By Pauline M
Without belittling the discrimination that the “dkhars (non-tribals)” have gone through over decades in Shillong, I would like to draw a little attention to us, another group of underdogs, positioned a little above the dkhars but way below the “locals”; we the in-betweens, the mixed breed.
I am the child of a mixed marriage. My mother is a Khasi and my father, a dkhar.
When anyone asks me what I am, my prompt reply has always been, “I am a Khasi.” This “sentiment”, however, has not resonated or been accepted by the local community. For them, I was and am a “khun dkhar (child of a dkhar)”.
When I earned good grades in school, they said it was expected because I was khun dkhar, little admitting that I had many classmates who fared better and were Khasi.
When I attended Sunday Service in English, they said it was expected because I was khun dkhar, not acknowledging that I studied in an English medium school and thus, was more at ease speaking in English.
When I left Shillong, post-school, they said it was expected because I was khun dkhar, whereas like a lot of other young people all I wanted to do was explore the world.
It was strange. Almost like growing up with an identity crisis.
At home we lived like any Khasi family would…we spoke in Khasi, ate our syrwa (soup) and tungtap (chutney), dressed in dharas during special occasions, took our mother’s family name and followed all the customs and traditions that our mother passed on to us.
Even stranger was that our father followed them too. He spoke in Khasi, ate what we did and never brought any tradition or custom from his community into our upbringing. We never even learnt how to speak his mother tongue. And none of this came from any decision that my parents conscientiously made. It just was.
And yet out of home, it was starkly different. I looked dkhar and so was advised not to go out late in the evenings, not to get into arguments or pick fights with the locals even if I was right. I was never made to feel safe, comfortable and “local”. I had to speak in fluent Khasi to get the shopkeeper to be just a little more approachable, for the taxi driver to be a little less abrupt.
Then there was the additional anxiety and concern about our father’s safety whenever agitation against non-tribals raised its ugly head. His extended family left Shillong, one after another, unable to deal with the discrimination and live in fear. All of his siblings moved. He was left alone and yet he stayed on because for him this was home.
Non-tribal men have often been accused of marrying tribal women for financial benefits and in many cases this may stand true. It was not so in my father’s case. My mother inherited nothing having gone against her parent’s wishes and married a Dkhar. He did no business that benefitted by her surname, none of his children got into colleges under the “reservations quota”. Though we never discussed it, I assume his choices must be driven by something as simple as attraction and love for my mother; for Shillong; for the Khasi culture. Or maybe this is where he felt he belonged. I have met many Indophiles from across the world who have chosen to make India their home and everything Indian, part of their lives. They live across the country…Goa, Pondicherry, Pune, Darjeeling, adapting the local language, cuisine and customs. Maybe my father was like them. Maybe this was his calling.
As for me, I lived out of Shillong for 23 years, 15 years working in a metro. I lived in the same apartment for those 15 years. It was always sparsely decorated and people who would visit would often wonder why. Money was not an impediment. Those who were close enough to me to dare ask were promptly told “This is temporary, Shillong is where home is.”
I recently made a permanent move back to Shillong. As a Khasi and as a “khun khatduh (youngest daughter),” I grew up knowing that it was my responsibility to look after my parents in their old age and run the family home. My mother taught me that and my father reminded me of it often.
One would think that a life-altering decision like that would be proof enough that “I am a Khasi” but no, just yesterday someone at a Public Office remarked saying, “You khun dkhars are lucky. You earn in your father’s land and then come to your mother’s to save on Income Tax.”
Yes lady, I left behind my apartment, a seven figure salary, a uniformed chauffer driven car, a personal secretary, my colleagues, my much-loved friends…an entire life, just to avail of the income tax exemption! Oh, and I don’t even have an income currently.
Leaves me wondering if I should change the title of this essay from “Where I belong” to “Where do I belong?”
(This essay reflects the personal views of the writer and not of any community or group)