The Quintessential Anglo Man

When Eric and I first met at a wedding in 2007, sparks flew... for about 10 seconds and  then we we're both dragged home. (no mobiles and all back then) 4 years later…We met again. This time he asked me out and we went to a movie, but the man never spoke a word. And that too went to hell. On Christmas day last year I sat, partner-less and extremely envious, on the sill of a window at the Fort Cochin Club. As I watched people slow dance and get all mushy, thinking that if I ever found Cupid I’d strangle the little shit. And then suddenly out of nowhere he (not Cupid, Eric) comes and sits next to me, and I’m thinking, “Shit… my childhood crush... And today of all days my hair looks like a bloody crow’s nest…” and then he opens his mouth… but says nothing. Silence. Followed by more silence, until he finally said “Would you like some water?” I wanted to die. Water? Really, Eric? I said nothing. More silence. “Do you wanna daaa…..” before he could finish I was on my feet screaming “YES PLEASE!!!!” and the rest, they say, is history. (Thankfully this time he spoke! Turns out, he talks… a lot)

In the Anglo community we’re expected to marry ‘our own kind’, you know, to keep the culture alive, to bear offspring who walk and talk and dress and dance and cook and booze just like us, a new generation to carry on the ‘Anglo’ legacy. Mixed marriages are (in most cases) considered a taboo. We’re a small community with apparently just around 150,000 members at most. For years our elders have ranted on and on about how we are will be homogenized completely in a few years, and with us, our distinct culture and way of life. But finding a partner from within our community isn't easy at all. Actually, until I met Eric I was pretty sure I’d marry a nice 'out cast' boy myself. Damn it, even my family was prepared for the worst.

“This Rochelle no, bloody shit’s being giddy headed. Studied all that Literature and all and she’s acting like one heathen. Saw that photo on Facebook men? She’s friendly with some Hindu bugger, it seems. Must bloody prepare ourselves so we fit in at their temple wedding. Come we’ll go buy off one saree now only and keep”

I’m sure this was what went through my relatives minds the day I posted a photo on Facebook with a friend of mine, 'a boy mind you’, ‘Brahmin that too’, (they figured from the name. He wasn’t Brahmin) “holding and all and standing” (they mean hugging) There were more calls to my house that day to confirm the identity of this boy and our relationship status than the day I was born, when everyone called to congratulate my father on the success of his Ten Year Mission (I was born after 10 years of marriage. Sorry dad!) To their relief, (and to their dismay… gossip is in short supply these days) he was just a friend of mine whom (thankfully) my parents had met, and knew. But I've had my fair share of boyfriends (No, it does not run into double digits, that would be Eric’s list) and it ranged from Mallu Syrian Christian and Marathi Brahmin (Gaud Saraswat Brahmin to be exact), Kalasipalya Muslim, Bengali God-Knows-What and Kannadiga Atheist. (I don’t discriminate)

A family function would not be complete without an Aunty trying to make a match for me.

“Aiyo Eileen, Mustn't we find one nice boy for your daughter men.  I got one nice proposal, child. Till 12th standard he studied. Working on the ship. This one’s son men… this one… Janice Dcoutho’s son. Fair eh... like milk. How old eh? Must be 45. Was married once to an Indian, she left him… Don’t want? Why? There child, beggars can’t be choosers, heard, this will do. … Anglo fellow it is!”

Until the fine day I finally I found Eric Jude La’frenais, my nice Anglo boy. 

Oh the joy! They rang the church bells in celebration.

Back in the day, whenever an Aunty asked me “Child, can’t find our kind of boy for yourself eh?” I’d usually say “All these Anglo boys in Vypeen and Fort Cochin are only fit to drink, eat and bloody dance. Heads and all are full of fluff.” (If Eric sees this he’s going to disown me) but in reality it was only because I couldn't find one Ding bugger men (Ding, according to my friend Jeremy, means Anglo). I always wondered why Anglo boys were so hard to find. When I was in college my girlfriends used to stalk my cousins and friends and demand that they be taken to Vypeen, introduced and hopefully married off by the end of their stay. Why, you ask…? Which girl wouldn't want an Anglo boy, men?

For those of you who don’t know, let me give you the insider info on The Quintessential Anglo Man. First and most importantly, they are a rare breed. Come to think of it, they’re going extinct. No jokes! Where I come from Anglo boys are rarer than pandas. I don’t know what happened to the gender ratio because there always seems to be a terribly short supply of them (Unless, of course, they’re all hiding under a rock somewhere, or they're pulling a Houdidni act) and the rarer the man, the more you would want him. (Don’t agree? Wouldn't you want some Uranium for yourself? How about a 50 carat diamond? See… rare = ‘I want!’) Their devilishly handsome looks and distinct features (some of them are so white they could glow in the dark others are the color of delicious molten honey, so good you'll want to lick their face) their impeccable sense of style and fashion. Anglo men are always looking for an excuse so that they can wear a suit (and how! *drool*), their command over the language and the ability to go from “Ey… what bugger..?” to *Insert sexy man-voice* “Has anyone ever told you you’re the most beautiful woman on God’s green earth?” *Cue faint*, their moves on the dance floor (have you seen an Anglo boy jive?) They are incredibly manly and gentlemanly. They will always open the door for you and walk you home, make (and act on) threats (Eg: “If you gawk at my girlfriend I’ll cut your balls and make earrings”) and hold your hand in public. They also have the superhuman ability to be totally unaffected by the effects of a full bottle of whiskey. (or any sort of alcohol for that matter. He’ll walk straight home!) And last but definitely not the least; they also know how to treat a woman like she is, in the words of Chris Brown, Fine China. (98% of them. Hey, those are damn good odds!)

But I have this general belief that only an Anglo woman can handle an Anglo man (sorry, ladies, prejudice runs through my veins) I mean, they’re just way too much ‘MAN’ for an ‘ordinary’ woman. So, I must warn all you potential non-anglo ladies who intend to hitch yourself to that Ding boy; there’s another side to this rosy story that only we (Ding women) know.

To start with, we know that when you marry an Anglo man, you marry his family. Especially, his mother. Anglo men are total ‘Mama’s boys’, forget about picking sides, they will throw you under the bus for their mama. Literally. (she might ask him to also) Your vindaloo will never taste as good as hers. By the time you marry him she has spoiled him rotten and he will expect just that from you as well. For example, Eric’s mum makes him coffee, tea and milk (yes, all three) every morning before he goes to work. If he expects me to do the same he must be bloody joking. And your mother-in-law (and I’m generalizing here) will most probably despise you with a vengeance that cannot be summed up in words for ‘taking her son away from her’ (even if you live just two houses down) and don’t get me started on the extended family.

Secondly, Anglo men eat. A LOT. To be more specific, they’re hardcore carnivores. They’ll eat anything as long as it’s dead. “Damn the vegetables, just pass me the beef cutlets and the tongue roast.” (I saw your face cringe when you read tongue roast. They also eat brain, liver, heart, kidney, tripe (intestines) and udders, known better as spare parts. Have you gagged already?) They also tend to think that it’s funny to fart, LOUD. And we are expected to get accustomed to and comfortable with all the wonderful aspects of their flatulence because they intend to do it all the time. They’ll take good care of you, but one episode of the sniffles and they’ll act like a 5 year old with an incurable disease. You are then expected to feed, clothe, bathe, cook wash, clean and nurture them back to health and be at their beck and call 24*7 (the above is also applicable when they’re not ill) They tend to exhibit chauvinistic tendencies (Eg: “Baby, I don’t want you to work late at the office, ever, because you could get raped.”) but only because they are super possessive of you and because they really care. From time immemorial, Anglo Boys are known far and wide to be, Casanovas. Call them what you will, philanderers, womanizers, ladies-men, Don Juans, playboys, etc. I don't blame them. Apparently its hereditary, they inherited the 'spirit of adventure' from our European forefathers, being charming is not a crime, but not to worry, they eventually settle down. It is also a prerequisite that you should be able sing, and sing well, socialize with all of the annoying aunties and the other 200 year old ladies, (the uncles mostly just sit in the corner and drink) cook typical Anglo delicacies (your cooking skills will be tested by the family so don’t bluff) and dance (especially jive) gracefully and in perfect time while wearing 6 inch heels. I also think that you should be prepared to have at least 5 kids to pass down the culture and repopulate our dying community (don’t worry, your Anglo man will sure as hell help you with that)

So I think I've listed most of it. Ladies are you sure you’re prepared for the Anglo Experience? No?! Good! More men for us! But if you've found yourself that perfect Anglo boy then hang on to him like a leech. They’re real keepers!

P.S: I have no issues what-so-ever with ‘not-anglo’ boys. You are unique in your own way. This is just a 411 on the Anglo Male. My soon-to-be brother-in-law, Uddi is from Assam and I love him. We all do. 

P.P.S: MY mother-in-law is the sweetest person in the world. (Very rare and exceptional case) No, I am not saying that because she is holding a gun to my head. I really do mean it! 

How to Deal With Fat-ness

A decade of waiting and longing and praying and yearning and praying some more later, my parents prayers were finally answered on the morning of the 8th of June 1993. The corridors of the small Kunjhalus nursing home were lined with every single member of my family (which makes up for almost the entire island I live on, yes, I live on an island called Vypeen). They all literally came. As my dad waited patiently and very anxiously, asking the passing nurses how his wife was (as if they had a clue!) my aunties and uncles sat in the room deliberating whether I would be a boy or a girl and who I would look like, God forbid, I didn't look like either of my parents! “My Jesus!” They were already planning ahead on the gossip they would spread if that was the case. (“Hmmmm.... child looks like that bloody neighbor of theirs, Andhapan, men!" No offence aunties and uncles, I know it’s an Anglo thing! I love you all!) 

What seemed like an eternity later a nurse handed my dad a rather large looking bundle saying "Inna, nigalude kutti!" (‘Here, your child’) after staring blankly for a minute my dad ran after the nurse saying "Aiyo.. Sister (nurse) this child is mine eh? My baby is one month premature... this child is so big men... doesn't look like ours also" (As I mentioned before I look like any other Sosamma and Sarahkutty in Kerala. And I swear this story is true! my parents say it to everyone who comes home) The nurse quickly informed him that this is the 'D'souza baby'. Perhaps some other D’souza then? My dad’s questions all came to an abrupt end when my grandmother quickly shoved aside and said “Give the child here. Ours this is men, don’t recognize your own bloody jib or what?” (jib = chin, but used to indicate facial features)

Why am I telling you this? Because I’d like to begin this post by telling you how I began my day. This morning I posted a link to my blog on the Anglo Indian Facebook page because I wanted to know if people really can connect to the things I write. (I love feedback, makes me write better!) A minute later the first comment popped up and a very kind man happened to point out that I don’t look Anglo. He didn't read my blog, he just looked at my profile picture and decided that I was not worthy of posting it there because of what I looked like. 

Let me tell you of my family. My great grandmother Rose was Dutch, her husband Benjamin, whose origins are still a matter confusion (My granddad says Benjamin was raised by manual laborers after his father died of snakebite in the estates in Munnar while his mother died during childbirth) all I know is, Benjamin spoke Malayalam and was a brown skinned man (I can call him brown because I’m bloody brown) now coming down the family tree, my grandmother Verena, is once again Dutch, light eyes, fair skin, brunette (at least that’s what Papa says, I've only seen her hair when it was grey.) and my grandfather, Winnie a mix of Benjamin and Rose, nice milk chocolate skin, black hair and light eyes. Two generations later I never got the light eyes (although my dad has them) or the fair skin (although my mum is fair) and I look, as my grand mum would say, ‘like a pariah!’ (For the record, she never called me that! She loved me irrespective!) 

Just my luck, the people on the page were kind enough to point out to this man that there’s a reason we’re called a ‘mixed race’, I just happened to get more Indian looking genes. Then I took one look at his profile picture and realized that he wasn’t a bloody white bugger with light eyes as I expected, actually he looked a lot like me. As my grandmother would say “Chatti calling pot black!” (Back in the day the soot from wood fires turned all the vessels black. Chatty = clay vessel)

So anyway, back to my intended post.

From the day I was born I was... big. Call it what you will, big bones, hormones, slow metabolism, adipose tissue, insulation, heavy, fleshy, beefy, large… The list goes on till kingdom come. I call it fat.

In a world obsessed with Size00 (yes, that’s double zero) I am an unlucky Size13 (As if being Anglo isn't ‘in-between’ enough, I’m also in-between Size12 and 14) I am not allowed to wear shorts or skirts because my mother says I have ‘fat thighs’, thanks mum, way to fuel my insecurities!, Last week when I asked for an extra helping of custard my uncle quickly replied “Eat, eat, you’re a growing child, growing breadth-ways!”, Palazzo pants (those wide legged airy things that look like my granddads pajamas) are my new best friend and the other day I told a friend that I was planning on joining a Zumba workout and he immediately laughed and said “Hey, but you’re in shape… oh wait… you ARE a shape...Round!” and then laughed like a maniac. For plus sized women, this is battle we fight every single day. One that we always seem to lose.

There was a point when I starved myself. In college my usual diet was a samosa and 10 cups of coffee a day. I once went on a fruit cleanse for a week, didn't lose a pound and almost fainted. I've heard of girls in college eating tissue paper to lose weight. I even used to go running and swimming (yes, both!) every morning for a month. Didn't make much of a difference, even if I did lose weight people would still call me fat. 

I’d like to go on and tell you that “And then one fine day, a coconut fell upon my head and I just topped caring! Just like that! And nice then my life has changed and I magically lost 10kilos!”…(yes… in my grave…) but sadly, the world doesn’t work like that. As much as I say you should stop caring, you just can't. People wont let you. 

Every morning I feel like a beached whale sitting on a scooter as I go to work. Every time I take a second helping my mother rolls her eyes and I instantly drop the spoon. When I unearthed a 2 year old pair of jeans from my cupboard and it didn't fit, I cried. But today as I was packing for a trip to Chennai and I realized that most of my clothes made me look like Mr. Potato Head with love handles, I thought of what my grand mum would have to say. She always told me not to give “Two hoots” to what people would think, but what about my demon mind and its insecurities? And then I realized she would say “Count your bloody blessings child, don’t lie and cry like this, there are bigger bloody fish to fry!”

To all self-conscious-of-their-weight women, read this and read it well. We have a lot of things to be proud of. We’re like camels; we can go for days maybe weeks, without food. (a skinny girl will drop dead in a couple of hours) We can fall down and not get hurt, extra cushioning, baby. (No, we do not bounce when we fall!) We can make threats like “I’ll sit on you and you will die!” and mean it. We do not require a life jacket or a raft, we float (I don’t know about you, but when I go swimming my cousins can dive n sit at the bottom of the pool but however hard I try, I just float to the top). We don’t need to use padded bras (or in some cases stuff them with tissue paper) and when Sir Mixalot was writing Baby Got Back (“I Like Big Butts and I Cannot Lie…” no.. I refuse to mention Nicky Minaj’s Anaconda!) he had us in mind. But seriously, there are benefits to being fat. 

So according to a scientific study, men are genetically and unconsciously programmed to choose women who have wider hips because we, (wide hipped women) produce healthier and more intelligent babies. Apparently the ‘adipose tissue’ in our thighs has genetic material that boosts our baby’s intelligence. You think that’s it? According to researcher Caroline Pond, her 'critical breakthrough' was to see that fat is strategically placed around the body to perform a variety of vital tasks: to supply rare nutrients to our muscles, heart and immune system, and to regulate their activities. In humans she says, fat is distributed in about a dozen discrete depots, some of which are carefully lodged around lymph nodes of the immune system, in muscle and on the heart. Singlehandedly she has challenged the centuries-old view that 'fat is just fat'.

So be fat, but be healthy. There’s no shame in having some curves. Take that second helping. Wear those skirts and shorts, damn the bikinis because, honestly, they’re so mainstream! “Oh…these jeans make my bum look big, is it? Great!”. Burn that weighing scale and with it all those posters and magazine covers of that skinny Deepika and Kareena and What’s-her-face (my knowledge of Bollywood heroines is terrible. I only know Kajol and I absolutely LOVE her). if you ever try to go on a diet (for all the wrong reasons, like ‘it’s my cousins wedding’) slap yourself, hard! If your man tells you that you could lose some weight, slap HIM, hard! (Don’t let anyone tell you how you should look. You know what’s best for you and he should love you just the way you are) Tell your mama that God made you like this. (It’s nice to blame someone else for your weight gain once in a while. Ma, I promise I’ll confess for writing that) Flaunt those thighs, ladies, and do it with pride. 

P.S: My boyfriend is singing 'I like 'em big, I like 'em chunky' in the background. Best motivation ever! 

How to Speak Anglo 101

The other day I was talking to my boyfriend Eric, about having to get home in time for a funeral. He thinks being late is one of my many talents.

"Johnny, (Yes, I call him that, totally unrelated, I know!) musint I reach from Thevara? The traffic is pretty bad in the evening!"

Before I could finish he laughed so loud I swear the whole of Fort Cochin heard him. For a moment I didn't really know why. He tends to laugh a lot. But then he said, "Say that I again... Musint?" (Creolized version of mustn’t, our grammatical use of which can only be summarized as horrendous)  

Yes. I am a student of Literature and if there are any teachers from the English Department of Christ University reading this they'd probably want to, in the words of one of my dear professors, 'Thup' (spit) on me; but I’m also Anglo, and we talk like this, A LOT!

But I don’t think there's anything to be embarrassed about, at least, not anymore.

I studied in Christ University, Bangalore, and on my first week I didn’t speak a word to anyone. Everyone was so proper, speaking with such finesse, with all their polished Ps and Qs, annunciating their 'tehs' and 'dehs' and 'ers'. These Bangalore people speak with such class; and there I was going, "Ey, where to get books, men? You know eh?"

Three years later and now I too can talk all Bangalore types "Yes, deconstruction, Marxism, feminism and so on, have transformed the idea of culture and untethered it from explicitly nationalist leanings." Yes, I speak fancy. And yet whenever I'm back home I can flip the switch and go, *insert Anglo Aunty sing-song voice*

"Aiyo! There, I went to bloody thatti and fall… you be careful eh, child!"

(Aiyo! is a very south Indian expression for ‘Oh no!’ and thatti is the Malayalam equivalent of, trip or stumble)

We've been speaking this way for decades. After all, we are a fabulous mix of two very different worlds. We took the English that our forefathers spoke and creolized it; and based on your family tree you'll have a few bits and pieces of Portuguese or Dutch thrown in here and there as well.

The end result is a very unique, delightfully sing-song kind of dialect with a lot of ‘My child’s and ‘Bloody’s (pronounced bleddy) and ‘Oh Jesus’es thrown in for added effect. The Queen’s English went for a toss the day they packed up and left, but hey, it’s so much fun, to speak and even more to listen to that my boyfriend and I now do it for sport. One of our favorite words is pariah, but we Anglos pronounce it as parrier. The word is used to generally denote bad or unacceptable behavior (“There, don’t show your pariah nature eh.”), just as something to call someone (“Come here, you pariah!”) or to refer to the locals, essentially, the ‘other’ Indians. (“Don’t act like a pariah.” And “That looks pariahotic!”) mostly in the last-mentioned context.

I grew up with a bunch of boys who got more and more creative with their lingo over time and thinking back on the conversations they used to have is very entertaining. Firstly apart from saying things like ‘bugger off!’ they used to call each other ‘bugger’. “Bugger come here… Don’t act smart you bugger… oh cute bugger he is, men?” So I googled the word, and according to the Oxford Dictionary it means; A person who commits buggery a.k.a bestiality. Don’t think they knew that. They don’t really read so even after I do post this they still won’t know what they’re oh-so-fondly calling each other.

Anyway, where was I? Yes, their conversations. They used to call me a cutlet. And when I was chubby it became potato cutlet (a popular Anglo dish, a round fried ball of mashed potato filled minced meat). I recently found out that in Fort Cochin, their version of cutlet is biscuit. Yes, they called people biscuits, not because they’re sweet, but apparently because “All they are fit to do is eat.” *face palm*

So when we’d go out to play I’d ask them if I could play with them and there would be two responses to that question, it was either: “Play eh? Go put mat and sleep, you play and fall and all and your Mumma will paste us” (paste = beat), or my personal favourite, “Scratch and smell!” (Don’t ask me what it means, it’s disgusting. Essentially it’s their version of ‘dream on’). There was also the popular threat of “There, bloody kicking and oppers I’ll give you eh…” (Oppers = anglicised version of Appam, a UFO-looking Kerala dish that’s eaten with curry.)

We also considerably shorten our sentences. It’s like our very own Morse code. Like, “Saalt Ghaat?” (‘Salt got?’) which translates to: “Can I please borrow some salt.” And “Mama Ghaat?” which is, “Is your mother at home?” plus the usual “Take and go.” = “You may take it and leave”, “Bring and come”, “Roll and fall” = physically impossible unless you're some bloody acrobat, it just means ‘to fall’. (They love the extra masala) “Don’t lie and die” which actually means, ‘don’t make such a big deal/fuss out of this.’ “Uncle’s name whatoly?” which is “Uncle, what is your name?” And one you’ll probably hear the most, “Aaw… where going?”

The final lesson on ‘How to Speak Anglo 101’, is our obsessive, compulsive, excessive use of the word ‘no’ and ‘men’ in the course of a sentence. “Aiyo! That no, morning that bloody Pammy’s that child came home no, and sat there child. Didn’t bloody go, men. My Jesus! Mustn’t cook? Then no, Johnny got angry and told that shit to go. Bloody born for antichrist he is men. How’s it?! Mother is also like that, no.” and that is just the beginning of it. Depending on how annoyed the speaker is at the time and the intensity of the subject, the number of ‘no’s and ‘men’s increase.

Laughed and died, no? Don’t bloody mock us eh, hold your tongue (popular usage for ‘don’t you dare say it!’) or one rap (slap) you’ll get. But if want then come off home and I’ll make one ball curry and give and we can sit and talk like this full day, men. What say?

Don’t want?

Ah then go! Want will do! (Only if you want to)

P.S: I forgot to mention that Eric shouldn't have been laughing at all! He’s bloody Anglo too! But I’m glad he did. Inspired me to write this post, no. I love you, heard! 

Hello! I'm Anglo!

For days I thought about what to write as my first blog post, so I though, "Hey, why don't I write about myself?!"

The problem is, when it comes to my identity and who I am and where I'm from there's a great deal of conundrum.

So, wherever I go people ask me, "Oh Rochelle... such a pretty name... Where are you from?". The moment is say Kerala I swear their mouths open so wide that I see their tonsils.

"Rochelle D'souza? From Kerala?"

The next question usually goes something like "Did your parents move to Kerala from Goa?"

If I knew whats good for me I usually just say "Yes, from Goa, moved here when I was born." End of story. Goan diaspora? No! They didn't move anywhere. They themselves were born and bred and fed in Kerala, both my parents, Elvis D'souza and Eileen Fernandez. (Usually when I tell people my parents names I get another lesson on 'The Inside of the Human Mouth'. I am now more thorough with the inside of a mouth than a bloody dentist)

I was once used as an example in my class to illustrate the 'Colonial Hangover'.

I am what they call Anglo Indian. But I've got no British ancestors (at least, not that I know of). Actually, if my family tree is accurate then I'm two thirds Dutch, and one third...er... Dravidian. That’s on my father’s side. My mother side is a bit of a blur, a dash of Dutch, a hint of ‘Travencorean’ a bit of Portuguese and one large helping of confusion.

But all that aside, at first glance I look 100% Indian. Oh yes. dark brown eyes, thick black frizzy hair and skin colour my mother kindly refers to as 'milk chocolate' (no, not white chocolate, more like Cadbury's Dairy Milk), strangely the other day my new hair stylist took one look at me and said "Are you Anglo? I can tell by the colour of your skin." That's never happened before. Honestly, I look very much like every other Sheela, Sosamma and Sarakutty in South India.

Growing up was when I was most thoroughly confused. I was the only girl in my class with a strange name, and short hair (without coconut oil that too) whose mother wore dresses and pants to school (yes, my mother worked at the school that I studied in, how was that you ask? Well, that's a story for a whole other post!), Who spoke English at home but not really like the English you read in books (I could write a whole other post about that too), who ate weird things like vindaloo and cutlets and tongue roast. At parties the whole 'jing bang' (jing bang is the Anglo equivalent of company or crowd, e.g: "Child, the entire jing bang from my mothers side is coming.") sang and danced (although everyone in the community can jive, I sadly cannot, mother says I was born with two left legs) and made such a racket; the aunties make matches for this ones daughter and that ones son as soon as they hit puberty, God forbid they run off and marry one of those 'Nigs' (yes, we were pretty racist back in the day, but I'm happy to inform you that things have changed, now we call them bloody locals) and gossip about every Tom D'cruz, Dick Pinto and Harry Coelho in the neighborhood and abroad (yes, the Anglo Aunty News Network stretches across the globe, they now have Facebook too!), while the uncles pulled up their brandy and cracked their dirty jokes.

Yes the Anglo life is very unique, very different. We aren't just Colonial bloody hangover. We've created something for ourselves which is a nexus of both this and that. But every now and then, when we step out of our little societal bubble, reality hits us that we are a community who've gotten a bit lost in time. Now that all the blooming white people are gone we've got no one to emulate. Mixed marriages have diluted the culture even more than it already was after 68 years of independence, and I don't know if other kids my generation feel this way, but every now and then I think "Whats the point? Our forefather's folks shall never accept us as their own, (Once my granddad spoke Portuguese to an 'authentic' Portuguese woman telling her that he too was Portuguese and she called him a 'rotten Portuguese man'...in English) and over here we just manage to fit into the social structure and even then we stick out like sore thumbs. (Whenever I see an random aunty at the mall or supermarket with short hair wearing loose trousers and a bright printed top, alarms go off in my head, ANGLO AUNTY!!! ding ding ding!!!! Its like whale watching. So rare these days)

So where was I?

Yes, My name is Rochelle D'souza, I'm an Anglo from Kerala because the Dutch and Portuguese landed in Kerala first (that's right, History, people! In a place called Muziris, about 25kms from where I live) and impregnated my fore....ahem...mothers, and centuries of intra-communal breeding later and here I am. Still in Kerala. Shudh 100% Anglo. OK. Thanks. Bye.

P.S: When I was writing this I realized that I don't really know how to conclude this post because I don't quite know how to come to a conclusion about my own identity. My profile has a little description of myself but is that who I am really?

P.P.S: I would like to use this post to reach out to my Anglo Brethren to give me some closure about who we are and what we are and why it is important that we remain this way.

P.P.P.S: Forgive me for the way I write. I tend to ramble and digress a lot. My mum says I'm a scatter-brain and I write exactly how I think.