Being an Oriya in New Delhi
“Are you from Orissa? How long have you been in Delhi? I’m sure you don’t speak Oriya? Do you?” I’ve answered these questions time and again. And its not just one section of the society that poses these questions to most young people of Oriya families settled in Delhi. There are times when I’ve tried to be understanding if the question comes to me from aged people, people old enough to be my grandparents. I know that for them these and similar questions is an attempt to understand that ‘children’ are still being taught traditions. When they pose these questions, there is no mockery in them. Instead, there is a curiosity to know and understand if people who’ve lived away from Orissa have any connection with their native land. Answers to their questions in the affirmative reassure them that all is right with the world. However, they can accept negative responses to the same as well. They understand if you tell them that you have lived away all your life and so, don’t identify with the Orissa they know.
My problem is when the same questions are posed by the younger generation from Orissa. School-going children, newly-enrolled college students, or even young entrepreneurs – all of them show the same signs of mockery and a kind of angry snobbishness. Why is it assumed that Oriyas settled outside Orissa will forget their language, their traditions, and their rituals? I distinctly remember being congratulated by Oriya aunties dressed in the most glamorous Sambalpuri sarees on my ability to speak in Oriya. Why? It is the language of my family, so why am I congratulated if I speak it? There have been occasions when I’ve been address by uncles and aunties in Hindi or English with an understanding look that “You must not be capable of understanding Oriya.” Of course, eyebrows raised and with a hardly suppressed air of annoyance, I’ve answered back in Oriya as well as I know it.
The latest encounter of this kind was when a young Oriya boy decided to join the same office as me. As soon as names were exchanged, the stream of questions just flew out, sprinkled generously with the snobbish air of all the young people who come from Orissa to Delhi and show a haughty arrogance for Oriyas settled here. Why I ask are we subject to such questions all the time? Scrutinized at all times for the ‘mark’ of a true Oriya? Why do we need to prove our ‘identity’ at all times, be it at the annual Rath Yatra or during the screening of award-winning Oriya films or a simple Oriya food festival?
While on the subject, let me present another perspective on the same issue of identity. Do you remember the last time when you were at the convocation when the Chief Guest had humbly greeted the audience with a ‘Namaste’, even though he was from a foreign country? In the same convocation, the organizers all distinctly from Orissa had made august speeches in English, not wanting to use the very same language which was the connecting link for all present there? What explains how newly married women hailing from cities such as Balasore or Bhubaneswar simply cannot speak a single word of Oriya as soon as they step into the capital of the country? Or what about those parents who loudly proclaim how their children are ashamed of speaking Oriya and are only English speakers, not bothering to hide their own pride at the fact?
Both these situations are at cross purposes. Our language forms an equal part of our identity as do other factors such as our family or education. So, this is for all those who show surprise at young people settled in Delhi who can communicate in Oriya and also for those who choose the English path rather than tread the Oriya sahi. We are what we make of ourselves, and to set the record straight for all times to come – I’ve lived in Delhi all my life yet I speak Oriya. I’ve done so for ages and now my niece also speaks the language with as much love. Though my reading and writing skills are not as good as I wanted them to be, but I can read out the headlines of Samaja to my Aju, when required. Let no more questions be raised or no more proofs be demanded of me.
- Written for the annual magazine of Utkalini, an Oriya women's organization. My mom is a part of this organization, and we have memories of taking part in their cultural programmes and fetes.
- Written on 26 September 2007
My problem is when the same questions are posed by the younger generation from Orissa. School-going children, newly-enrolled college students, or even young entrepreneurs – all of them show the same signs of mockery and a kind of angry snobbishness. Why is it assumed that Oriyas settled outside Orissa will forget their language, their traditions, and their rituals? I distinctly remember being congratulated by Oriya aunties dressed in the most glamorous Sambalpuri sarees on my ability to speak in Oriya. Why? It is the language of my family, so why am I congratulated if I speak it? There have been occasions when I’ve been address by uncles and aunties in Hindi or English with an understanding look that “You must not be capable of understanding Oriya.” Of course, eyebrows raised and with a hardly suppressed air of annoyance, I’ve answered back in Oriya as well as I know it.
The latest encounter of this kind was when a young Oriya boy decided to join the same office as me. As soon as names were exchanged, the stream of questions just flew out, sprinkled generously with the snobbish air of all the young people who come from Orissa to Delhi and show a haughty arrogance for Oriyas settled here. Why I ask are we subject to such questions all the time? Scrutinized at all times for the ‘mark’ of a true Oriya? Why do we need to prove our ‘identity’ at all times, be it at the annual Rath Yatra or during the screening of award-winning Oriya films or a simple Oriya food festival?
While on the subject, let me present another perspective on the same issue of identity. Do you remember the last time when you were at the convocation when the Chief Guest had humbly greeted the audience with a ‘Namaste’, even though he was from a foreign country? In the same convocation, the organizers all distinctly from Orissa had made august speeches in English, not wanting to use the very same language which was the connecting link for all present there? What explains how newly married women hailing from cities such as Balasore or Bhubaneswar simply cannot speak a single word of Oriya as soon as they step into the capital of the country? Or what about those parents who loudly proclaim how their children are ashamed of speaking Oriya and are only English speakers, not bothering to hide their own pride at the fact?
Both these situations are at cross purposes. Our language forms an equal part of our identity as do other factors such as our family or education. So, this is for all those who show surprise at young people settled in Delhi who can communicate in Oriya and also for those who choose the English path rather than tread the Oriya sahi. We are what we make of ourselves, and to set the record straight for all times to come – I’ve lived in Delhi all my life yet I speak Oriya. I’ve done so for ages and now my niece also speaks the language with as much love. Though my reading and writing skills are not as good as I wanted them to be, but I can read out the headlines of Samaja to my Aju, when required. Let no more questions be raised or no more proofs be demanded of me.
- Written for the annual magazine of Utkalini, an Oriya women's organization. My mom is a part of this organization, and we have memories of taking part in their cultural programmes and fetes.
- Written on 26 September 2007
Comments
Arey as Odisha is one of the PICHHDA RAJYA, People don't get Bhao as much as they look for.Why others, one of my relatives in Delhi they have a lil kid and they teach him English & Hindi & when I asked the big question she replied,"ODIA Sikhiki kana haba?Nije Bhubaneswar re dekh only People from BASTI and poor families go to Odia medium school."And I stood corrected!
Everyone out here is a leg puller and jealous of one another's success, so people like to show off and try to get BHAO from others by doin' that.Can't help it!