Almost Native

I decided to travel light from Cuddalore to Osmanabad, knowing that I would need space in my bag for all the books I wanted to buy in Pondicherry on the way, so left all my Western clothes behind and just brought four salwar kameez suits to wear. I’m beginning to master the art of smoothing my fluffy English locks back into a tight Indian plait and don’t leave home without my bindi and bangles, so in appearances I make quite a convincing Indian. Anglo-Indian, maybe. Testament to this is the fact that no less than three people have asked me, “How many years have you been in India?” since I left Cuddalore. The first thing my supervisor here said to me as I walked into the office was, “You look like an Indian!”

I’ve been thinking about the timing of these comments and they seem quite justified. I’ve been in the country five months now and have spent the vast majority of that time living, working and talking with Indians. My English has become quite confused: simple sentences such as ‘There is no hot water’, ‘I’m just reading my book’, and ‘It hurts’, come out phrased as ‘No hot water is there’, ‘I am reading only’, and ‘It is paining’. I've adopted little customs like blessing someone if my feet touch them or, heaven forbid, touch their books. I've got the head wobble down to a tee and have learnt the art at having a lovely conversation using only the wobble and a smile. When I hear Bollywood music I experience an urge to dance in that very special way that only Indians do. When I sit down to eat with a group of people, I give them my food before I eat it myself. I wouldn’t dream of putting food into my mouth with my left hand, and it is no longer just for convention… yes, I have finally run out of toilet paper and it is unavailable in Osmanabad.