I’m going to tell you a story of how I became me, and I hope you like it. Now, the conventional place to start a story is at the beginning, but I’m going to start before that, just because it’s a nicer place to start.
My dad is the youngest of six brothers, he was born in Surat, Gujarat. The family moved around a bit before settling in Bombay while my dad was still a young boy. His was a family of Mangalorean Catholics, who had probably descended from Goan Catholics, who had migrated to Mangalore during one of the three migration waves. The mother tongue of families like my dad’s is Mangalorean Konkani.
My mum (may she RIP), had an interesting past too. Her father was from what was then, Madras, and her mother was from Waltair (Visakhapatnam) in Andhra Pradesh. I wish there was some sweet tale of how my grandparents met and got married, but alas if there was, I was not privy to it. Well my granny’s last name was Paul and grandpa’s last name was that of another saint, so the heavens must have smiled upon their union.
Fast forward a few years and my mum who had grown up in Kharagpur and worked in Calcutta (both in West Bengal), met and married my dad and moved to Bombay. That is another nice story but for another day. They both spoke a number of languages each but the one that united them was English. So, that is how my parents came to run a household with English as the first (and only) language.
My dad was well trained in the art of cooking all the traditional Mangalorean recipes. He, however, was an incredibly talented cook and tried his hand at making sweets and baking and was good at everything he did. My mum couldn’t boil water to make a cup of tea. Living in hostels her whole life, she had never had access to a kitchen where she could hone her skills.
As a newly-wed whose shippy husband had to respond to the call of duty, she decided to learn to cook. Armed with tomes of Thangam Philip and Isidore Coelho, she ventured into her cooking journey. Turns out that she was an incredibly talented cook too! Soon she was learning to cook dishes from every corner of the country and the world.
Somewhere along the line my brother and I came along. We were being brought up in an English-speaking home, with a wide variety of cuisines. Breakfast could be scrambled eggs on toast on one day, aloo paratha the next, and idli-chutney the day after. Birthday parties and the other family functions would see a lasagne sitting next to the sorpotel, and chole beside the roast chicken on the dinner table. That was normal for us.
My mum was quite the fan of the Hindi music that she grew up with, and I was exposed to the likes of Kishore Kumar and Asha Bhosle from a young age. I was also exposed to English 80s pop and that’s what captured my heart. It’s not surprising because English was my first language and we tend to enjoy that which we understand and are comfortable with.
My brother wore shorts and tees, so I wore shorts and tees. And anyone who has worn shots and tees in our weather will tell you that there is no looking back. I did wear dresses sometime, especially to church, but was never really a big fan of feminine dressing. I had one yellow and white salwar suit that my uncle John had got me from Delhi, and I loved it with a passion. That was the one and only item of ethnic wear that I owned, and I wore it till it wore out. In my teens I discovered jeans and track pants. Sold!
No one ever spoke to me in any language other than English. I did get exposed to Hindi and Marathi at school but had a really hard time learning languages. As some of you may know, I have a hearing deficiency caused by an ear infection which lasted pretty much my entire childhood. My compromised hearing made it difficult to distinguish sounds. Being able to tell apart the B sound from the D sound, or if a word started with the M sound or the N sound, in another language was a complete nightmare.
As is human nature, we avoid what we find hard, so I abandoned all efforts to learn even the more widely spoken languages in my state. I stuck to English, and despite being dyslexic and terrible at spellings, I’d like to think that I got rather good at my singular mode of communication. I love to read in English, I love to write in English, and as some of you will attest, I love to talk in English.
So here I am in my forties, living in India, with an identity quiet unlike anyone else I know. We have no traditional family customs or dishes that have to be prepared on certain days. I still wear shorts and tees, I have picked up a smattering of Hindi through immersion, but not enough to hold a conversation. I love Western music, and I love dhal, rice and prawn pickle. I make a mean egg curry and an even meaner apple pie.
I love Indian food, but not the clothes. I love the natural beauty of this country but am not a fan of the movie scene. I have an avid interest in Indian cultures but no culture to call my own. I might seem like an alien in this land, but this land is not alien to me. I am a confused Indian, but India is my home.
Jacqueline Tellis 