It was an attitude I often encountered in other Indians and it always baffled me. The Groom had never met a Jew and should have no particular interest, good or bad, in Israel or the history of the Jews, and his attitude sounded canned and secondhand. It was as if he was proving his bona fides as a card-carrying member of the just gone 20th century, and this was his way of informing me he was modern, Western, forward-thinking.
His hatred was real when he talked about Muslims. These he had met.
“I lived for years in Ukraine,” he said. “We have them there. I walked into one of their houses.” He made a motion to spit. “Filth! You walk into a Muslim house it’s no different from walking into a garbage dump, but more disgusting. They live like cockroaches in their own shit. They breed like them too. And that’s how they should be dealt with. Exterminated. Like cockroaches.”
His ferocity was no longer mimicked. This was real bigotry, born out of the shallow depths of his being. Over 50 years had passed since Independence, when the dream of a secular nation was given shape, and here was my cousin, among the most educated and progressive and well-traveled of my relatives, slipping with ease into the most backward of attitudes. When I protested, offering, for the sake of ease, my own experiences when I’d lived briefly in Egypt, he responded with a broad, patronizing smirk. I was blinded, he said, by Western liberal attitudes. Luckily, intelligent people weren’t so blind in India.
The next morning, a roar burst over my head. I was standing outside watching beggars argue over how much money they were to be paid, a tradition at weddings, when there appeared, at the end of the street, a bull of a man flanked on all sides by his family. He stormed into our presence, laughing with abandon. He was a cousin of Sad-Eyed Aunt, and so an uncle of mine in Punjabi kinship, and I called him Bhangra Uncle, for his family was a troupe of bhangra dancers, statewide champions in fact.
That evening, to my delight, they offered a demonstration of their considerable skill. The family ranged in all ages, from a 6-year-old boy upward, and every member took the floor, men and women alike, in a performance that made us all drunk who stood watching. It was a marvelous sight to see such dancers. The geometric arms, the flying feet, the beauty and athleticism and spirit of it! I fell dreamily under their spell.
The next day I was standing alone on the roof, smoking secretly, when one of the dancers, a young woman, appeared. We were separated by rows of laundered sheets fluttering from wires, and were at first invisible to each other. When suddenly she materialized feet from me I was struck by her beauty. I’d noticed it the night before, but now was left unnerved, for in daylight, it was unmistakable and astonishing.
I nodded, gesturing with the lit cigarette, “Hullo.” She was maybe 16, possibly more, and I wanted to compliment her on the performance. Her father had crushed me in a bear hug and told me how glad he was to meet me, for he’d heard about his nephew from New York. I’d been dazzled by his energy, his forcefulness, the sheer talent of his family. Here was ancient India, I had thought, true village India. It poured through his veins and tightened his sinews.
But on the roof, instead of returning my greeting, Bhangra Uncle’s daughter let out a shriek.
Without another sound, she turned and took to her heels. I’d never seen a woman so terrified. In seconds, she was racing down the stairs and disappeared. I didn’t have to think hard to know why. She’d found herself alone with a man—one who was smoking no less—and it mattered little that I was a distant relative, for if anyone saw us together, even for a moment, her reputation could be ruined and no one but the most ugly and most old and most brutal would marry her.
I watched the empty space where she had stood. I’d been lulled into forgetting that what lay under the skin of the bonhomie and backslapping was blind acceptance of ugly rules for women and bone-deep patriarchal attitudes.
***
It was an attitude I often encountered in other Indians and it always baffled me. The Groom had never met a Jew and should have no particular interest, good or bad, in Israel or the history of the Jews, and his attitude sounded canned and secondhand. It was as if he was proving his bona fides as a card-carrying member of the just gone 20th century, and this was his way of informing me he was modern, Western, forward-thinking.
His hatred was real when he talked about Muslims. These he had met.
“I lived for years in Ukraine,” he said. “We have them there. I walked into one of their houses.” He made a motion to spit. “Filth! You walk into a Muslim house it’s no different from walking into a garbage dump, but more disgusting. They live like cockroaches in their own shit. They breed like them too. And that’s how they should be dealt with. Exterminated. Like cockroaches.”
His ferocity was no longer mimicked. This was real bigotry, born out of the shallow depths of his being. Over 50 years had passed since Independence, when the dream of a secular nation was given shape, and here was my cousin, among the most educated and progressive and well-traveled of my relatives, slipping with ease into the most backward of attitudes. When I protested, offering, for the sake of ease, my own experiences when I’d lived briefly in Egypt, he responded with a broad, patronizing smirk. I was blinded, he said, by Western liberal attitudes. Luckily, intelligent people weren’t so blind in India.
The next morning, a roar burst over my head. I was standing outside watching beggars argue over how much money they were to be paid, a tradition at weddings, when there appeared, at the end of the street, a bull of a man flanked on all sides by his family. He stormed into our presence, laughing with abandon. He was a cousin of Sad-Eyed Aunt, and so an uncle of mine in Punjabi kinship, and I called him Bhangra Uncle, for his family was a troupe of bhangra dancers, statewide champions in fact.
That evening, to my delight, they offered a demonstration of their considerable skill. The family ranged in all ages, from a 6-year-old boy upward, and every member took the floor, men and women alike, in a performance that made us all drunk who stood watching. It was a marvelous sight to see such dancers. The geometric arms, the flying feet, the beauty and athleticism and spirit of it! I fell dreamily under their spell.
The next day I was standing alone on the roof, smoking secretly, when one of the dancers, a young woman, appeared. We were separated by rows of laundered sheets fluttering from wires, and were at first invisible to each other. When suddenly she materialized feet from me I was struck by her beauty. I’d noticed it the night before, but now was left unnerved, for in daylight, it was unmistakable and astonishing.
I nodded, gesturing with the lit cigarette, “Hullo.” She was maybe 16, possibly more, and I wanted to compliment her on the performance. Her father had crushed me in a bear hug and told me how glad he was to meet me, for he’d heard about his nephew from New York. I’d been dazzled by his energy, his forcefulness, the sheer talent of his family. Here was ancient India, I had thought, true village India. It poured through his veins and tightened his sinews.
But on the roof, instead of returning my greeting, Bhangra Uncle’s daughter let out a shriek.
Without another sound, she turned and took to her heels. I’d never seen a woman so terrified. In seconds, she was racing down the stairs and disappeared. I didn’t have to think hard to know why. She’d found herself alone with a man—one who was smoking no less—and it mattered little that I was a distant relative, for if anyone saw us together, even for a moment, her reputation could be ruined and no one but the most ugly and most old and most brutal would marry her.
I watched the empty space where she had stood. I’d been lulled into forgetting that what lay under the skin of the bonhomie and backslapping was blind acceptance of ugly rules for women and bone-deep patriarchal attitudes.
***
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