The Hindustanis of Jesustan

A yellow ribbon – similar, you know, to the tape that wards off gawking idiots at crime scenes and visa-seekers at the Jesustani Embassy in New Delhi – separates the idols at a certain Hindu temple in Fairfax County from the worshippers. “Only Priests Beyond This Point”, it sternly warns.

Only in Jesustan, we are fond of saying; verily, it is true. You would never see anything of a kind in Hindustan. The temple also contains within it many other strange spectacles: a cash-only langar which serves aloo subzi, puri and mango lassi in styrofoam containers; a parking lot bigger than the temple itself; and, oh yes, western-style toilets equipped not with mugs for buttock-washing, but toilet-paper. It is a temple in which the faithful may worship – but also one that begs the gora Jeustani for respect, and towards that end contains helpful guides to what is sacred and profane.

I had long laboured under the impression that the Hindustanis of Jesustan (by which I mean the Hindus, Muslims, Christians Sikhs, Buddhists, Parsis, Atheists and wagheras of Bangladesh, Bhutan, India, Nepal, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, waghera) were a sub-sect of the Hindustanis of Hindustan (likewise). I am now discovering, with some befuddlement, that this is not the case. The Hindustanis of Jesustan, in all matters except their imagination, are an altogether different species.

At the slightest perceived affront from a gora about Hindustan, the Hindustani of Jesustan will launch into an extended lecture about spirituality, the high divorce rate in Jesustan, the Bangalore software industry, and what General Pervez calls enlightened moderation. By contrast, the Hindustanis from Hindustan care little, in general, about what goras have to say about their lands, their estimation of the intelligence of that race having been shaped by its proclivity to buy bizarre leather whips on Janpath or little boys in Kandy, and that at ridiculous prices.

Conversely, the Hindustanis of Jesustan will take each possible opportunity to hector the Hindustanis of Hindustan about trains that run late, corruption, or the unfortunate habit of the audience at the Regal Cinema to pee in the back lane. When the Hindustanis of Hindustan discuss the urinary eccentricities of their countrymen, or talk about the time the train arrived bag on time, just twenty-four hours late, it is with a certain fond nostalgia. Likewise, the Hindustani of Jesustan feels compelled to defend arranged marriages; the Hindustani of Hindustan is content to wonder whether the mem asking the question, hideous as she might be, holds the keys to a green card.

What sense does one make of the admirable patriotism of the Jesustani Hindustanis? It is not love of a real homeland that exists in time and space. It is, instead, a reaction to the smug knowledge of the gora Jesustani that his land is the best of all possible lands, and that the immigrants in it are cowardly refugees from poverty, dirt and grime. The gora is, for the most part right – and it rankles. Hence, the Hindustani from Jesustan must at once construct in his imagination a homeland of great virtue – tradition, spirituality, family, whatever – and then appeal to the Hindustanis of Hindustan to work to make it real (some of them are willing to join in these endeavours, their time in Jesustan having taught them virtues like efficiency and so on).

Alas, this is a pointless patriotism: you can paint lipstick on a pig, but it will none the less remain a pig. Me, I am happy living in a pigsty; I have no desire to cohabit with a hound, however high-bred (let me add, in case someone takes offence, that this is a purely personal choice). Some weeks ago, a young gentleman who grew up in the west recently told me of his fond memories of Karachi, and his desire to go back home and bring about its rebirth. I asked him whether he cleaned his buttocks with water or toilet paper. The young man first blushed and then became angry; he refused to answer on grounds of propriety. The truth, however, will out: his very lovely girlfriend admitted he carried ultra-soft toilet paper home with his baggage.

He will never return to Karachi; of that I am sure – not until the natives have all turned, seduced by USAID handouts, to toilet paper.