Confessions of an Abu Dhabi Born Confused Mallu #2

Confession 2 : The Inquisitive Malayalee and the Endless Interrogation.

My parents raised me in the pre-social media era. They were very unlike the modern parents who capture numerous snaps of the children every day and post the geotagged pictures online so that the whole world including dacoits and predators know the exact geographic latitude and longitude coordinates of their home, child's school and vacation places.

Mine was a generation that was taught to fear strangers. My mom would panic if I came home 5 minutes late and she did her best to protect me from her own imagined fears.

I was told that strangers were abductors and was warned against getting friendly, accepting treats, and disclosing personal information to strangers. So I grew up minding my own business, not engaging in conversation with strangers, getting away from situations where I sense discomfort, not answering the doorbell when alone and believing that is how the world operates.

I wished someone would have cautioned me that as adults we need to talk to strangers every day to function in this world. Even today if someone looks at me and smiles, my initial response is to recoil instinctively. Starting a conversation with an unknown person is a skill that I never acquired.

Hence when I come down to the God's Own Country I stick out like an odd socially awkward specimen. My dad's village and my husband's place are lands with no stranger danger. Families know each other since the dawn of civilization and think it is commonplace to ask each other highly uncomfortable questions.  

The Aunties have an unnatural interest in getting you hitched and once you are married their curiosity shifts to the contents in your womb. I have had a tough time responding to all the 'When is the baby coming?' queries. 

In every social gathering I meet this one Malayalee Uncle who is fixated with finding who you are, what your linage is and determine your taxonomic position in his mental family tree and then ascertain the exact geographic location of your ancestral house. As the interrogation proceeds, the Mallu-in-me cuts a sorry figure of utter ignorance much to annoyance of the questioner. 

 

"You MUST know your family history!", a displeased uncle exhaled in annoyance.

 

The only history I know are the medical conditions that run in the family. I know of the malignancies that my grandads succumbed to. I know of the degenerative neurological disorders my grandmas had. I know what medical troubles my parents have. The things I know may be of use someday. 

Uncle looks at me disapprovingly and tells his friend. "Kids these days, don't even make an attempt to know anyone". 

I smile graciously and slowly get away from the overly inquisitive uncle and his endless interrogation.