| |
I'm an Anglo Indian,
right,
and my handle's Colin Blythe.
or Peter Hill, or Norman West, maybe.
Perhaps it's Jeffrey Brown,
or simply, Bill Landsdowne,
or Sid, or Joe. or Arthur John McGee. I'm
an Anglo Indian, right,
and my nom de P is Smythe,
and oxymoron name - with such a face.
For with a plume like that
you'd expect a suit and hat
of an Oxford gent all pure - not mixed in race!
I'm an Anglo Indian boy,
with a name like Jim or Roy,
and a skin of brown, or black, or even cream.
And though I look like you,
or you, or you, or you,
I'm a cross breed, if you know just what I mean.
I may hail from Bangalore,
or from Bombay by the shore,
perhaps from dusty urban Delhi town;
or from Calcutta way in that City by the Bay,
which once was deemed a jewel in the Crown.
Was I born in Chittagong
where the Monsoon rains are strong?
Was I born in Simla, up on lofty hilt?
Was I born by Goa's breeze
amidst the Portuguese?
No matter where,
I'm Anglo Indian, still.
For an Indian
I am not
even though so many thought
that with skin so brown I looked thin very part.
Yet, my father was a Brit,
a soldier, fighting fit,
an Englishman, in thought and deed and heart.
Now, my mother, too, it seems,
a blue-eyed, dark-skinned dream,
was a mixture of the East and of the West,
for with Indian on one side,
and some Angle none could hide,
she epitomised the AI at our best.
I guess it stemmed from Clyde
(was Bentinck at his side?)
and stalwarts of East India Company,
who to the East despatched
by Victorian gents, unmatched,
to simply go and trade and merely - see!
They alit in Kalikut,
and there, by mud-walled hut
they first set up their sovereign's embassy.
And as the time went by,
each day, 'neath sun dripped sky
the Blighties came in hundreds 'cross the seas.
And then their soldiers came
to ply their leaders' game,
to own the gem-old Kalikut-outright.
Yes, true to form and face
of Englishman's tuned race,
they ventured forth to show that might was right!
And when at last the smoke
from rifle's acrid choke
died down, when war was done and ceased,
both officers and men
in one's and two's and ten's
did sally forth, to promulgate the peace.
They took unto themselves
(as conquerors do today)
the right to love, and thus to lay down seed,
and 'though common folk at home,
out there! - where cattle roamed,
like gods they mixed, to form a brand new breed.
Anglo Indians,
we were spawned,
near holy cows adorned,
a people cast outside the Status Quo,
and like Eurasians too,
at first we numbered few,
until colonialism opened wide its door.
We spoke the English tongue,
in lilting accents sung,
and clothed ourselves in fashions of the ilk,
in khakis and in whites,
we drank our beers at night
while our ladies donned fine hats and garbs of silk.
We supervised the Rail
for Raj, we fixed the trail
to hilltop towns set for from humid plains;
we kept the books at banks,
joined police and army ranks,
and fled up the boilers on the trains
At Institutes galore,
from'Doon to Kharagpur,
we formed our clubs and did the English thing,
at Easter, we broke eggs
and ordered chota pegs,
smoked pipes, and danced the dreaded Highland Fling.
By end of World War
Two past rumours now rang true
that Raj's days were soon to come to end;
each Tom and Dick and Sal
from McKluskie Gunge to Cal'
knew AI's for themselves would need to fend.
Then came that fateful day
when Brits all went away
and India was again, its very own,
when Anglo Indians knew,
as sure as morning dew,
'twas time to leave, to seek another home.
So we bid farewell to Ghoom,
and we left the jute mills' looms,
and we wandered 'cross the many oceans wide;
to England and the West
we travelled, four-abreast,
and there we lived - but there, we also died.
For the folks of London Town
on us they all looked down,
as though we'd just come in from distant Mars;
if our skins were Saxon white
we'd be accepted right,
but if brown, or dark, we'd feel the color bar.
I'm an Anglo Indian, right,
and though my name is Smythe,
it was no fun to be disenfranchised;
for we came to realise
that our pseudo Blighty guise
was only good'neath India's balmy skies.
Thus, some of us disclaimed
mixed heritage, and blamed
the colour of our skin on constant sun;
saying, had we stayed indoors
on eastern marbled floors,
we'd be as white and pink as any English son!
I'm an Anglo Indian, right,
and as I lay at night,
I ponder on the twists of fate of life;
my pale-skinned dad and pals
all wed part-Indian gals,
then I went out to search for Limey wife!
But in truth I'm keen as hell
to finally dispel
the stigma of an Anglo Indian lad,
and though I'm half breed, true,
and my name is Stan or Lou,
when you get to know me, I really ain't so bad.
If you take the time you'll
learn
that we AI's also earn
our living in so many valued ways,
we are engineers and docs,
and geologists on rocks,
and as scientists of note, we have our say.
So, from a proud old
Anglo boy
with a name like Jim or Roy,
who drinks sweet tea and swigs a brew or two,
whose clothes are awful smart
and who has a great big heart...
I'm just the same as you, or you, or you!
|
|