A shamed policeman (a short but effective cameo by Anupam Kher) slowly approaching his death informs his policeman son, the cynically suppressed Arya (Prithviraj Sukumaran) that he secretly fathered another family shortly after Arya’s mother’s death. Now it is Arya’s responsibility to look after them. When he visits the family, he discovers that his ‘brother’ Vishal (Arjun Kapoor) is a dead ringer for Ajay, the abrasive son of criminal tycoon Yashwardhan (Jackie Shroff). With the help of his strong, assertive uncle, DCP Ravikant (Rishi Kapoor) they hatch a plan to switch Vishal with Ajay in order to infiltrate Yashwardhan’s business and to bring his corrupt empire down. But once seedha-saada Vishal is embroiled in the politics of power, he begins to wonder whose side he should really be fighting for. As does Arya. As does Ajay.

Let’s get one thing straight – forget the posters you’ve seen, the scantily-clad music video you may have noticed on syndication, even the innovative marketing strategy that has Arjun Kapoor playing a double role in his media interviews. This. Is. An. Ensemble. Piece. The promotions for the film have all but claimed that Arjun Kapoor’s Ajay/Vishal is the next Don movie. With the great box office that the aforementioned franchise made, it’s not a surprise why they wanted to do this, but the truth is that Aurangzeb is a lot more intelligent than Shah Rukh Khan’s entertainer.

There are some truly strong, interesting themes at play here. How much of our personality is dependent on societal upbringing over genetic inheritance? Can we be family without sharing the same blood? Should ambition trump family? Should family trump justice? Each of the male characters in this film has a part to play, and director Atul Sabharwal has done a great job in devising a strong ensemble of three-dimensional men, all with their own ambitions, strengths and weaknesses. Arjun Kapoor, Prithviraj Sukumaran, Rishi Kapoor and Jackie Shroff should be well commended for their fantastic performances here. Fantastic male performances for male characters.

The moments where the film truly fails is when it attempts to cater to the ‘public’ (i.e. horny Indian men) with slow-motion bikini swims and unnecessarily long sex scenes, courtesy of Brit-Asian actress Sashaa Agha. As her debut, Sashaa unfortunately delivers a below-par performance, showing more talent for her vocals on the film’s song “Barbaadiyaan”. Female talents are generally wasted here, with even Amrita Singh’s comeback as Yashwardhan’s shifty moll Nina coming off a bit stale. Not all of the blame can be taken by the actresses – the female characters just aren’t very well-developed. Let’s not even get started on Tanvi Azmi’s ‘80s antihero’s mother’ stereotype previously designed for Rakhee / Nirupa Roy.

With so many characters and multi-stranded stories to follow, it would have been easy for the viewer to get lost but thankfully the characters are so diverse that this is never a predicament. Unfortunately, there are plot holes aplenty that are often covered up by lazy writing. A continuous occurrence is a character witnessing something bad, only to tell the culprit in vivid detail how they’re not going to get away with it as they’re going to straight to the police. “And there’s nothing you can do about it. What are you going to do? Shoot me?” Duh.

Inspirations from Hollywood films such as The Devil’s Double and True Romance are clearly visible, in addition to Bollywood classics like Khal Nayak and Don (obviously). Inspirations work fine in a film, other than when they are (a) scenes copied action for action or (b) scenes that have inspired so many other films that they’ve become downright clichés. Unfortunately for Aurangzeb, it claims the latter – the Mexican stand-off, the bad-guy-gone-good,…Nirupa Roy. There’s nothing wrong with being inspired, but Sabharwal really should have put his own spin on it if he wanted to go down this path.

With just a little more development, Aurangzeb could have been a masterpiece. It has its heart in the right place with three-dimensional characters you care for, great cinematography, a heap of strong morals relevant to today’s India and a fantastic story where you really don’t know what’s going to happen next. It’s just a real pity that the journey is peppered with idiocy between the genius that is clearly visible here. For his next film, this reviewer implores Sabharwal to forget about box office and what he’s seen in other people’s films, but to follow his own heart – because that’s where Aurangzeb really gets it right.

What is worse than being single?

It’s being in the company of ‘a double’.

Ok, that’s a terrible one but there is no other way to describe my predicament when I went out on a ‘triangle date’ the other day.

Now, what’s a triangle date you may wonder! Let me explain.

It’s a ‘date by mistake’ where a singleton goes out (knowingly or unknowingly) with a man and a woman who are in a relationship or are planning to get into one. You go out with them because you believe you are out to have a good time with your pals at the movies or at a café or restaurant. Instead, you suddenly find yourself in a strange situation – of being the third angle of a triangle. The angle where you are pushed into the corner at the top, solo, and have no choice but to sit and stare benignly at the other two angles who appear to be in such perfect symmetry at the two ends of the line.

Now, I am not jealous of couples though pop psychologists may think so. Neither does seeing the unmistakable flush of love on their faces make me feel wistful. Like the rest of the world, I too love lovers. But the fact of the matter is: nothing can match the unbearable, agonizing, hair-splitting annoyance of being in the company of a much-in-attraction couple. Whoever said that three is a crowd was damn right, never mind what a ‘Dil Chahta Hai’ or a ‘Kai Po Che’ would have you believe. (But then they were about three men having a blast, I am sure things wouldn’t be as sweet and fun if the threesome comprised two women and a man in love with one of the women).

The sequence of events usually happens thus: you plan a harmless evening out with your friends or get invited to one. But as the evening progresses, you realise that your friends are more interested in each other than you. Gradually, subtly, unconsciously, you are edged out of the equation as they crack jokes or make gestures that you barely recognise. You try to fit in, laugh with them, crack a few jokes of your own and to their credit, they graciously make you feel welcome but that is exactly the problem – they, as well as you, have to make the EFFORT to have fun and feel like one unit. At times, they go out of their way to draw you into their world so that you don’t feel left out but that, in effect, makes you feel worse. For reality strikes you hard that you have unwittingly become the thorn in their rose stem! This especially happens when you, for some reason or the other, are not aware that two of your friends are seeing each other or are interested in each other ‘that’ way. You do not only have to get over the shock realisation of a new thrust to the friendship, you then have to pretend to be happy for them!

There are also times when you invite a friend and she insists on bringing her boyfriend or husband. “You wouldn’t mind, would you?” she coos. You want to say you do but end up saying ‘of course not’. And the torture begins. If you know the boyfriend well, it’s a slightly different story but if you don’t… well, it’s pure torture.

Mind you, I am not against PDA. Those in love kiss, hold hands, dance, behave as if they are oblivious to the world (they are), but can they at least respect the sentiments of a singleton who is forced to have a plastic smile on her face even as she is expected to gush, ‘oh how cute the two of you look’ when in reality she’d rather give them a hard shake-up and scream, ‘stop it you two, get a room’!

My worldly-wise friends who are experienced in relationship matters often chide me for my immaturity. It’s natural, they say, for couples in love to behave like couples in love (as if I didn’t know!) and that I should grow up and stop behaving like a nanny. But they don’t get it. While we, the single, cynical and unattached, agree that love is a many splendored thing and it’s amazing to be with the object of your affection there is one message to love-birds: please do not behave you are on a date when you are not on one! Just what are we supposed to do when you are busy feeding each other or making those eye gestures? How long can we pretend to pick on our food or stare lazily at the sky or look side-wards at other diners and manage to be totally cool? It’s plain BORING!

The worst is when you are taken for a human shield, especially by those having an extra marital friendship. Since you are not a threat, you are taken along ostensibly to act as cover for unsuspecting spouses or family. It’s terrible because they expect you to understand and not judge and of course you do understand, but standing guard so that they have a good time is against the human rights of singles!

The recently-married ones are a different story altogether. Since the honeymoon phase is still on, the topic of conversation often centres on their fantastic marriage, fabulous romance and family even if you’d rather talk cricket, movies or the latest scam hitting the country. The most torturous part: when they ask you about your non-existent love life (“still single?” “are you on the lookout” “what plans of marriage” “let’s fix you with a great guy we know”) and then sagely go on to extol the virtues of being hooked.

Finally, there is the other extreme – couples, who you believed, were solid but suddenly liquefy over a small matter and begin arguing in front of you. They may or may not be married; they may be in the first few months of a relationship or may be love-veterans but nothing, absolutely nothing, can hide the fright of having to hear and see a man and a woman argue when you least expect it – say in the midst of a movie or a dinner or when you are at their home. Suddenly you feel like choking on your coffee as unsavoury family details spill out or snide remarks passed. You feel like curling into a ball and disappear into earth and look everywhere else except them! But suddenly there is no escape as you are drawn into the fight and horror of horrors, forced to take sides!

The safest is to go with world-weary, been there-seen-that-experienced-that couples, married or otherwise. Secure and comfortable with each other, it’s like socialising with any of your buddies. Perhaps they know what happens to a relationship after years of being in a relationship and hence, just let you be without any additional drama.

Having been the thorn or to use a more desi term, the kabab mein haddi with far too many couples in varied stages of relationships, I have decided I will try my best to avoid going out with them. Though it is a bit difficult given that I am one of the few singles left in my group! Perhaps a smarter thing to do would be to enquire what stage their bond is in at the moment. Or better still, have a date of my own or another friend to accompany me. At least I can be meaningfully engaged in conversation with the fourth angle of what now becomes a square while the other two are lost in their world! Then, whether they are squabbling or cootchie-cooing, it doesn’t matter!

Yes, a foursome is definitely is so much better than a threesome!

The black demographic of India stands at approximately 0.008% – the near equivalent to the number of people who practice the religion of The United House Of Prayer in the USA (yes, them!) Seeing that Hollywood has never featured a strong character to represent The United House Of Prayer, why should it be so important that India show more positive and three-dimensional characters to represent its miniscule black community? Actually, let’s forget India’s black community – how has Indian Cinema served black characters as a whole over the years?

Black faces only first started appearing in Indian cinema in the 70s, possibly encouraged by the blaxploitation movement that kicked off in the US. However black characters were mainly pushed to the background, with the filmmakers often confusing African identity with Indian tribal characteristics (e.g. Vidhaata, Disco Dancer). With the filmmakers scarcely coming into contact with anyone of black descent, they often relied on playing on the public’s fear of the unknown by representing people of colour as animalistic voodoo workers – not unlike how Indians were shown in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.

Though they were more prone to be shown as muscular henchmen in their new action-packed city settings (e.g. Vishwaatma), the 80s showed a hint of hope with the film Razia Sultan, the only Indian film to date that has a black lead character. Based on the story of the only female Sultan of Delhi and her alleged affair with an Abyssinian slave, no black actor would accept the role due to its clichéd portrayal, and the role of the slave eventually had to go to a blacked-up Dharmendra. Following its mega-budget flop results, no Indian filmmaker has since attempted a story with a black lead.

With nothing of worth in the 90s, it wasn’t until Indian filmmakers realized the financial merit of their NRI audience that they begun to bring in personalities that were less African and more ‘street’, aiming strongly to the cool hiphop-listening youth market. Even now, the majority of African-American characters in Indian films tend to speak with a ‘whack’ lingo, yo. This was accentuated further with a strong urban influence on Bollywood music, with artists like Snoop Dogg and Akon collaborating with Indian composers on hit soundtracks Singh Is King and Ra.One.

Despite having a bit more to do in Indian films nowadays instead of pure window dressing (Matru Ki Bijlee withstanding – see later) black characters still tend to be written one-dimensionally, and often negatively. In Shaitan, there’s a drug racket run solely by black men. Jaan-e-Mann shows a neglectful black nanny. Housefull had a black child who was used as the butt of a poor joke. And worst criminal of all, Fashion shows our protagonist at her lowest ebb when – God forbid – she has a one-night-stand with a black man!

In vain, My Name Is Khan attempted to defy this negative stereotype by showing the complete opposite – a small rundown town in Georgia, USA, populated solely by black people. What is supposed to be modern day America seems more like the Deep South at the beginning of the 20th century. And when the town gets hit by Hurricane Katrina and Shah Rukh is done miraculously saving them, in a heartwarming turn droves of ‘regular’ Americans come to rebuild the place. The only query is, why are these regular Americans only white and South Asian? In order to defy the Bollywood stereotype, Karan Johar sided with a more familiar Hollywood stereotype of the ‘poor black folk in need of a saviour.’

Has there been any good representation of black characters in Indian Cinema? Well, I guess My Name Is Khan should get some brownie points for showing a black actor playing the President of the USA. On a more serious note, there is some proof that things are going in the right direction, with Akshay Kumar’s adorable (albeit unlikely) black grandmother in Khiladi 786, but in terms of three-dimensional characters with a purpose, praise can only be given to English Vinglish for its portrayal of a shy, black man who we eventually discover is withdrawn because of his homosexuality. Okay, granted it doesn’t fully infringe on the main plot, but at least the character has something to do. Unlike the random troupe of Zulu dancers in this year’s Matru Ki Bijlee Ka Mandola that serve no purpose to the story. At all.

Outside India, NRI filmmakers like Mira Nair (Mississippi Masala) and Gurinder Chaddha (Bhaji On The Beach) have bravely brought attention to the taboo cross-race relationships that happen between black men and young ‘disillusioned’ NRI girls, but it is telling that there has been nothing since the 90s. Even more significant is the fact that not one black female protagonist has been featured in NRI films.

It’s not a secret that Indian culture is inherently racist towards dark skin, and this has traveled overseas to the NRI Diaspora. With larger black demographics in countries like the US and the UK, the stereotypes set by Indian Cinema has not helped in breaking down borders between black and South Asian communities, more often breeding more prejudice in the process. What’s most ironic is the large fanbase that Bollywood has in East African countries, along with the mixed black/Asian populations in Caribbean and Polynesian islands like Fiji, Mauritius and Trinidad. There is a major gap in the market for Indian filmmakers to exploit, and nobody’s batted an eyelid.

If the Indian industry was solely making films for Indians, the scarcity of black leads would make sense – the same kind of sensitivity for a community cannot be expected when the demographic is so small and invisible. But it cannot be argued that it’s now a global industry with a mass global following. At the same time, the industry fails to recognise the majority of its own communities – when was the last time you saw a Manipuri or Assamese lead character in an Indian film?

We learn about the world from what we experience in life, but also from what we pick up from the media. Selling over four billion tickets a year, Indian cinema holds great power. Maybe its time that power was used for better purposes than purely setting cash registers ringing. Although saying that, with Indian Cinema’s fanbases in East Africa and the islands, the most enterprising producers may potentially be able to have their cake and eat it too.

When I was about 8 years old I found awe in everything about India. It was a time when I was easily impressed and easily impacted. I believed what I was told and I assumed at the time that what was true for me was true for everyone else from my country. I wasn’t dumb, just to clarify, I didn’t think the circumstances of all people in the country were the same and I knew well enough that I was luckier than many around me who didn’t grow up with even half the luxuries I had. I mean that I viewed the country like a foreigner would. I considered one Indian representative of the country and let me tell you one thing, the google instant suggestions when you search for “why are Indians” or “why do Indians” do not paint a pretty picture of just how the world looks at us.

First I would like to address the ever so popular notion that every Indian worships cows. What is up with that? It’s not the notion itself that annoys me, so much as they way the notion is presented. It is always said with an air of disbelief. It’s is like “Dude how can you worship beef? More importantly why would you? Also have you ever been to McDonalds? Is that considered sacrilege“. Cows are scared to Hindus people, get over it already, but then again after the whole raping a cow and stabbing it incident in Delhi (or what I like to call the Rape City) maybe cows just don’t mean as much to us as they used to. Don’t worry beef-eaters I’m not here to judge.

The world seems to look at India and sees cheap people, people with too many relatives but also interestingly they are so very intrigued by the nation. I spoke to a well-respected Nigerian citizen who had come to visit India on a pilgrimage because he had heard of Sri Ramana Maharishi and decided to follow the great rishi’s footsteps. I was fascinated by how he took so readily to an alien culture giving up his strictly Christian family background for a different path. It was during my conversations with him that I realized how India must look to the people who have only heard about the country but never seen or visited it.

Despite the enormous surges in development and potential for economic growth the country is still lumped closer to third world than first. It is still used a location where film-makers from America, in search of poverty and skinny children for academy award footage, come to shoot movies. It is still a place where balance needs to be restored. Sure we’re better off than so many nations in terms of war, crisis, religious feuds and rebellion, but with a country this size and such an enormous population, the schism between where we are and where we should be is ridiculously huge.

I think about the people as a whole – we are untrusting, we are unyielding, we are inclined to be insolent and unwavering in our quest to ridicule those who do better than us, we don’t open our minds and we stick to our comforts, we are uncomfortable with change and unwilling to learn otherwise. I don’t know how it got this way, how over one billion people can have so much in common in terms of their personality, so much so that the rest of the planet defines them by it. I only hope we can make more of an impression rather than remain the cow-worshipers.

Open a newspaper, switch on the TV, or go online fix and you are confronted with yet another rape. Rape has become the Indian media fixation of the year. I bet it was going on for quite some time. No one bothered until the youth of today decided that they had had enough and took to the streets and made India look at itself again.

We tend to forget that we actually have a voice. That we can make a difference. That our government’s job is not to rule us but to govern us. There is a difference.

I fail to understand a rapist. Normally I am one of those idiots who tries to see things from another person’s perspective. I used to believe that everyone has a reason for the things that they do, that they are all justified and that there is no such thing as a bad person – just people with hard choices.

Then there are rapists. Where in fucks name do I fit that category in?

That’s when I realized, what I feel towards them is a deep sense of gratitude.

Yes. I am thankful to them. For all the rapists out there, let me take this opportunity to thank you for making me see the light.

Thank you for effectively destroying my belief that people are by and large good. That given an opportunity, people will not hurt another living being but rather help them. Under which rock did I crawl out from?

Thank you for making me teach my children never to trust a stranger.

It’s funny, since I have always believed that trust is the biggest gift you can bestow upon anybody. Gandhi, another fool, used to believe that by trusting you prevent the other person from hurting you because they will always strive to live up to that trust.

What a load of crap!

In a world where even a father cannot be trusted to keep his hands off his daughter or son, what trust are we talking about? It’s better to be sure than be sorry for it later.

You taught me that, my dearest rapist.

You taught me to distrust that old man who sits in the park watching the children play. You taught me to keep an eagle eye on that cook from Orissa who has a daughter the same as mine. You taught me to reach for my kids, with my fists ready to strike, when I see anyone talking to them. The same me, who lived his life on the kindness from strangers. The same person who was entrusted, along with my 8 year old brother, to a family we had never met before on our first train trip to Delhi from Trivandrum. I deny my children that. Thanks to you.

Thank you for making me aware of what my wife wears. This from a guy who normally doesn’t even notice if she goes and shaves her hair. Now, thanks to you, I pay attention. If it was up to me, I will make her wear a veil. I will keep her inside the house, under my watch, with a gun in my hand. But thankfully, it isn’t up to me. This woman, who faces everyday what I fear, wears what she feels like. I, who has never interfered with any ones right to decide what to wear, will now suggest a scarf, or a dupatta or a shawl. All thanks to you. I pay more attention to what my wife and children wear, lest that could become your cue. Thanks to you, upon my insistence, she now carries a weapon and knows how to use it. I have made my wife accept the necessity of spontaneous violence. I have made her into me. Thank you.

Thanks to you, I walk with my head down. You have achieved what no one else could. You made me humble. You made me feel guilty for being a man. You have made me introspect. You have made me look within the dark recess of my male self to see if I too am capable of what you do. After all you are a man, leading a normal life, with a family, supposedly born of a woman. So, if you can, then it stands to reason that I too must have that impulse. You did that. Gave this fear of the beast that might be inherent in all of us who dangles our stick of shame. Thank you.

Me. Who has always believed that I always fought the good fights, is compelled now to stand with the mob, crying out, like a French peasant, for the lynching of people like you? I, who abhors war, manmade boundaries, the sacrifice of youths in the name of patriotism, now stands confused. I have been told that man has a tendency to destroy what he doesn’t understand or what he fears. I don’t understand you and I fear you, therefore, everything within me says if we meet I will destroy you. I, who have stopped praying 3 years ago, pray now that we never meet.

I would like to fill this page with the choicest abuse I could hurl at you, but every single expletive that I can think of inevitably abuses a woman alongside with it. Thank you for making me see that. Today the only curse I utter is fuck. You have successfully achieved what my mother and my wife have been trying to do for years. You have cleaned up my vocabulary. For this I thank you.

So I stand before you, humbled, fearful and angry. But at the same time filled with immense gratitude. You are one in thousands, yet you have defined a race. No amount of washing is going to clean this stain on a man’s perceived nature. No amount of words and justifications are going to earn back the trust we possibly never had. As long as we are incapable of looking beyond genders, this blight that is you could be a part of all of us. I don’t know. I can’t do rhetorical.

So, who can blame a woman for not wanting to take that chance?

I feel no indignation when a woman hesitates to enter into a lift with me. I understand when a friendly smile is rewarded with cold indifference. I get it when they walk faster when I slow the car down to ask for direction.

You have managed to widen the gap a whole lot further.

Thank you.

Really. Thank you.

Now in its thirteenth year, North America’s oldest film festival, the New York Indian Film Festival (NYIFF) showcased an array of features, documentaries, short stories, as well as panel discussions and a nod to Indian cinema completing 100 years.

The festival is the crown jewel event for the Indo-American Arts Council, a New York based organization founded by Aroon Shivdasani (who also serves as the festival’s Executive Director) to promote Indian cultural events and nurture artists.

When asked about the theme of the festival, Festival Director Aseem Chhabra explained that while he didn’t have anything in mind, a theme emerged organically. “You never set out to look for a theme. That never happens in any case. While programming the film, after we got Dekh Tamasha Dekh, and we got Filmistan as Closing Night and we put Shahid as the Centerpiece, we saw all three of them deal with Hindu-Muslim issues.”

Renowned theater personality Feroz Abbas Khan’s second feature film, Dekh Tamasha Dekh, made its world premiere at the Skirball Center for the Performing Arts. Why was Dekh Tamasha Dekh a perfect fit for NYIFF’s Opening Night? Shivdasani replied, “It’s a true story about the extreme beliefs in India and how ridiculous they are. Feroz has been a longtime friend and we’ve shown many of his plays and his film, Gandhi, My Father earlier which won amazing awards.”

A political satire, Dekh Tamasha Dekh takes the viewer into a small town in Maharashtra where the accidental death of a man, whose religious affiliation is questioned by religious leaders, leads to a community spiraling into communal chaos. While having no big stars in the cast can spell doom for a film, it worked wonders for Dekh Tamasha Dekh, as theater artists effortlessly portrayed the sincerity many scenes demanded.

A humorous courtroom scene, a tender love story, and painful personal histories are some of the ingredients that made for an entertaining, thought-provoking film.

Also based on a true story, Shahid, directed by Hansal Mehta, was the Centerpiece film and stars rising actor Raj Kumar Yadav who has recently been seen in Gangs of Wasseypur, Talaash and Kai Po Che. Following the journey of a man leaning towards acts of terror post the Mumbai riots of ’93 (and becoming a wrongfully accused prisoner) to a human right’s activist, Shahid strung together many powerful, moving scenes that translated into another feather in the cap of both the director and leading actor.

Mehta won the Best Director award at NYIFF and humbly accepted his award on behalf of all the filmmakers participating at the festival.

Making its New York premiere, the closing night film, Filmistan, had more than the honor of concluding the festival. Barely 24 hours before the screening of his first feature film, director Nitin Kakkar was in India accepting the National Award for Best Feature Film in Hindi.

Filmistan beautifully showcased how the love for Hindi cinema can break down barriers created by governments and religious zealots. Set on the India-Pakistan border, Filmistan tells the tale of a cinema-crazed Indian film assistant kidnapped by Pakistani terrorists. When the Indian film assistant interacts with the family in whose house he is held captive by bonding over famous film dialogues, pirated dvds and cinema stars, the seemingly fluffy chatter makes way for deeper discussions about memories of an India before partition, unfulfilled dreams, and reasons as to why they chose the life they lived. For the people in the house, reasons for hatred between Indians and Pakistanis starts to seem just as make-believe as their favorite Salman Khan film.

With a diverse range of cinema, mostly independent, from around India, NYIFF 2013 maintains its role of bringing to New York audiences films that would otherwise not be screened theatrically for NRIs. On the centenary celebrations of Indian Cinema, it’s a fitting contribution towards the further growth of independent films from across India.

The area of the footpath next to the ATM is littered with paper receipts, McDonald’s packets-sans-fries, stray leaves etc. Across the road, men and women defy the tiny-red-man-on-a-walk signal and callously cross the road even though vehicles are hurtling past. The other day, I saw a man spit. Not paan. Maybe it was water or saliva. But he spat. My friend told me that the day after New Year’s eve, walking down the road, you would have had to sidestep puddles of urine. You may be thinking – typical Indian city, right? Wrong. Six months in Melbourne, and the novelty of being a visitor has now worn off. The tourist-stamped rose glasses that I had worn for the first couple of weeks here, have been replaced by local clear glasses through which I experience both the good and the bad of the city. And there is a whole lot of good in the city, don’t get me wrong. It’s bursting with culture, people love sports – all kinds, not just cricket, people are pretty laid back, they work hard but they also love their weekends which, by the way, seem to run throughout the week! And public transport is extremely efficient.

And it only takes one such sighting for a haughty ‘foreigner’ (albeit an immigrant himself) to point a finger at Asians! I do not intend to generalize, but racist comments (even though they have been rare) have all said it – some loud and clear, others in a round-about way. ‘Bloody Indians’, or using the term that was more frequent in the US of A, ‘Bloody Desis’ are the ones responsible for destroying the warm sanctity and cleanliness of ‘their’ city. Wrong again.

The men and women who crossed the road without the slightest regard for traffic law, were not all Indians. Maybe about 5% of them were. The man who spat on the road was not an Indian, he wasn’t even Asian. The people who my husband and I have encountered on our late-evening walks, who walk around smoking, throwing cigarette butts on the street even though cigarette disposal cans sit right next to them, are not Indians. Indians abroad, have by and far, blended in with their host communities. We might be an impatient tribe back home, but when abroad, we do not like to create a stir, not without good cause. The population of educated, cultured Indians – abroad and back home – is on the rise, and we’re much more civilized than we were a couple of decades ago. And yet we continue to be downplayed. It makes me sad but the attitude is not surprising.

What appalls me though, is how the ‘Bloody Desi’ syndrome has percolated into the Indian community as well. For instance, looking at apartments to move in to, we met another Indian who had come to inspect the same property. Though Melbourne is a multi-cultural blended community, this particular complex that we visited turned out to be more Indian than usual. Chatting casually, the other Indian remarked in jest, “No way am I moving here, too many bloody desis here.” It’s coated in humour, but it makes me wonder. As if we hadn’t enough people stereotyping us, do we really need our own countrymen to do it too?

People in Minnesota (USA) are generally of the friendly variety. Walking down the street, we had taken to greet every stranger who crossed our path. A casual ‘Hi’, ‘How are you?’ was a normal thing to do. And yet, when Indian strangers came face to face, at least one, if not both, of the parties would avert their eyes. I have been in discussions with close friends, trying to decode this behaviour and even though “Indian men!” and “Indians stare – both men and women!” have been the top contenders, the actual reason remains unknown.

I do not say, flaunt your culture and rub it in people’s faces, no. Fanaticism is never the solution. In Rome, do as the Romans do. But what does distancing ourselves from our Indianness really solve, except perhaps give people a false sense of being more ‘civilized’ or ‘foreign’? We, as a population, love to call others racist and judgmental. But what we are doing to our own? What is it if not judgmental? Sanity, cleanliness, decency, civility and courtesy are social and behavioural aspects that grow on you, if given time. The need of the hour is to behave to impress, but to behave in a way that makes us, as a people, proud of ourselves,

I have always envied my Western born and bred colleagues especially the women. They always appear so well coiffured, sophisticated and that embody that other C world, I mean confident of course!

Put them in the spotlight and every one of them seems to be able to keep a natural dialogue going with the audience. They know how to speak their mind and they start early.

I look at them with awe, for buried deep within me, in the core of my DNA is a voice that stops me from coming forward, putting up my hand and claiming the spotlight, for fear of over-stepping many lines.

Sheryl Sandberg talks about leaning in—in her latest book. Of how when faced with choices which tempt women to step back, one needs to instead accelerate, lean in as it were, and I for one would agree with this philosophy in principle.

But then, Sheryl doesn’t come from good South Indian middle class stock intertwined with education at a Catholic Convent Girls’ School run by French nuns in suburban Bombay, does she? It’s bad enough to have one but being a product of both streams, and exposed to that conditioning during formative years as a teenager? Gosh! You can only imagine the confusion reigning supreme in the mind of such an individual aka someone like me.

Don’t get me wrong, its a background which ensured I had comprehensive education, strong manners, lots of culture, great moral fibre but was also intertwined with many inherent insecurities with its focus on intelligence over wealth quota, on honesty above everything else, emphasis on respect for parents, teachers, all elders (tag on bosses to this list) and somehow that bugbear of humbleness – of not being able to accept praise even when it was so patently due to me. Every time I claim the stage, make a presentation, establish eye contact with the person opposite me in a meeting, the ghost of my forefathers stands over my shoulders telling me off, cautioning me to hold back.

No wonder then that in every job interview I have had, I have always quoted a salary way below my real market worth. It is because I am Indian or a woman or both or simply just the confused me? Still figuring that one out.

So from the outside of course it seems I have come a long way of course, worked in many multinationals, spoken at many events, learnt to surf the web of conditioning, even accept that involuntary shirk of guilt in claiming the limelight.

Yet, it’s never far off, that temptation to hide behind that umbrella which warns me against speaking up, to toe the line, to be a good little employee who simply does what is told, and never questions the status quo.

I do get to the other side, and manage to reveal the newer, shinier, poised new me many times, but mostly it is only after a hard climb over the boulders of self-effacement that lingers from my steeped-in-modesty-background.

Have you had similar experiences in your working life?