Humour: Our Brown Sahebs (Re: Language in Indian films)
Cricfan
which I had posted way back in 1992. This was from The Illustrated
Weekly of India, 1970!!!
Enjoy...
---------
Hi,
This is a hilarious article I dug up from an Illustrated Weekly
dated July 5, 1970. It's a real pity that I cannot post the
rib-tickling Mario Miranda cartoons that went along with it.
ENJOY.
There might be a lot of typo's, 'cos I typed in a hurry.
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OUR BROWN SAHEBS - By BACHI N. KANGA
Sketches by Mario.
The Excecutors and Beneficiaries named in the Last Will and
Testament
of the British Raj are the Brown Sahebs. More than the
Administrative
Service, more than the Railways, more even than the much maligned
educational system, they are the truest evidence that Queen Victoria
reigned here.
The Brown Saheb is the Deputy left behind to keep the Union Jack
flying, to remind a forgetful world that Britannia once ruled the
waves.
And how! The Deputy Sah'b lives in an island of colonialism, as
stolid
as the Rock of Gibraltar, untouched by the lashing wavelets of petty
democracy.
In the "propah" tradition of the British upper classes. the Wogs
(Westernized Oriental Gentlemen) have turned to politics or the
I.A.S
Or they are the Sandhurst-trained army types, with walrus
moustachios
ready to defend the motherland. (God Save the Gracious Queen).
After Independance, this bulldog breed from the Raj kennels had
to
get about barking in the native language. It wasn't easy. To wit,
the
speech ascribed to a very "seniah general" delivered to the jawans
on
August 15, 1947: "Aaaj hum sab muft ho gaya." Or again, the Brown
Saheb
who tried his Hindustani on his black batman. "Kitna baja?"(What is
the
time?), he asked. The man replied, "Nau (nine baja sah'b."
Unfamiliar with
the naunces, the BS flared up, "It can't be no baja, it must be some
bloody baja!"
To recuperate from such ordeals and escape from the sweltering
heat
of "these Indian summers" the Wog goes on a Grand Tour of the
Continent
or back "home". Unfortunately, finances, and the Reserve bank
deprive
many of such a "furlough" and England has become a "Nevah Nevah
Land".
In the good old days of the Raj, the Brwon Saheb, Black Knight
and
Off-white Blimp had done very well for themselves. The Ceylonese
journalist, Tarzie Vittachi, shows what a good job the British had
done
of turning them into made-over Englishmen. "They spoke English -
some of
them impeccably; they behaved as they thought a well bred Englishman
should behave. They ate like the English - bacon and eggs if they
could
afford it, and a "course" for dinner. A few of them went so far as
dressing
for dinner, even in the wilderness, like a pucca Saheb. Their values
were
borrowed from English public schools (vitae lampada and all that
sort of
thing), their tastes and habits were English and it was quite
possible
that even their dreams had English sub-titles". Even today, to quote
Mr
Vittachi again, "Eve's Wekly Society (Eve's Weekly is the Indian
counter-
-part of the Tattler) in Bombay, Calcutta and Delhi still regards an
Oxford or Cambridge degree as the peak of civilised education for
the
sons of Free India."
In a crowd, the Brown Saheb stands out like a bandaged nose.
You
can't miss him. He will be wearing a three-piece suit - the last
button of
the waistcoat undone, naturally - and proclaiming in almost
Oxbridgian
accents, "'Ponky' Banerjea and I were chummy at Cambridge" . Pardon
me,
sir, your desi slip is showing. But the chances are, you won't find
him
in a "sticky, sweaty native crowd". He dwells in the rarefied
atmosphere
of The Club. In Calcutta's Bengal Club or Delhi's Gymkhana, you can
quite
forget that India gained independence 23 years ago. Into this
bastion
of feudalism the BS steps every vening. For a "spot of billiards" or
a
chhota peg. "Make it a very small choter, will you please, James? No
bigga than a Lal Bahadur." Nouveau riche Indians may strut about
acting
as though they owned the world. The Brown Saheb act as though he
couldn't
care who owned it.
The sad fact is that the Brown Saheb has the mental calibre and
the
educational background to change Indian conditions for the better.
Instead
of doing so, he spends his hours criticising all things Indian and
detaching himself from the country's realities and problems.
From his position - and it is a position of power - he will
demand
that others strive to be Indian all the way. He'll insist that Clive
street be called Netaji Subhas Road. Yet, he will buy, at any price,
a
British public school education for his children. Since it can't be
Eton
or Harrow, ersatz sah'blings have to make do with Doon, Rajkumar,
Lawrence
or Bishop Cotton. There are less hypocritical brown sahebs, too, who
are
British in public *and* in private. Brown Sahebs, who think, feel,
swear,
dream and buy British. Picture him now sitting in his smoking
jacket,
mulling over his brandy reading the Times (of London) or grunting
over
what he has heard appeared in the Times (of India). "I tell you, B.
N.,
old chap, what these bloody dhotiwallahs need is some buckshot in
their
backsides. What?"
Buckshot reminds me of another club in Delhi, this one solely
devoted
to maintaining the hooary British tradition - the Fox Hunt. "Where
to get
a fox, dammit all? Jackal ko chase karenge." So there are all these
gentlemen, chiefly bearded and turbaned Sardarji's, in crimson
jackets
and baggy pantaloons, spurring their horses onwards and crying
"Tali-Ho!"
Ranjit Singh never led his men to battle with greater fervour!
Post-hunt
traditions are strictly observed. Right down to drinking Bristol
Cream
sherry and sticking a piece of the "brush" (the fox's , sorry,
jackal's
tail) into the folds of the turban.
Typical Hunt Club conversation goes something like this:
Harry Singh: "I'm engaged"
Billy Singh: "To a girl?"
H.S : " To be sure"
B.S : "What's her name?"
H.S : "Lolly Singh-Roy."
B.S : "Does she hunt?"
H.S : "To be sure."
etc. etc.
Bird watching is as much an adopted and adapted pastime. However,
unlike his
white mentor, the Brown Saheb cannot write a letter to the Times,
when he
spots the first cuckoo which heralds the coming of Spring. He has to
make do
with the Monsoon Bird.
At seven in the evening the Brown Saheb goes upstairs. The
Khidmatgar has
laid out his clothes. He bathes, dresses for dinner and as the gong
echoes,
through the halls, the BS descends the carpeted stairs in an aura of
Old
Spice (not the locally made one).
Holy Cow!
In food his tastes are studiously cultivated. He eats roast beef
and two
ve. with great relish. His concience is unruffled since it is not
the
flesh of your holy cow. It is Australian beef which does not really
come
in the forbidden category. But oft betimes the craving for our
chatpatta
delicacies overpowers him. He then drives down to the kabawalla and
exorcises his guilt by saying, "It's mahvellous to go slumming,
what?"
At traditional public dinners which he occasionally graces with his
prescence , he and his memsahib will insist on using a fork and a
knife,
slicing through the banana leaf and - greatly to their chagrn -
leaving
rivulets of gravy on the tablecloth.
The Brown Saheb and and more than him his mem, will brrok only
an
equally Anglophile "household staff" (including maid, mashalchi and
chokra). Only those who have served under the angrez need apply. The
first question is whether he can make western food - soup, sucklings
and and that white, gooey gastronomical understatement which the
English
dare to call a "sauce". In this "castle" only the butler may answer
the
door or the telephone. Peter was one such family retainer, the
quintessence of obsequiousness " yes madam, I shall tell madam, you
called
madam. Is there any message for madam? Thank you, madam. Goodbye,
madam."
In our younger days we telephoned Uncle Jimmy's house just for the
pleasure
of listening to Peter.
Peter, John, Solomon, or Sammy (he was Swamy when he played
among the
palm fronds and the backwaters) is less Jeeves than Uncle Tom.
Tucked away
in his black heart is a special corner for the Saheb, Memsaheb and
most of
all for the little Missybaba. As he serves her stiffly from the
left, and
watches her throw down her bread and butter "putten" in a tantrum, a
loving
gleam brightens his dimming eye. "What a marvelously temperamental,
deliciously fastidious, mistress she will make to some other lucky,
lucky
table 'boy", he muses with envy.
One more thing. The servent speaks perfectly good Hindustani
(unless
he's the Alphonso Gama type), the master speaks perfectly good
Hindustani,
but no excahnge of conversation between them can dare to be in that
"heathen"
lingo. If such a slip were made at table, oh! horror of horrors, the
French
fries would crumble to ashes and digestive tracts curl up and die.
The Brown Sahebs babalog go to public schools where they wear
caps and
striped ties ( the tie is Very important, it is the bond of a
lifetime),
learn latin, play cricket and eat Irish stew. They get their facts
of
Indian history from S.Reed Brett. Esq., who dwells in great and gory
detail
over, the Black Hole of Calcutta. Jalianwalla Bagh? Never heard of
it.
The Mind of the BS
A colonel in the army was exchanging banter over a drink with
Tarzie
Vittachi at a Club. Suddenly he switched off the banter and asked
him to
explain why he had criticised, in his newspaper column, a statement
which
had been made by the Governor-General. Vittachi replied that if the
Governor-General made public statements on public policy he must
expect
public reaction and criticism.
"Nonsense" replied the colonel. "H.E., is the H.M's
representative here.
The Sovereign is sacrosanct, old boy, sacrosanct. Can't possibly do
wrong.
Must nevah be criticised. Nevah.."
The journalist retaliated, "Ever heard what Cromwell did to King
Charles?
"Cromwell?" bawled the Colonel, "Cromwell? The common feller! Don't
evah
mention his name to me again!"
Was the Colonel serious or was this tongue in cheek badinage? In
either
case it gives a clue to the mental processes of the Brown Sahebs,
and
shows the uncanny way in which people whom live in borrowed culture
often
go extremes that their models and mentors had never intended.
Another illustration. Among the first families of old Lucknow
there lived
a Chocolate Cream Saheb. When his fellow Muslims came to wish him
Id
Mubarak one year, he replied with gracious charm, "Aaj tum sab
Mussalmanlog
ka bara din hai!"
Bara din (Christmas) and New Year are the Wog's only festivals.
But try
as he might the Brown Saheb - and the Off- white Blimp - cannot
abandon
himself to rollicking gaiety. Blood will out and his inhibitions
will not
leave him alone. it is pathetic to see him desperately trying to
let himself
go - dancing in the ballroom, drinking champagne, singing Auld Lang
Syne,
wearing a paper hat, horsing around - and all the while really,
feeling
very very silly. Such is the schizophrenia of the Brown Saheb.
Whether the climate favors it or not, the Wog must have his
two pegs
a little after sundown every evening, the faithful Rover dozing at
his feet.
Without the scotch the evening would languish and wit decay. But
there is
a difference. our friend cannot say, "Bottoms Up" without blushing
'neath
his beard. So he toasts with a "God bless ji" or even "Sat Sri
Akal".
The Brown Saheb can be distinguished as much by his Hobson
Jobson
speech and name as by his interior decor.
His drawing room *must* have Victorian geegaws, overstuffed
armchairs,
and brass-potted money plants. He'd rather have prints of European
masters than Indian originals, and the most oriental will be a
Gaugin
reproduction. He prides himself on the fact that he has bathroom
for
every bedroom and his status symbol is the *bidet* ("thunderbox")
in
every bathroom.
For him the essence of syntax are, By Jingo! What ho! Tickety
boo!
and as a magnanimous concession to his nativity, he says, "Tik ai"
(not
theek hai) and "cuppa cha". A Brown Saheb never goes to bed, he
goes
"charpoy bashing"; he never looks at anything, he has a "dekko".
His name may have been Ananda, he's now Andy: Shri Kapur has
translated
himself to Mr Camphor. A Ganpat of my acquaintance is known only
as Pat;
Shri Krishna Rao went onto Chris and thence to Christopher. And
Madhusudhan
returned from *vilayat* as Mr Marsden.
I Hate Indians!
Some Wogs, don't stop at silver fish knives, French wines,
kissing ladies
hands and loathing Indians. They even pose for magazine covers
dressed up
more like Noyes' Highwayman than Goldsmith's English Squire...
Newest of the breed and therefore lowest in the heirarchy is
the
boxwalla - the Company executive. The army type and the I.A.S. man
look
down their collective noses at him because he is in the trades, no
more
than a glorified saleman. This specimen is easily identifiable. He
never
*wears* his coat. His *jacket* as he prefers to call it, is slung
with
careful carelessness over his arm or, even more nonchalantly, over
his
terrene clad shoulder. Also, he is impressed by America: Note his
shirt-
-sleeves which your true blue Brown Saheb "wouldn't be seen dead
in". One
such boxwalla was Chingleput Kuppuswamy Vaidyalingam. In his samll
town
"native place" we called him Veedy. Then he moved out and learnt a
little
more of the world and its wicked wicked ways. I heard he's
abandoned his
earlier diminutive is now called Kim. Another "buddy" of ours was
Harikesanullur Anantsubhramanyan Parameshwaran. He is "Parry" to
his
friends. His accent is cultivated haw-haw interspersed with
Yankee
slang. When he interrupts in conversation, he never says, "Excuse
me".
He says, "Just a mo, old boy, I beg to diffah." His office ends
at 5.30.
he never comes home before 7, and always with his collar undone
and his
tie askew: " I was with the G.M." When you ask for him on the
phone, his
secretary will purr, "Mr Parameshwaran is at a conference", even
if he's
just gone "round the corner". A phone call at home in the same
circumstances evokes a different if more honest response, "He's
in the
bathroom."
The boxwalla, is only the first generation Saheb, you must
remember.
You cannot expect his family to have all his fancy airs. For this
reason
too his life has many incongruities. He refers to his father as
the
"Guvnor", even though *appa* wears a dhoti, a sacred thread and a
*kudumi*
atop his head.
Most contemptous of the boxwall and more errant than the Brown
Saheb is
the Black Knight. He is royallar than the royals, more "puccah"
than the
ruddiest British Major. He may have become an anachronism, but he
has
lost none of his arrogance. To watch Sir Hiren in action is the
sight to
delight the most fastidious Chief of Protocol. Mark the delicate
lift of
the eyebrow, that aristocratic sneer and now that faintest
suggestion of
a smile of recognition. See the untitled bow an scrape and fawn.
The drapes are drawn and darkness has begun to descend on the
already
twilight world of the brown saheb. He has lost his zamindary and
the sun
has set on his empire as well. Now, all he has to cling on to is
his
snobbery, his chhota hazri, his old school tie and a yellowing
souvenir
of Swan Lake at Covent Gardens.
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Concluded,
Arun Simha
shampa shilpa shetty shan
Cricfan wrote in message <9a0087b.02020...@posting.google.com>...
>On the topic of culture/films etc..I dug up an article from s.c.i
>which I had posted way back in 1992. This was from The Illustrated
>Weekly of India, 1970!!!
>
>Enjoy...
> in his black heart is a special corner for the Saheb, Memsaheb and
>most of
> all for the little Missybaba. As he serves her stiffly from the
>left, and
> watches her throw down her bread and butter "putten" in a tantrum, a
>loving
> gleam brightens his dimming eye. "What a marvelously temperamental,
> deliciously fastidious, mistress she will make to some other lucky,
>lucky
> table 'boy", he muses with envy.
> One more thing. The servent speaks perfectly good Hindustani
>(unless
> he's the Alphonso Gama type), the master speaks perfectly good
>Hindustani,
> but no excahnge of conversation between them can dare to be in that
>"heathen"
> lingo.
<snip>
i enjoyed that. do you have more articles from that publication to post? and
do you know if it is still published? i cant find it online but would like
to know where i could buy them (i live in the US).
and who is Alphonso Gama?
Cricfan
> <snip>
> i enjoyed that. do you have more articles from that publication to post? and
> do you know if it is still published? i cant find it online but would like
> to know where i could buy them (i live in the US).
>
> and who is Alphonso Gama?
The Illustrated Weekly of India was the most popular magazine for
20-30 years, until it shut down in the mid 80's. Khushwant Singh
edited it in the 70's and Pritish Nandy in the 80's.It was a very good
magazine, with news, politics, short stories, interviews,
entertainment and sports. A sort of intellectual India Today <g>
I have some old copies back in India. But the 'Brown Saheb' article
was from a 1970 edition that I found in my colege library while I was
doing my M. S.
The magazines are great fun to read. It's awfully amusing to see
articles in the late 60's and early 70's predicting the film stars of
the next decade :-)
The Weekly in 1970 had predicted that the Rajesh Khanna and Ajay Sahni
would be the stars to watch in the 70's. :-)
Cheers
Arun