By Kollengode S Venkataraman, (written in 1999)
You know the story of the Seven Blind Men of Hindustan describing the elephant in terms of the parts they touched. The following is even better. Everyone in this story sees the same person, and yet has very different reactions.
Dr. Hariharan B. Palakkad*, the US-born freshly minted graduate from a US medical school, joined a hospital for his residency. When his photograph in profile, in medical attire with a stethoscope around his neck, with his name under his photograph, appeared in the hospital newsletter, this is what went through the minds of the other doctors in the hospital:
Dr. Jack Tipinsky: “Uh oh, one more foreigner.”
Dr. David Li: “Sigh, one more Indian. I need to be careful.”
Dr. Ahmad Khan, a Mohajir from Karachi: “Umm… one more Kafir Hindu.”
Drs. Ahluwalia, Trivedi, and Banerji: “Sssala, aur ek Madrassi.” — one more South Indian!
Dr. Anand Arumilli from Andhra Pradesh: “Okay, ఇంకొకటి అరవాడు!” (one more Tamil.)
Dr. Anbalagan, with Dravidian affiliation from Tamil Nadu: “Mmmm, இன்னொரு ஐயரா? — another Brahmin? But I have learned to live with them, even though I cannot stand them… but in a strange way, I cannot live without them either. Like the Jews-White Christian interactions in Western Europe and North America.”
Dr. Kasturi Iyengar: “Ooo-kay, one more Iyer.”
Dr. Raman, an Iyer from Tamil Nadu: “God, one more Palakkad Iyer guy from Kerala!”
Dr. Narayana Menon, or Nair, or Namboothiri: “ഓ ശരി, O yeah, one more പട്ടർ (Pattar)!”
On the day Dr. Palakkad was introduced to the staff, Dr. Natarajan Venkitaraman, the middle-aged doctor originally from Kerala, asked the new kid, “Hey, l’m from Kerala and I am from Palakkad. What is the B in your middle initial?”
“That’s a long story. Briefly, my father once told me that we belong to the Bharadwaja gotram. But I don’t know what it really means.”
Venkitaraman, the middle-aged Kerala Iyer doctor who belonged to the Kaushika gotram, thought, “God, one more Bharadwajan. They are everywhere.”
* Palakkad is a well-known region in Kerala, India. Note: The Hariharan in the story could as well have been a Reddy, a Gowda, a Nair, an Athavlé, a Ganguli, a Dwivedi, a Kuriakose, a Bukhari, or a Sodhi. The reactions would be analogous.
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A Delhiwallah working in Europe went to Egypt on business. At the hotel, his Egyptian business associate met him. True to the traditions of that part of the world, he was effusively gracious.
It was a summer full moon and the skies were clear. The host asked the Indian if he wanted to see the pyramids under the natural full moon light. The Indian said yes.
Around midnight, the Egyptian drove his guest to the Giza pyramids.
The roads were empty. Therefore, as he was driving, the Egyptian zipped through several red lights. For the Indian, who was used to the insane Delhi drivers, this was too much. His stomach tightened every time his host ran a red light.
Finally, they came to another intersection where they had a green light. Strangely, the Egyptian slowed down. Puzzled by this, the Indian asked, “Why did you slow down for the green light?”
“Oh, you never know. Some crazy drivers may run the red light in the opposite direction.”
— Anecdotes from a Travelling Indian