November 24, 2000

Butter chicken in Managua

Imagine finding an Indian married to a Tutsi woman escaping the massacre in Rwanda

In the great hunt for the Indian diaspora some Indians (or those of Indian origin) are likely to be ignored because they have launched their adventure in places that are remote or obscure.

During the Nicaraguan war when the Sandinistas and Reagan-backed Contras were slugging it out in the Central American country, it was not easy to reach Managua, Nicaragua’s capital. And once in Managua, where do you stay? Language is a problem. Everyone speaks Spanish. You grope your way to the only hotel, dominating the view, overlooking Managua’s muddied lake. It is the Intercontinental Hotel. You heave a sigh of relief because the pretty hostess can slip in a few words of English and is clearly excited about an Indian on the premises.

As I enter my room I receive a note. ‘‘The general manager would like to have dinner with you in the penthouse apartment.’’ At the appointed hour I knock at the door. Lo and behold, a big burly man opens the door. He asks me, in Punjabi, if I know the language. A smattering of it, I say. It does not take him long to be all wrapped in nostalgia about the Punjab. Apparently he turned up in Venezuela for some reason. Got involved in hoteliering. Married a handsome Venezuelan lady and found himself a job in Managua in the midst of a war.

It was quite remarkable that he knew the president, Daniel Ortega, his archrival Violleta Chamarro and perhaps the most powerful man in the country, Archbishop Ovando Bravo, whose job seemed to be to certify all anti-communist ‘‘miracles’’. Example: ‘‘The statue of Mother Mary sheds tears every night because of what the Sandinistas are doing to the country.’’ And so on.

Throughout my stay in Nicaragua, I could never reconcile to the image of this adventurous Sikh from the heartland of Punjab managing the fanciest hotel in remote Managua, dining and wining with all the commandants.

An equally surprising image that sticks in my memory is of a spectacular, sari-clad women walking the seafront in Papeete, capital of Tahiti, one of the world’s most expensive cities. How did these sari-clad ladies materialise in this, the most exotic part of Polynesia? Well, this overseas French territory requires a civil service. Some of the volunteers manning the service happen to be men from Pondicherry who retained their French citizenship, joined the French overseas services and turned up in Papeete.

Imagine the shock of finding an Indian married to an exquisite Tutsi woman escaping the massacre at the hands of the Hutus in Rwanda in the mid-90s. Rajiv hid his wife in the loft and covered her with all the lining he could organise from his Hutu neighbours. (Yes, such oases of goodwill exist amidst all social upheavals.)

Or an Indian from Goa, something of a tycoon in Angola, with equal access to the Dos Santos government as to Jonas Savimbi.
More recently, when we visited Sierra Leone to watch Indian troops on peacekeeping duty, I realised the value of the Indian diaspora in a very personal way.

Air France takes you up to Conakry, capital of Guinea, where customs tend to keep your baggage unless you can mobilise influential intervention. It was an Indian businessman, Ashok Dasvani, a Sindhi to boot, who offered us hospitality for the night, helped us clear customs and ensured seats on a ramshackle 20-seater plane operated by the Lebanese and flown by a Russian defector.

The experience in Baku, capital of Azerbaijan, was exactly similar. Customs hold us up from midnight till dawn. Once again agents of an Indian businessman turn up to have their goods cleared. I strike a conversation with them. They give me the name of the Indian who owns the largest departmental store in Baku (it is called the American Store). A phone call from him and the battery of customs officers harassing us retreat as if some invisible hand were pushing them
backwards.

In recent months Andorra has been mentioned as a possible model for solving the Kashmir problem. It is an autonomous state in the Pyrenees, under the joint sovereignty of France and Spain. It is an exquisite ski resort specialising in the least expensive duty-free shopping, particularly perfumes and electronic goods. And who owns these shops? Indians, of course, as they do in Gibraltar, the Canary Islands and Barcelona. There is another stream of the Indian diaspora, away from the glare of publicity I shall touch on later.

Other columnists:

Other articles by the columnist Because they are just like us Civiliasation as a unifier The Indian miracle and Islamabad The perils of amity The unreality of Pakistan The real message from Action This silence isn't golden The swoop of the falcon When palace responds to street