The Interrogative Indian

Questions, questions and then some more...but kindness too



There was a time when going on a long distance train journey meant that you simply had to submit yourself to relentless questions from the women around you, and from some of the men too. The minute the ‘adjustment’ of seats, berths, luggage space etc was done with, your co-passengers would begin to debrief you and each other. The preliminaries were usually name, last name, region/ mother tongue, marital status, whether you had children, how many, if not, then why (all gynac details to be revealed), father’s occupation and salary. This would be followed by the interrogator providing you full and complete disclosure about herself, leaving out no detail howsoever slight, as Hercule Poirot used to say.

At first it was irritating, and then you grew up a bit about it, and gamely answered their questions without feeling too intruded upon. Sometimes you even threw in some inventive details if you were in the mood. These were usually ‘aunties’ and ‘bens’ and ‘behenjis’ who questioned you closely in this manner and usually on long train or bus journeys.

Today the Interrogative Indian is everywhere. They come in every shape, size , age and location. People think nothing of asking you close questions about how much precisely your profession gets you, how much tax you pay, what the going rate for your apartment is today (in per square foot terms), how much you spent on your kitchen counter, and of course the exact state of your body in terms of whether you are pre peri or post menopausal, and other such sublime questions.

If you are in hospital, you can be sure that at least three different visitors will ask you how many rooms the hospital has, who are the funders, is it one Mangeshkar sister or both, does it have tie ups with any foreign hospitals...what does your room cost, and of course the qualifications of your doctor, his mother and his mother’s dog.

I am often tempted to ask back: how will the answers to any of this change anything in your life? But being a wuss, I tend to cough up the answers obediently, sometimes in an abrupt dismissive tone, which is however totally lost on the interrogator.

The interrogators are now getting younger and younger. I was recently closely cross-examined by a 6-year-old girl. She strode into my hospital room without a knock, and asked me first off in Marathi: where’s your baby? Before I could say anything she looked narrowly at me and asked: still in your stomach? She then quickly offered me some personal and important details from her own life: my mother had a baby today and there’s one more and it is stuck inside.

She then proceeded to look appraisingly at my hospital room and said: this is a good room; I like your room. Why do you need such a big room? Give this room to my mother and me and my father and the baby and the other baby who won’t come out . We need a big room like yours. Why do you need such a big room?

She then noticed that I was holding a small swab of cotton at the spot where some blood had been taken. In the same self-assured vein this astonishingly clued in child continued with her grilling: you gave blood or you were given blood? Obviously the little creature had been spending far too much time in the hospital, dropping in on everyone on the floor and questioning them very closely.

She then suddenly said peremptorily: show me the swab. I complied obediently. She then said kindly: see there’s no blood now – now go throw away that cotton, it’s become ok now. And there it was. It struck me that like most other interrogative Indians, this pesky one too was irritating and interfering, but strangely and touchingly, reassuring too. At the risk of sounding horribly sentimental, I must admit that after this little ball of question marks left the room, I did feel a bit bereft. Come back, come back and ask me more questions, I wanted to say to her. One should not underestimate the hidden warmth and involvement behind all that interrogating.