Culture clash

Culture is a strange thing. It is used in different ways by people. In the west according to their culture sons and daughters don't stay in their father's house. In India, they do. And for someone from the west, this part of the Indian culture, like most other parts, seems absurd. And the Indians who emigrated to the west, also find it absurd, because they now live in the west, among the forward-thinking, upwardly mobile, advanced civilization in the world. At least that is what we in the east secretly believe, when we have temporarily forgotten our great and glorious past, which we pit against that of the west when we feel at a disadvantage.

In the west we live among them, we live like them, we think like them, we talk like them, we keep their streets clean, follow their traffic rules to the hilt, build houses like theirs, adorn the walls with their art, celebrate their festivals, enjoy their sport, oh so many things and yet behind this facade we have an undying faith in our own greatness, in our own glorious past, in our scriptures and gods, in our family and social values. And at the same time we harbor deep within ourselves - it comes out only when we are back in India - a dislike of their tendency to waste, their lack of respect toward others, especially elders, their arrogance of the notion of a superior race, their ill-concealed contempt for the colored people, their laws, their extraordinary respect for the word of the law, their utter disregard for family values - we secretly believe they have none.

But when we come to India, alas, we see the filth on the streets, the dust in the house, the numerous slithering and crawling creatures on the walls, on the floor, on the tables - everywhere - in the corners, in the dark interiors, in claustrophobic places, and the utter disregard for rules, the chalta-hai attitude, the poverty - it is everywhere, not just in the shanties. Even the educated son is jobless, penniless, living in father's house, living off the largesse of his mother, living without rent, oh so many things, we see these things, like a daughter using her mother to look after the children, not caring for the health of the mother, using her as one would use a maid, and so on and so on. We see all this when we come to India and at once our mind rebels - there is a clash of cultures. The culture we have grown up with, but too hard to live down, too hard to live by, too hard to explain away, too hard to ignore, and the culture we are adopting now, living in now, living beautifully, organized, clean, salubrious, with dignity, with a fat bank balance, with opportunities to grow and bloom...something that is impossible in the homeland where children run amuck like monkeys, adults with their morals and principles long discarded by the west as foolish, silly and stupid, their respect for others and elders so much at odds with the canons of free spirit of the west. There is a clash. A clash that happens every time we visit India, every time, we walk or drive in the streets - the noise, the pollution, the filth, the chaotic traffic, the mind boggling numbers and variety of vehicles and pedestrians...a clash that is hard to reconcile, hard to live with, hard to bear, hard to ignore.

It is not the clash of two civilizations. It is not on a global scale. It is not news on BBC World Service. It is hardly noticed by the majority of the people in the world. They are not even aware of it. It is felt only by the emigrants, by those who are trying to fit into new clothes, into new streets, into new habitations. Those who are adjusting to their new surroundings, new faces, new society. It is a wholly different way of life. Mostly automated, works like a machine, with clockwork precision. This clash is felt by those who went over to the west. Leaving behind their fledgling homes in the backwoods, they went through the portals of opportunity into the high life, into the best places in the world, into the most sought after advanced human ecosystem.

It is felt in individuals, not in groups. It is felt by every man, woman and child. It is felt acutely when they return. It is felt every time we have to contend with the people we left behind...'left behind' is a phrase that is the motif of emigration. Those who emigrated to the west have progressed, went further in life, went ahead, metaphorically speaking. We have 'left behind' our unfortunate brothers and sisters, parents and relatives. And now when we return we feel the difference acutely, like we are entering into shanty town, into a hovel that was once our home, where we grew up, in ignorance, with silly aspirations and stupid notions. And now when we return we return not just to our homeland, not just to what was once our home, we return to our past, our shame, to live once again with misery, with uncleanness, with notions and superstitions, with brothers and sisters who have not 'grown' in the real sense, in the sense of growing, blooming, flowering. They are still in the dusty and ignorant past, the past we left behind, the past of murky and musty corridors, the past we left behind to the bright future of tomorrow. It is this we have to contend with. The clash of the past and the future, the clash that happens in the present, it happens now, it happens every time we meet them, we see them, we walk and talk with them. We become impatient with their old world notions, with their illogical explanations and irrational thoughts. We pity them, commiserate with their misfortune, live with their foolish notions and silly aspirations, put up with their inane talk, watch helplessly their useless struggles.

We suffer because we have experienced the clash, on account of them, because we bear the cross of their misfortune. We try to alleviate their misery with ideas and gifts so that they could organize their lives, improve their living conditions, live with more dignity, live in the modern world. But we see with exasperation that some of them are beyond rescue. Their ideas are too deeply entrenched in the past, their future is hopeless, meaningless, and entirely without significance. It is this clash that we have to bear, to suffer.

But the clash there needn't be. The clash is because they wouldn't change. The clash owes its genesis to a couple of individuals in the family who refuse to change, who are incapable of change, who are so utterly lacking in skills, so utterly old fashioned that they resist change and the clash happens. Not to them, they are blithely ignorant of it. They live their beastly little lives and expect us to live with them.

The clash is not just a conflict of the civilization. It is a clash at the very personal level. It centers around the home, the home we lived in, the home we left behind, the home we want to come back to. The home is no longer that home of our remembrances. It has changed so much that hardly is there anything to rekindle the fond memories. It is trodden over, trampled over like hooligans, desecrated, furniture destroyed, walls unpainted, fixtures broken, house distorted, backyard abandoned, litter all over the place. There is no welcome, no homecoming, just a guest staying at a sleazy motel with no amenities, no service, no telephone, no clean bed, the motel that is our home converted, corrupted. This is the clash that is hardest to bear, hardest to live down, hardest to talk about. This is a personal clash and I am sure every man and woman who left the shores of poverty to the opulence of paradise must have felt some time or other this mind deadening clash, this fist clenching clash, this clash that would never go away, never leave us alone, like a leech it hung on. Until we return sad and defeated, to our promised land of plenty, of order, of dignity.