Where have all the Brits gone?

I make no bones about my Anglophilia. Like most Indians of my vintage – caught between old rotary dial phones and the first tentative mobile phones – I grew up on Wodehouse & James Herriot, walked among old Gothic structures in areas called Fort, Churchgate, and Marine Drive, and wondered what fish and chips tasted like. I was (am actually, of course) the scion of a father who had not only studied Law in one of those Gothic Structures, but was adept at solving crossword puzzles of The Times, wrote “Esq.” after his name and frowned upon meaningless abbreviations. And was able to tie a Windsor knot effortlessly.

My friends in college were of similar persuasion and many a pleasant hour was spent on the cricket field boundary wall facing our college discussing Wodehouse and the doings of Wooster. In fact, if I removed my spectacles and gazed at the cricket field, I could be forgiven for thinking I was watching a match in rural Shropshire.

I visited London for the first time in 1992. My emotions on first arriving in The City (via Paris but that’s another blog) were understandably incoherent. I was all a-twitter (yes, the word existed even in the 90s and meant a completely different thing) and could barely wait to reach Oxford Street and imbibe…Englande! I tumbled out of the Underground and onto the Street, took a deep breath, and heard a peremptory voice asking for directions to Wembley… in Gujarati! I looked wildly around but all I could see and hear was non non-English folks and tongues (with Indian folks and tongues predominating).

Over the years I came to terms with this divergent binary to all that I held dear about the Dear Country. I put it down to that quaint British habit of taking rather than giving. I met natives (of my country) who were more English than the Archbishop of Canterbury. I met natives who had long strings of alphabets after their names or had a “Lord” prefixed to a decidedly Kathiawari or Gangetic-plain origin name. In all this I was reassured that the things that I held to be Truly British – the Queen, the BBC, the Prime Minister, fish and chips, tea, and cricket – were Truly British. These would never be anything but.

But of late, that reassurance has been shaken. Profoundly. The Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, the First Minister of Scotland and the Taoiseach of Ireland are of South Asian origin. The newly appointed Director-General of the BBC was born in a dusty town to the north-east of Mumbai, India. The current and previous two Home Secretaries of the Sceptered Isle trace their origins to the colonies. Chicken Tikka Masala, and not Fish and Chips, is the preferred cholesterol inducer.

Do not get me wrong. All these individuals have succeeded to the highest levels in their chosen profession by dint of hard work and talent. They deserve to be, or not to be, where they are. CTM, though a hideous amalgamation of chicken and cream which should never have been permitted to exist, speaks to the soul of every Ordinary Englishman in his cups.

Still, Where Are The Brits?

Summer's a bummer

I have never felt kinship with ovens. They signify heat, burning, and a Vulcan-ish degradation that does no good to anyone. But I live in Dubai. Where nature itself becomes an oven in summer, and man, like steak, transforms into a sizzling mass of melting fat and brown skin.

To most people, summer is beaches, ice creams, chilled beers, even colder Chablis, and bikinis. To others, it is peeling noses, blistered skin, and red rashes. Happy days, essentially. Especially for those who live in European climes, where rain, fog, mist, and grey are the most frequently used words.

Summer creates a two-way traffic lane. The folks who call this country home go back to their actual homes, or congregate in said grey climes, glad to be away from the near-blinding sunshine, roads crowded with the pale migrants, and heat that can fry eggs on the pavement (been there, done that...). The city is suddenly overrun with paunchy, pale migrants from grey, dystopian lands, hoping to soak in the heat, get sand in their sandals and proudly carry back the "Dubai Tan". In this part of the world, sun, sand, blue sky, and air conditioning are part of the landscape. Like Chicken Tikka Masala in Brixton.

Where I live, summer is not so much a weather pattern as a retail extravaganza. Summer implies massive "sales", "fantastic offers", and stock clearance promotions of last year's parkas and woolens. Because we trade in everything which can earn a margin!

If you are here at this time of the retail calendar, summer is something to be enjoyed from the icy-cool confines of your home, office, car, or nearest temple to retail excess. Though near-nudity is frowned upon, most people in the open push the margin (aka the hemline) as much as possible without being bunged into the dark confines of a holding cell (also air conditioned, by the way).

Summer is all very fine and dandy. But when you live in a country where the sun shines for most of the year, ditto blue skies, the temperature in summer is that of a rare steak (pardon the meaty references), and rain is a four-letter word you read about in rare manuscripts, you do yearn for a touch of the Boreas, a whiff of cold, and a nod to Jack Frost.

I can take summer or leave it. In my home country, summer was a precursor to the monsoon and the start of the new school term, both in June. These are not happy memories. My name means "winter", and though not a cold person, I am happiest in this weather.

And where I live, winter is not so much a weather pattern as a retail extravaganza. And the temperature is akin to a well-iced Riesling.

On a head lies a crown

You would have to be in your 80s or 90s to have watched both an earlier coronation and the one today, of a monarch of the "United Kingdom and other Commonwealth realms". Since I am not in the age band mentioned, the chance to watch the coronation ceremony today was a once in a lifetime occasion (hopefully).

I couldn't watch today's ceremony in its entirety - a common man's labour is a burden not to be mocked at - but I did follow a bit. And no doubt, yards of media real estate will be devoted to the event in the days to come. So I am assured of enough fodder to feed my curiosity, nosiness, and general interest in trivia.

And I suppose (and hope) that this post will also go down as part of the coronation archives.

There are many monarchs scattered around the globe - some serving, some retired, some forced out. But none of them can come close to generating the grandeur, history, and plain spectacle-worthiness of a British monarch.

The British monarch carries more history on their (damn pronouns) shoulders than most other monarchs. A central part of social and political life in the island for the better part of a thousand years, and a global phenomenon for nearly 300 years, the British monarchy get its share of barbs today, well into the 21st century.

But modernity is nothing but the continuity of tradition in new clothes, so the enthronement of a new monarch today was merely a part of the continuum that is the British monarchy. And never mind if the commoners (read republicans) moan about the lack of relevance of this institution.

The late Queen Elizabeth II was considered a "mother figure" by most Britishers, and her passing was almost unthinkable. Especially because it happened so suddenly. But the immediate declaration of the current King as the new monarch (aka Head of State) assured the public of continuity, if not synchronicity with the mood at large.

Unlike other monarchies, the British monarchy is a very familiar feature to most people on the planet. Most of our ancestors were "subjects of the crown" at one time (I remember trying to claim "British ancestry by virtue of my grandfather and father being British subjects", when asked why I should be given a British visa). 

Due to this massive footprint of Empire, I sometimes feel that there are more "Brits" outside the British Isles than in the Isles! Most former colonies still cling to most things British, while the colonies seem to have colonised the UK entirely. Remember, the Prime Minister is of Indian origin and the First Minister of Scotland is of Pakistani origin. On my first visit to Oxford Street as a wide-eyed, dyed-in-the-wool Wodehouse fan, I could only hear Gujarati! And when I asked a pale-skinned lad where the Brits were he replied "Can't say, I'm Irish." In my 12 visits to the country since then, I have met a Baronet, a Lord, and the richest person in England. All are Indian. Many of the key players in today's coronation are of non-British ancestry, and this flexibility of accommodation is a key feature of today's monarchy in the United Kingdom.

There is much chatter about the monarchy being a closed user group due to its inherent "heriditary" nature. That the monarch is an accident of birth. That it's not a given that a monarch may have the ability to lead. But there is much to be said about absorbing "leadership" and "ruler" traits from a thousand years of collective family experience. Yes there are the bad eggs - which farm doesn't have them? But the British monarch has a very visible, active, and involved role in the Armed Forces of the country, and the entire sequence of responsibility to, and of, the armed forces (a much loved and respected institution in any country), is something that underscores the centrality of the monarchy to life in the UK. And being part of the Armed Forces does imbue one with leadership traits. If nothing else, you learn to bite the bullet. Or dodge it. Depends on your outlook and position in life.

Today the British monarch is more an advertising campaign for their country rather than a "ruler of all that they survey" (I really need a solution to these pronouns!) The pomp and pageantry of today's coronation is no doubt as much a media success as an organisational one! As long as the TRPs and talking heads see merit and value (even transitory) in the monarchy, I see no immediate threat to this institution. 

Be that as it may, as someone who lives in an absolute monarchy in the Middle East, I know that the bonds tying the monarch to their subjects can be as strong or as tenuous as the monarch wants. I can see the huge respect and affection given to the rulers of the country where I live, and how they respond in kind.

And on that note, let me return to my tea and cucumber sandwiches with chutney.

God Save The King!