Being a TamBrahm in Delhi in the ’80s 

A survival guide nobody asked for

Growing up TamBrahm in Delhi in the 1980s meant living in two completely different countries.

Outside the house: paranthas, chole bhature, Hindi movies, DTC buses and temperatures ranging from “why am I melting?” to “why am I wearing three sweaters?”

Inside the house: sambar, rasam, filter coffee, Carnatic music and an endless supply of relatives.

Somehow, both were home.

The Delhi winter

Delhi winter was particularly confusing.

Your mother would look outside, see fog, and immediately announce:

“Wear your sweater.”

You: “But I'm not cold.”

Mother: “Wear your sweater.”

You wore the sweater.

This was less a conversation and more a constitutional requirement.

Meanwhile, she was happily making the next three course meal as if South India had never heard of weather.

Tamil at home. Hindi everywhere else.

At school, you spoke Hindi.

With friends, you spoke Hindi.

At home, Tamil.

And when your mother got angry, she spoke a special dialect of Tamil that somehow required no translation.

“Enna panra?”

Literally: What are you doing?

Actually: I already know what you're doing. Your life is about to change.

By the age of ten, you had mastered the art of switching languages mid-sentence.

Hindi with friends.
Tamil with parents.
English with teachers.
Sometimes all three languages in one sentence with your sibling or another poor expat from tamilnadu

Basically, AI-powered multilingualism, circa 1985. 

The Tamil network

Delhi was a huge city.

Until you met another Tamil family.

Then suddenly it became a village.

“Which school?”

“Where do you live?”

“Which mama?”

“Your father's name?”

“Where is your native place?”

Within ten minutes, someone had established that your aunt's neighbor's cousin had studied with their brother-in-law.

You were related. Somehow.

And nothing stayed secret.

You could misbehave at a wedding in Karol Bagh and your mother would know about it before you got home in South Delhi.

The Relative Department had better intelligence than mossad I think.

And then came the weddings

Tamil weddings were where the entire community assembled for three purposes:

1. Attend the wedding.
2. Find out what everyone else was doing.
3. Eat.

You could have eaten three helpings and someone would still ask:

“Why aren't you eating?”

This was not a question.

It was an accusation.

So you ate again.

Looking back

What was special about being a TamBrahm in Delhi wasn't that we were particularly different.

It was that we somehow became a little bit of everything.

Tamil at home.
Delhi outside.
Hindi with friends.
English at school.

Pongal and Diwali.

Filter coffee and chole bhature.

Ilaiyaraaja and Hindi movies.

We didn't call it multiculturalism.

We just called it growing up.

And somewhere between the filter coffee, Delhi winters, weddings and unsolicited advice from relatives, we accidentally became Delhi TamBrahms.

A slightly confusing species.

But a rather happy one.