Learning about the “other”

How do we learn to recognise the “other”? How do we know that another human being is different from us? And what does that difference do to us?

I recollect some events from my childhood, when I visited my grandparents who lived in Guntakal, a small town in Andhra Pradesh, India. My grandparents were orthodox upper caste Hindus and lived very amiably with their neighbours who were Muslims and Christians. My grandfather had regular tete-a-tete with them in the evenings, sitting on a stone platform outside their homes that served as an open verandah. They frequently helped each other out. Saibu, their Muslim neighbour who lived in a tiny house adjoining my grandparents’ home would tell me that he was my grandfather’s brother who had been cast out of the family because he married a woman who my great-grandmother did not approve of. His wife, Buamma, helped my grandmother with odd jobs around the house. Another gentleman who lived down the street was referred to as ‘Jutka Saibu’ who owned a horse carriage that would ferry us to and from the railway station when we visited Guntakal. My grandparents’ home was the only one with a tap for water provided by the local municipal corporation and everyone in the street would come home to collect their water for storage – the Christian family that lived across the street, the Saibus as well as people from other castes and communities. It was safe to wander around these homes and my brother and I played with other children in the neighbourhood without any reservation.

However, there was an invisible line. I remember my grandmother asking me whether I had eaten in any of the other homes. She told me that I was never to drink or eat in any of these homes. When the neighbours visited my grandparents’ home, they were never allowed to enter the kitchen and when they were given something to eat, they had to eat sitting in certain designated places. While I challenged these taboos outwardly, something in me held on to these differences for many years.?

I was reminded of this when I watched the movie, Belfast, set in Ireland in the 1960s. There is a very poignant conversation in the movie between two children in the aftermath of a violent attack on the homes of Catholic families in their street. Buddy, the protagonist of the film, is checking with his friend on how one could differentiate between Catholics and Protestants. Here is a snatch of that conversation –

“You can tell by their names. Well, if he is a Patrick or a Sean, he is a Catholic. And if he is a Billy or a William, he is a Protestant.”

“There’s more names than that though.”

“I know that. I’m just saying, them’s the obvious ones.”

“We’ve a wee fellow down our street called Thomas. What’s he?”

“Protestant, definitely”

“He’s not. He’s a catholic. They burnt his house the other night ‘cause his family is Catholic.”

“Sure, we’ve a cousin named Thomas.”

“I know. That’s what I am saying.”

“Well, how the hell are you supposed to tell the difference?”

“You have to get taught it”

“Who teaches you?”

Reading ‘I never thought of it that way’ by Monica Guzman gave me an insight. She describes the process of ‘othering’ as?SOS: (1)?Sorting?who we share things in common with us (2)?Othering- those we push away because we disagree on something that matters (3)?Siloing?– Sinking deeper into our groups and our stories. To break out of this polarization, she suggests we step outside of our biographies and ask, “What am I missing?”?

My unconscious childhood hesitations dissolved when I stepped out of my biography and got to know Homayun, who is now one of my closest friends and mentors. The first time, Homayun visited my home, we bonded on the joys of having tea and warm toast with butter. In that first conversation I learnt that there are many elements that make a meal satisfying – things that he learnt from his mother – that you eat with your eyes before you eat with your mouth. So, the spreading of the tablecloth- the’sofreh’, the butter dish, the arrangement on the table, cutlery – all contribute to the experience of a nourishing meal. All those elements were already present on that day, but they came alive for me once he pointed them out. The next time we cooked together, and I brought out a bunch of nearly dead cluster beans, he reminded me that it is the?prana?or the life force in the vegetables that contributes to?prana?in us. He helped me celebrate all those tiny joys that filled my day but had been too preoccupied to notice.

The more time I spent with him, the more similarities I discovered and where we found differences, we learnt from them and became richer for it. Had I held on to the invisible barrier that separated me from him, I would never have access to the priceless gifts he has shared with me – his knowledge of Indian philosophy and traditions, his deep regard for life, his fun loving and deeply compassionate soul. All this would have been lost to me if I had not been curious to know more about him as a person. Knowing Homayun has helped me understand and appreciate the richness of his tradition while deepening my convictions in my own. As Monica suggests, our conversations have been self-fulfilling, and our connection has been strengthened by recognising our shared humanity.