Just Like That | A fine line of what's socially correct when East meets West

At the intersection of civilizations lies a dilemma felt most keenly by immigrants and diplomats: follow the dominant idiom, or the mores of one's homeland?

As a diplomat, representing one of the oldest and most refined civilizations of the world, there is the perpetual dilemma of how much one needs to change in order to conform to what foreign interlocutors—especially from the West—expect your social profile to be. Somewhere in the course of my career, I began to ask why must I be homogenised to behave like them, when my own customs, traditions and way of life, are different. It is for this reason that when I was the director of The Nehru Centre in London, I stopped wearing a tie and suit, though I have nothing against either, and replaced them with a bandgala or a kurta-pyjama and Jawahar jacket.

Some foods simply can't be eaten with a fork and a knife, no matter where one's consuming them. (Wiki Commons)

Often, quite imperceptibly—even thoughtlessly—we fall into the trap of not being ourselves even if we are otherwise proud of our roots. An American diplomat once told me how a well-known Indian, who pontificated at length throughout the evening about the importance of indigenous traditions, spent all his energies at dinner trying to eat his roti and mutton curry with a knife and fork! In my own case, I recall with amusement the reaction of some ambassadors in New Delhi, when I told them at a dinner where Indian food was being served, that I was going to eat with my hands. The host had predictably put a knife and fork next to each plate. I put them aside, and said that in our tradition, we wash our hands before a meal, and eat with our hands, which is the way Indian food should be eaten. I added that if the food was Western, I would happily use a knife and fork. The ambassadors immediately nodded in agreement, and with palpable relief, promptly ate their rotis and the juicy tandoori chicken using their hands.

In London, I was on the jury for the Satyajit Ray Memorial Award given to a young Asian every year for short films. A film by a Bangladeshi director left a lasting impression on me. Only three minutes long, it was called ‘A Place to Be’. The film, without any commentary, showed a Bangladeshi family at dinner in their modest London home. The faces could not be seen, but the conversation could be heard. The camera was still and unmoving, almost meant to be invisible, but intrusive nevertheless, as it kept its gaze steady on the hands and the food and the serving and the eating. The food consisted of fish curry, rice and some vegetables. One could see it being ladled into plates. The family sat on the ground around a dastarkhan and everybody ate with their hands. The camera merely watched as plates were wiped clean by fingers working dexterously and uninhibitedly. From a Western point of view, it was a messy process. The other jury members were all white British folk. I felt a little uncomfortable, because the film was so deliberately stark in its portrayal of ‘native’ eating habits. The Bangladeshi family—like any Indian family—ate as it would normally do when in the privacy and comfort of its own space. But in a foreign land, that normalcy was rarely ever exhibited to the outsider. In the outsider’s presence, the same family would pick up a knife and fork in order to prove that it was not uncivilised and had the requisite social graces.

This duality, which requires people to practice being split, is a burden that migrants and diplomats, in particular, have to live with. On the one hand is the persistence of their traditional way of life, and on the other are the demands of socially correct behaviour of the dominant idiom; and between the two is an entire world of aspiration, denial, camouflage, resentment and emulation.

The interesting thing is that this dichotomy persists even within India. Many of our elite clubs, which have been bastions of an anglicised culture modelled on their erstwhile British masters, still do not allow Indians to wear traditional attire even when that dress, in our own cultural context, is entirely acceptable, indeed even formal. If Mr P.C. Chidambaram, former finance minister, would go to one of these clubs wearing his trade-mark starched white shirt and veshti, should he be stopped because of antiquated colonial rules? I myself was stopped many years ago at the Delhi Gymkhana Club, of which I am a member, from entering even though I was wearing a silk kurta and churidars with Peshawari sandals. The irony was that people in jeans and tee-shirts could go in. I had a similar experience once at the Tollygunge Club in Kolkata. Such rules are outrageous and need to be jettisoned immediately. At least I am happy that I had a role in changing the dress rules of the Delhi Gymkhana Club, where earlier, even Sir Mark Tully, a Britisher, was stopped from entering because he was wearing a pyjama-kurta.

Diplomats represent the interests of their country. Those interests must include being representatives of their own culture and civilizational ethos, even if on occasion, some kind of protocol conformity is necessary. In this context, I am glad that Atal Bihari Vajpayee, as foreign minister in 1977, broke from tradition and spoke for the first time at the United Nations' annual General Assembly in Hindi, a practice that is continued today by Prime Minister Modi.

Pavan K Varma is author, diplomat, and former Member of Parliament (Rajya Sabha). Just Like That is a weekly column where Varma shares nuggets from the world of history, culture, literature, and personal reminiscences with HT Premium readers. The views expressed are personal