Baggage Speech

Speech given by Vikram Joshi

22 August 2006

Ladies and gentlemen, in the past 16 years of my life and the 5 I have left-I had my midlife crisis when I was 10-I’ve never reached my true potential. I’ve never achieved my real goals. Because I’ve had this baggage on my shoulders that’s been keeping me down. That baggage being my Indianness. You see, I hate being Indian. I can’t tolerate it at all. Who says ‘butter chicken’ is a delectable dish. The last time I buttered a chicken and ate it, I was laying more than just eggs. Curry to me is liquid filth and the sitar sounds like someone strangling a cat. Our best work of literature is the Karma Sutra. Of course, being the alpha male specimen that I am, I don’t have any qualms about this. But I do have a problem when the most provocative scene in a Bollywood Film is a couple holding hands, and singing at high altitudes. And being Indian, I’ve probably got an arranged marriage to Rani down the road, who I don’t even know. But the thing I hate most about being Indian, is that I have to put up with a national cricket team which would rival the talent of our local under 9 croquet squad. For those of you who don’t live in Sydney’s inner west, such a club is non-existent in the first place. To know that out of the 1 billion of us on this earth, our 11 best hold the record for the heaviest loss in the Cricket World Cup’s history, is what I find most debilitating about being an Indian. So it’s been my dream to play for Australia instead. To bat alongside Gilchrist, to bowl with Mcgrath and to hit Harbajhan for six, and take out Tendulkar’s middle stump.

But speaking of sixes, certain images six odd months ago, shattered these dreams. Certain images of people getting rid of baggage in ways which were beyond belief. Images of the Cronulla riots. At first it didn’t seem all that bad. The first images were of all those men gathering on the beach, holding up Australian flags high in the sky. My first impulses were to join them. But it soon became clear how wrong these impulses turned out to be. The image of a single man being beaten by a mob was then replaced by an image of a woman. Her headscarf was torn away as she was chased down the Cronulla sand dunes. And probably one of the most confronting scenes was that of the image I couldn’t actually see. That image of a rumbling train where all we could see through the windows was an angry mob punching and kicking into an empty space. My imagination had to fill who, or what, was left lying down there. And all this was summed up in that one final phrase, a phrase that is burned in the back of my mind even today. That phrase which was painted so clearly on the chest of that 17 year old boy in billabong shorts: We grew here, you flew here. What future did I have following these events? What are to happen to my aspirations and my dreams? Where do I belong?

I could propose social changes on a mass scale. I could propose the old solutions. I could say we need mandatory cultural task forces to bring ethnic groups together. Or maybe I could advocate the need for us to introduce mandatory language study in the HSC to promote active learning of another one’s culture. I could advocate all these things, but then again, I am Indian, and being lazy is central to my existence. After all, non-violence was not our greatest weapon but a means of saving the effort to pick up a weapon in the first place. Most of you know that Indians are generally good at maths. And in a series of mind boggling calculations I came to the conclusion that one was a smaller number than twenty million. We’re also good at physics and I soon realised that the effort required to change one was less than that required to change twenty million. Because I realised that cultural appreciation can only occur on an individual level. Institutions and politics can’t build walls against these storms. Not unless we accept and understand the value of our own individual and rational minds. This problem has its roots in collective thinking and generalization. Only you and I can be reasonable. Only you and I are capable of rational thought. Only you and I can appreciate each other for the things that make us different. The moment we lose that exclusiveness, and become inclusive-is the moment those walls come tumbling down. Countries sustain themselves on this kind of collective hatred. But it’s individuals who get caught in the cross fire. For a nation that prides itself on self-reliance and independent thinking, have we forgotten the value and power of individual thought? Have we forgotten who we are and where we each came from?

Maybe there are some things that I can be proud of as an Indian. Maybe I can be proud of butter chicken: a dish that has a certain sweetness which I couldn’t taste in all that spice. Maybe I can be proud of the sitar and a certain harmony I missed in those days passed. And as for telemarketers; well no matter how lonely you are, at least you know that you’ll have someone to talk to on a Saturday night at 7. But maybe the thing I can be most proud of is that match at Eden Gardens only a few years ago, where two Indians held out the greatest bowling attack in history for one whole day. I refuse to believe that the average Australian is a racist. I refuse to believe that the Cronulla riots showed everyone that a deep vein of racism ran through this nation.

I have a dream. The last time a black man said that he got shot but I’ll take my chances anyway. My dream is this: It’s a hot, sticky Sunday afternoon at the SCG. Australia are 9/108 chasing 345 for victory. They need the greatest batting performance in history to save the day, and out of the pavilion, steps me. As I move towards the centre, I can smell pappadams being cooked in the background. I open the gate and turn my head. On my side are my 4000 children that I have had with Rani down the road. As I move onto the grass, I can hear Brett Lee strumming the sitar. And as I reach the centre, I take guard; to save the match, to save the nation. And there I stand in the centre, my baggy green on my head, stains of butter chicken, in my shirt.