The Second Rate Citizen

For all the faults that I may find in the public, social, religious and legal way of things in India, it takes some moment to dawn upon me that I will only ever be a “first rate citizen” of India and no other land. This realization may be befuddling to some, but can also be empowering if looked upon correctly.

Brain drain from India has been something that the middle class has always lauded and encouraged. With sons and daughters either studying or working “abroad” or married to a Non Resident Indian (NRI), much prestige can be earned at the evening gossip sessions in the neighborhood parks. Of course said sons and daughters  (self included) also show a keen proclivity to churn out high GMAT/GRE scores and run away to US and UK to acquire the much sought after masters education, never to return, slowly getting absorbed into the vortex of American commercialism or afternoon tea-drinking acts of ostentatious propriety.

Slowly, as the realization dawns that chaotic, confusing, overpopulated India is a great melting pot for stirring cultural conversations, but when it comes to actually living there, the poverty, the corruption, the reckless driving, the heat and stench, remind us of all things that made us stay away in the first place. And then ever so slowly, the second rate citizen is born. I am one of those, I must admit with much shame.

Living away from Delhi has been liberating in many ways but in no way has it been more profound than in making me realize the respect women can earn while on their own. Yet, every time I try to revel in this breath of fresh air, I am reminded that I need to come to another country to deserve this form or independence and respect. This angers me of course, but not enough to do something about it. Clearly, “ being the change, you want to see in the world” is easier said than done.

Being an expat is however, not all about moments of enlightenment and unbridled travel and decadence. It is more about the realization of the colour of your skin: how very brown it is. How sometimes being the only brown person on a European flight can get you an extra special treatment and an extra vigilant passport check even when traveling in the Schengen area doesn’t warrant one.

But this is the choice we ought to live with. Being the blue fish with the other blue fish in a dirty pond, or being a blue fish with other red fish in a clean pond.

 Waiting for the said pond to clean up may be a tad optimistic on my part.  But no matter where I roam or where I live, there is only one place that is home: India. Everything else is transitory.