Being a TamBrahm in Delhi in the ’80s 

In those days, Delhi seemed to us a very large place.

There were wide roads, government buildings, DTC buses, winter fog and people who appeared to have been born knowing the difference between every variety of paratha.

We were TamBrahms.

This meant that while Delhi was busy eating chole bhature, we were at home eating sambar and wondering why anyone would willingly put butter on everything.

We had come to Delhi for various reasons—government jobs, transfers, opportunities and the mysterious belief that children would somehow benefit from living in the capital.

The children were not consulted.

The winter

Delhi winter was something our parents had clearly underestimated.

Every morning my mother would look at the fog outside and say, “Wear your sweater.”

I would say, “I'm not cold.”

She would repeat, “Wear your sweater.”

This continued until I wore the sweater.

There was no argument to be won. My mother had never lost an argument in her life, mainly because she did not recognize the existence of arguments.

Inside the house, however, life continued normally.

There was rasam.

There was sambar.

There was filter coffee.

Apparently, none of these things required adjustment for the Delhi climate.

The languages

At school we spoke Hindi and English.

At home we spoke Tamil.

This arrangement worked reasonably well until one of our parents became angry. Then Tamil acquired a new range of meanings.

“Enna panra?”

It appeared to mean What are you doing?

But it could also mean:

I know what you are doing.

I have known for some time.

Your father will be informed.

And you may now reconsider your entire approach to life.

We learned to switch languages without thinking.

Hindi with friends. Tamil at home. English when necessary.

It was not multilingualism.

It was survival.

The community

The Tamil community in Delhi was large enough to be useful and small enough to be dangerous.

You could meet someone for the first time and, within ten minutes, discover that you had three mutual relatives, two common acquaintances and a grandfather who had once lived in the same street.

There was no need for newspapers.

The community knew everything.

If you did something foolish at a wedding in Karol Bagh, someone in South Delhi knew about it before you reached home.

The information travelled faster than the DTC bus.

The weddings

Tamil weddings were where the community gathered to celebrate, investigate and eat.

The eating was considered particularly important.

You could finish one meal and someone would immediately ask:

“Why aren't you eating?”

You would explain that you had just eaten.

This explanation was not accepted.

You ate again.

It was easier.

Looking back

We did not think of ourselves as living between two cultures.

We were simply children growing up in Delhi.

We watched Hindi films, listened to Ilaiyaraaja, ate chole bhature outside and curd rice at home.

We celebrated Pongal and Diwali.

We complained about Delhi and, without quite realizing it, became Delhi people.

Perhaps that was the curious thing about those years.

Our parents had brought a little piece of the South to South Delhi.

Delhi, in return, quietly added itself to us.

And somewhere between the filter coffee, the winter fog, the Tamil weddings and the endless advice of relatives, a new variety of TamBrahm was created.

The Delhi TamBrahm.

We were not entirely Tamil Nadu.

We were not entirely Delhi.

But we knew exactly when the next wedding was—and where lunch was being served.