In Other Shoes

The early morning nip in the London air and its dreary misty grey were justoutside the window, yet it seemed an universe away. It was March 24, India weremeeting Pakistan for the last engagement of the 2004 ODI tour at the GaddafiStadium in Lahore. A disciplined performance had earlier allowed the Indians tocome from behind and tie the rubber at 2-2, now they had a chance to actuallywin the series. There were no less than 250 South Asians and people of SouthAsian origin who had descended upon the London University Pub that day. This wasafter we had coerced the university union to subscribe to the only TV channelthat was showing the series in England.

Contrary to popular belief that South Asian migration to England is arelatively recent phenomenon, South Asians have been migrating to the BritishIsles for nearly 400 years now. A substantial number of these early settlerswere ayahs, nannies, runaway Lascars, domestic servants etc. This working classSouth Asian population kept growing right through the colonial period, andespecially during the First World War, when a labour shortage caused many moreSouth Asians to be employed in the sugar and textile mills.

It used to be said that wherever British arms were carried, a bat and a ballwent with it. Today the tide is reverse. Wherever the mouth-watering smell ofspices and curries waft the air, a game of cricket can’t be far behind. Whilemost of white, and even for that matter the new generation of black Britonsprefer to run between ad hoc goalposts erected on the two ends of some publicpark or the other, the South Asian Briton of nearly every generation stillconnects to the distant world of his forefathers by wielding the willow. Veryfew of the 250 that day (and the number kept climbing through the day) hadeither South Asian passports or accents. Indeed quite a few of them spoke only asmattering of their mother tongues.

Someone had also had the good sense to bring along an ektara, and afew others joined him in belting out a non-stop routine of Punjabi folk songssung with a distinct Birmingham accent. Quite a few flags of both countriesfluttered in the room as well. Between the partisan cheering and sloganeering,people would struggle through the crowds to get to the counter and buy the nextround. The fun was in the fact that when the rounds were indeed bought,Sukhwinder, whose grandfather had been from Patiala, would even buy for Adnan,whose father had come from Karachi. Hearty cheering for one’s team could notobliterate the spirit of camaraderie that prevailed between Pakistani and Indianorigin Britons over years of having grown up together. For First Gen expats likeus, it was unthinkable that so many Indian and Pakistani supporters could betogether in such a small place, during a cricket match, and yet nobody got hurt.How indeed is it possible?

To answer this question, we must stop to take a look at the world of theSouth Asian Briton. Unlike most of the NRIs we meet through Bollywood, most donot have their own private jets, or own huge palatial residences to house their PhirBhi Dil Hai Hindustani joint families. A large number of them instead eitherrun corner shops, work as bus conductors, waiters or factory hands. On top ofthat, since the early 80s and the rise of the British Nationalist Party, racistattacks on South Asians, and a disproportionate number of criminal convictionsoften caused by a prejudiced criminal justice system have also proliferated.After the ignominy of being called ‘Paki’, ‘nigger’ or ‘wog’, beingridiculed for their culture, their dress, their religion, their skin colours andeventually being denied an equal opportunity at every stage of life, despitenever having seen any other country but England, the second or third generationSouth Asian origin Briton’s life is a constant search for self-respect andpride.

Even those within the community who are successful, often internalise the petdenigrations of their white masters and turn into the most cynical critics ofthe world of the average lower middle class South Asian Briton. After 400 oddyears of having contributed to the wealth and progress of the English nation inevery way, the South Asian Briton is still often viewed as an unwantedparticipant in England’s prosperity. While the unfortunate few amongst theyoungsters become fodder for various extremist right wing organisations tryingto either raise money for hate campaigns or worse still, becoming recruits forsuicide bombers, a much larger number, despite the daily insults andinequalities, try to eke out a normal living. It is for them that cricket issomething special.

Cricket is the one thing in which South Asia rules the roost. Be you anIndian, a Pakistani, a Lankan or even a Bangladeshi, it’s the only sport whereyour team has a chance to win. Moreover, apart from the negative effects ofBritish racism, it is the only shared experience for these children andgrandchildren of South Asia which defies caste, religion, country,language--everything.

The unity is born on two counts. First, negatively, the inability of the laywhite Britisher to realise that South Asia is not a microscopic island likeEngland, and the difference between Calcutta and Karachi or Calicut for thatmatter, is in some cases much greater than London and Paris. And consequentlythe stereotyping of all South Asians in the same bracket with tigers,snake-charmers, spiritualism, coconut trees and Gandhi for company. Robbed ofall individuality in the face of racist stereotypes, South Asian Britons areforced to see themselves as one community. Second, positively, through cricketas the only shared experience not only between peoples of these diversetraditions, but also between them and their father’s. Given the immense gulfthat yawns between first gen South Asian fathers and their British sons, onewonders if they would have communicated at all, if it had not been for cricketand Lata Mangeshkar.

Nearly eight months later, I was sitting in Block F at the Eden Gardens,Kolkata. It was the BCCI platinum jubilee match. After seeing India pile on theruns, a young boy, Salman Butt played what I would rate as one of the bestone-day innings to bring victory to the visitors. In the cauldron of noise andcolour that is Eden Gardens in an India-Pakistan match, there is no bigger testin the world of cricket for a youngster to not only bat with class, but withauthority, and under pressure (India had scored 292 for 6). As Butt’sjuggernaut sauntered on, I began to wonder if indeed the impossible would happen-- India would lose. A fellow spectator in the next stand, wearing a Tricolourbandana, closed his eyes on the beauty of Butt’s stroke-play and turnedtowards the heavens with cupped hands for divine aid for Team India.

Pointing it out to spectators in neighbouring seats, I joked if God would notthink twice before bowling at Butt. To my surprise both my neighbours seemedconvinced that the prayers of our fellow spectator, despite his Tricolourbandana, were not for Team India, but indeed against them. The proof: of course,his hands were cupped and not joined in prayer--‘Don’t you get it? He is aMuslim,’ they pointed out. Sheepishly I muttered something about Zaheer Khanand Irfan Pathan, the two hopes we had of getting that all important wicket alsobeing Muslims. ‘Yes, yes’ they gleefully agreed, ‘that is why we arelosing the match, don’t you see they never perform against Pakistan.’ Therewere so many things one could have said, not least of it would have been torecount Irfan’s figures for the March tour, but I kept quiet, the only time inmy life perhaps being ashamed of being a Bengali and an Indian.

I can’t stop wondering though that if we are justified in saying ‘anyonebut England’, because of the racist diatribes we South Asians get, would itindeed be unjust if future Irfans and Zaheers were to grow up saying ‘anyonebut India’, after being brought up on a diet of such comments?

Projit Mukharji is a Felix Fellow at SOAS, University of London.