<p>At a mutual introduction, upon my response to the customary curiosity-laden question about my origin, an acquaintance lamented, <span class="italic">“tu to lambi ho, gori ho, Punjaban kyon nahin ho (you are tall, fair, how are you not a Punjabi)?” </span>I am not a Punjabi, I unabashedly declared to her to which she said “Oh, Madrasi?” To her further amazement, I added that I was from Bengaluru, the capital city of Karnataka in South India. My home state housed Kannadigas, who spoke Kannada, I continue. Kannada? Is that the same as Tamil? I could only imagine her frustration in identifying someone as not a Punjabi, not even the well-known Madrasi but a Kannadiga.</p>.<p>I have to confess that I am as guilty of being ignorant of other cultures of India until experience has proved me otherwise. Growing up in Bengaluru, every time I entered my Punjabi neighbour’s house, I would be hit with a wave of deja vu feeling, because of the many scenes from Bollywood that were etched in my young brain. The exquisite furniture sitting pretty over plush Kashmiri carpets, a soft breeze of pleasant Bangalore air rustling the heavy brocade curtains covering the large windows, a big dog barking resting by the sofa, shiny articles placed purposefully on carved tables, books stacked perfectly, nothing out of place - just like in a movie. </p>.<p>While that did not quite accentuate the “Punjabi”ness, Aunty-ji sashayed around swathed in silky flowing attire, calling out to the maid in oversized hand-me-down clothes, with so many instructions that the poor girl seemed like she was skating around the shiny mosaic floors, wheeling in the Chai, a tray of pakoras and wiping the coasters, all in Bollywood style.</p>.<p>A question looms over me as I continue to converse with the acquaintance. If Punjabis see every native south of Ujjain to be ‘Madrasis’, should we Kannadigas think anyone who is not from South India is a Punjabi?</p>.<p>South or North Indian – my question remains. How could anyone emote using any other expression than “Aiyyo”, the one and only in this universe that can convey happiness, sorrow, surprise, disgust and everything in between, so compelling that even got its own crowned spot in the English dictionary? Is there even a competition between bling-bedazzled dresses and the exquisite rustling of rich colourful Kanjeevaram silks or the fluffy idlis, topped with a generous dollop of ghee and doused in hot steamy Sambhar edged with green chutney? No contest. </p>.<p>But for now, I am fully engaged, nodding through an animated conversation in Hindi in a roomful of Punjabis, relishing hot samosas and masala chai, until it is my turn to speak. </p>.<p>I pause. I speak. In English. </p>
<p>At a mutual introduction, upon my response to the customary curiosity-laden question about my origin, an acquaintance lamented, <span class="italic">“tu to lambi ho, gori ho, Punjaban kyon nahin ho (you are tall, fair, how are you not a Punjabi)?” </span>I am not a Punjabi, I unabashedly declared to her to which she said “Oh, Madrasi?” To her further amazement, I added that I was from Bengaluru, the capital city of Karnataka in South India. My home state housed Kannadigas, who spoke Kannada, I continue. Kannada? Is that the same as Tamil? I could only imagine her frustration in identifying someone as not a Punjabi, not even the well-known Madrasi but a Kannadiga.</p>.<p>I have to confess that I am as guilty of being ignorant of other cultures of India until experience has proved me otherwise. Growing up in Bengaluru, every time I entered my Punjabi neighbour’s house, I would be hit with a wave of deja vu feeling, because of the many scenes from Bollywood that were etched in my young brain. The exquisite furniture sitting pretty over plush Kashmiri carpets, a soft breeze of pleasant Bangalore air rustling the heavy brocade curtains covering the large windows, a big dog barking resting by the sofa, shiny articles placed purposefully on carved tables, books stacked perfectly, nothing out of place - just like in a movie. </p>.<p>While that did not quite accentuate the “Punjabi”ness, Aunty-ji sashayed around swathed in silky flowing attire, calling out to the maid in oversized hand-me-down clothes, with so many instructions that the poor girl seemed like she was skating around the shiny mosaic floors, wheeling in the Chai, a tray of pakoras and wiping the coasters, all in Bollywood style.</p>.<p>A question looms over me as I continue to converse with the acquaintance. If Punjabis see every native south of Ujjain to be ‘Madrasis’, should we Kannadigas think anyone who is not from South India is a Punjabi?</p>.<p>South or North Indian – my question remains. How could anyone emote using any other expression than “Aiyyo”, the one and only in this universe that can convey happiness, sorrow, surprise, disgust and everything in between, so compelling that even got its own crowned spot in the English dictionary? Is there even a competition between bling-bedazzled dresses and the exquisite rustling of rich colourful Kanjeevaram silks or the fluffy idlis, topped with a generous dollop of ghee and doused in hot steamy Sambhar edged with green chutney? No contest. </p>.<p>But for now, I am fully engaged, nodding through an animated conversation in Hindi in a roomful of Punjabis, relishing hot samosas and masala chai, until it is my turn to speak. </p>.<p>I pause. I speak. In English. </p>