Not Dining With Terrorists ...
Study is everything for Indian parents. Academic excellence means much more than sport or other extra-curricular activities. If you were an Indian or Pakistani kid and you lived in a world where you only possible employers could be your parents, you needn’t hand in a resume or CV detailing your achievements in rugby or debating, your community and charity involvements or your election to the student union. All that would matter is your academic transcript.
After I finished my double-degree in economics and law, my mother was convinced I would never get a job. Why? Because I didn’t have a first class honours and wasn’t the recipient of the university medal. When I proved her wrong and landed a job in a large suburban firm, her response was: “Yes, but it is not a big city law firm”. As far as mum was concerned, the fact that my friends who landed jobs in one of the big five firms wouldn’t step outside the photocopy room for their first 12 months whilst I was running 5 matters each morning down at the local court didn’t seem to matter.
When Indian kids achieve some kind of academic excellence, their parents love to hold a huge party. I have a relative who held a lavish party when one of her sons got into medicine. It was a huge affair, and she invited just about all her Indo-Pakistani friends, including the ones whose kids didn’t quite get as high grades. Some of these poor kids were forced to give speeches congratulating the future doctor.
A family friend of ours had a son who got into medicine. After 12 months of gruelling study, the young man decided to switch to a fine arts degree. By the time news reached me, it was a case of: “That is-stoopid boy, he so ungir-rateful to Allah! He get given pil-lace in medicine, and he dir-rop out to become painter!”
But not all Indo-Paks are so obsessed. An old uncle of mine, Uncle Zack, was very pleased that his daughter managed to complete her Year 12 Higher School Certificate (HSC). I have no idea what mark she achieved in her HSC. There was no indication of whether she managed to make it into university or what she would be studying. The invitation we received just asked us to show up at a Uniting Church hall in Lakemba, known to some as Sydney’s Muslim “ghetto”.
Unlike other Indo-Pak uncles, Zack also rocks up on time when invited anywhere. I’ve never known Zack to turn up even 5 minutes late to our house without ringing. But Zack doesn’t have any control over the timeliness of his friends. Knowing this, although the invitation insisted dinner would be at “8:30 pm sharp”, I knew that IST would apply.
(IST is Indian Standard Time)
Hence, I suggested to my mother (who insisted I drive her to the function) that we leave her house at 8pm, the hall being around 20 minutes from our house. I predicted the function would start at around 8:20pm and we might be 5 minutes late. Mum refused, and asked one of her friends to show up and pick her up. She told me that her friend understood the importance of punctuality more than I ever could.
Her friend showed up at around 8:30pm. I left at 8:35pm and arrived at 8:50pm, just as the show was about to start. Dinner was served at 9:30pm. Sharp.
The function was a simple affair. One bloke stood up the front and delivered a very short speech. It seemed short to me because the dude could actually speak English. Uncle Zack stood out the front behind the speaker, looking frustrated at all the people deciding to show up in accordance with the requirements of IST. Seriously, you’d think poor Zack would be used to this by now.
After the English speech which could no doubt be understood by both parents and kids alike, the speaker invited a Pakistani imam to say a short “dua” (supplication or prayer) while the food was being laid out. The short prayer was recited in Arabic and Urdu, with perhaps around half the audience understanding the Urdu bits. It lasted around 10 minutes. A very short dua by Pakistani standards.
The dinner was, to put it mildly, absolutely fabulous. I’m not sure who cooked it, but whoever it was has certainly earned the right to tell Gordon Ramsay to fuck off back to the UK. Had it not been for the chilli, I’d have had seconds and thirds. Instead, I had to settle for a 2 litre bottle of spring water to keep by head from exploding.
As always, men were seated on one side of the hall, while women were on the other side. There was one food table for the blokes and another for the sheilas.
Speaking of sheilas, there was one sheila who recognised me and waved in a jovial manner as I sat down after first walking into the hall. I was seated between two rather austere looking bearded dudes, so on this occasion it was obvious she wasn’t waving at the wrong person. I nodded and then sent her a text message warning her smiling and waving might land either (if not both) of us in trouble with the mullah brigade, if not with some aunties who might assume we were involved in some kind of illicit affair.
(To be continued ...)
(First published SUNDAY, February 15, 2009
Words © 2009 Irfan Yusuf
After I finished my double-degree in economics and law, my mother was convinced I would never get a job. Why? Because I didn’t have a first class honours and wasn’t the recipient of the university medal. When I proved her wrong and landed a job in a large suburban firm, her response was: “Yes, but it is not a big city law firm”. As far as mum was concerned, the fact that my friends who landed jobs in one of the big five firms wouldn’t step outside the photocopy room for their first 12 months whilst I was running 5 matters each morning down at the local court didn’t seem to matter.
When Indian kids achieve some kind of academic excellence, their parents love to hold a huge party. I have a relative who held a lavish party when one of her sons got into medicine. It was a huge affair, and she invited just about all her Indo-Pakistani friends, including the ones whose kids didn’t quite get as high grades. Some of these poor kids were forced to give speeches congratulating the future doctor.
A family friend of ours had a son who got into medicine. After 12 months of gruelling study, the young man decided to switch to a fine arts degree. By the time news reached me, it was a case of: “That is-stoopid boy, he so ungir-rateful to Allah! He get given pil-lace in medicine, and he dir-rop out to become painter!”
But not all Indo-Paks are so obsessed. An old uncle of mine, Uncle Zack, was very pleased that his daughter managed to complete her Year 12 Higher School Certificate (HSC). I have no idea what mark she achieved in her HSC. There was no indication of whether she managed to make it into university or what she would be studying. The invitation we received just asked us to show up at a Uniting Church hall in Lakemba, known to some as Sydney’s Muslim “ghetto”.
Unlike other Indo-Pak uncles, Zack also rocks up on time when invited anywhere. I’ve never known Zack to turn up even 5 minutes late to our house without ringing. But Zack doesn’t have any control over the timeliness of his friends. Knowing this, although the invitation insisted dinner would be at “8:30 pm sharp”, I knew that IST would apply.
(IST is Indian Standard Time)
Hence, I suggested to my mother (who insisted I drive her to the function) that we leave her house at 8pm, the hall being around 20 minutes from our house. I predicted the function would start at around 8:20pm and we might be 5 minutes late. Mum refused, and asked one of her friends to show up and pick her up. She told me that her friend understood the importance of punctuality more than I ever could.
Her friend showed up at around 8:30pm. I left at 8:35pm and arrived at 8:50pm, just as the show was about to start. Dinner was served at 9:30pm. Sharp.
The function was a simple affair. One bloke stood up the front and delivered a very short speech. It seemed short to me because the dude could actually speak English. Uncle Zack stood out the front behind the speaker, looking frustrated at all the people deciding to show up in accordance with the requirements of IST. Seriously, you’d think poor Zack would be used to this by now.
After the English speech which could no doubt be understood by both parents and kids alike, the speaker invited a Pakistani imam to say a short “dua” (supplication or prayer) while the food was being laid out. The short prayer was recited in Arabic and Urdu, with perhaps around half the audience understanding the Urdu bits. It lasted around 10 minutes. A very short dua by Pakistani standards.
The dinner was, to put it mildly, absolutely fabulous. I’m not sure who cooked it, but whoever it was has certainly earned the right to tell Gordon Ramsay to fuck off back to the UK. Had it not been for the chilli, I’d have had seconds and thirds. Instead, I had to settle for a 2 litre bottle of spring water to keep by head from exploding.
As always, men were seated on one side of the hall, while women were on the other side. There was one food table for the blokes and another for the sheilas.
Speaking of sheilas, there was one sheila who recognised me and waved in a jovial manner as I sat down after first walking into the hall. I was seated between two rather austere looking bearded dudes, so on this occasion it was obvious she wasn’t waving at the wrong person. I nodded and then sent her a text message warning her smiling and waving might land either (if not both) of us in trouble with the mullah brigade, if not with some aunties who might assume we were involved in some kind of illicit affair.
(To be continued ...)
(First published SUNDAY, February 15, 2009
Words © 2009 Irfan Yusuf
posted by Irf at
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
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