there are short bursts of considerable interaction with an individual or a team, and then, more often than not, our paths never cross again. Some of these moments come with television productions, and others are with travellers from various parts of the world. One such was with the British comedian and TV presenter Sanjeev Bhaskar, when he was working on the series, ‘India with Sanjeev Bhaskar’, that aired in 2007 to mark the 60th anniversary of the Independence of India and Pakistan, and of Partition.

Bhaskar, who was appointed as the Chancellor of the University of Sussex in 2009, is better known for his comedy series, ‘The Kumars at No. 42’ and ‘Goodness Gracious Me’. The latter was considered a game-changer with its satire and fine parody. Everything good was Indian. All famous people, real or fictitious, were Indian — Superman, Santa Claus, Sherlock Holmes, and even Leonardo da Vinci and the Queen. Seen from Western suburbia, the best place in the world was India.

It is from a distance that we Indians seem to love our country more. Often enough, satire and parody, like Sanjeev Bhaskar’s, give us insights and fling truth at our faces. Beyond a couple of people who have done so for reasons that are patriotic, I am yet to meet someone who was successful overseas, has returned to the homeland and is happy about it. Most of the returnees have come for personal reasons. Yes, there are a few that I know of who have tried, but somewhere along the line, have given up and gone back to wherever they came from.

From the United Kingdom, let us shift to the other place of preferred migration for Indians, the United States. At an estimated 7,25,000, they constitute the second largest group of illegal migrants in that country, and with the new administration, as they are caught, face deportation. On the other hand, legal migrant Indians in the US are thriving. Unlike those that moved to Britain who were often blue-collar workers, the migrants to USA were highly qualified and skilled personnel. In 1965, the Immigration and Nationality Act of the US abolished national origin quotas; this had been in place since the 1920s. Now, the doors opened to Indian professionals. They moved in droves and today, with other Asians, constitute the wealthiest ethnic group in that country.

Within my own family, I have more relatives in the US than in India. This, I do not say with pride, but with a measure of regret. They have left, stayed and thrived as legal citizens of another nation, simply because their homeland did not provide the opportunities that became available to them elsewhere. This has been the great dichotomy between what we are educated for, what we are capable of, and where we actually spend our lives. Merit and capability take a backseat, and other factors determine success or failure. Placing a warning sign saying ‘kismet’ over the chasm that divides the two, is not good enough.

Almost three decades back, my fairly aged parents were going for the first time to spend time with my sister in New York. Applying for visas was not the online process that one has now. On the night before their interview, on a lane behind the US embassy in New Delhi, one witnessed a story of hope, of desire, of trepidation unfold. To secure their place on the morning roll call of interviewees, I was despatched around midnight to stand in line on their behalf. That was a night of great insights. ‘Jugaad’ had taken over that back lane. I learnt that I could pay someone to ‘stand in line’ on my behalf. There was a chai-wala moving with his stove and attached kettle. Beyond parody, beyond farce, there was someone with a Polaroid camera taking photographs for those who had not brought them to submit with their applications. As the night shifted towards dawn, the place became packed. Not all who were there were proxies like me, nor were they all there for a visa. Entire families had come along. It was a night that gave me material for a short story in one of my books.

In the morning, my parents arrived and I sat down in the taxi they had hired, to wait for them. The driver must have been about my age and was from a village near Amritsar. He told me that he wanted to go abroad. He had been rejected for both USA and the UK, and was now prepared to go anywhere. “Anywhere?” “Yes, as long as it was foreign.” His qualifications: he had passed the 10th and could drive. “Main pind vich nahin rehna” (I don’t want to stay in the village), he said.

When my parents returned, the driver asked my parents if their passports had been visa-stamped.

“Yes,” replied my father.

“What did they ask you?” the boy asked in Punjabi.

“Nothing,” was the reply. “The passports were taken by an official and returned with the stamp.”

The young man shook his head and drove on.

— The writer is an author based in Shimla