DELHIBERATIONS |Indian Tourists: The New Masterjis Of The Universe | Padma Rao Sundarji

Indian tourists are having a rollicking time across the globe. Airside or landside, aunties and uncles are breaking into high-decibel bhangra and garba, chanting shlokas in churches and belting out Mera Naam Chin Chin Chu (in the heart of Beijing). We meeker fellow citizens are proud to be thus represented. Racist trolls hurling abuse at us: get a life. We are the new Masterjis of the Universe! The whole world’s our (reluctant) family and we’re everywhere.

It took thousands of years to get here. Here’s how we did it:

*The Dhavana Pratiyogita, or the Sprinting Sutra: Your first glimpse of us is usually at the airport lounge buffet. Most people enjoy free food; we Indians treat it as historical reparation.

Plundered by foreign rulers for centuries, fleeced by petty officials for decades and heavily taxed for the privilege of flooded streets and outages, the lounge is our one chance to loot the system back. Naturally, the buffet triggers a genetic survival instinct straight from Kabaddi and Kho-Kho fields. It’s a masterclass in family strategy: burly aunties and uncles form a platoon around the main courses, while the kids execute a tactical raid on the dessert station.

*The “Raashan” Sutra & Harakara martial practice: The Raashan Sutra is a 77-year-old tradition born from induced shortages. While our nation’s (socialist) First Family posed in fur coats in Swinging Sixties London, our parents rationed everything – from kerosene to matchboxes. Today, we honour them: by piling our plates mountain-high with enough food for twenty, and getting sloshed beyond repair. The strategy requires a precision deployment of kids. The youngest stay at the kitchen entrance to spot arriving dishes, the older ones at the cutlery counter to snatch 50 spoons the moment the staff brings them out. The most experienced child is tasked with guarding high-value targets: paneer and chicken. Mirroring the Harakaras -- medieval military runners, bewildering towers of paneer, chhole, chicken, and mutton are passed from Phupha to Chachi to Kaka with the speed and precision of a bomb disposal squad. Meanwhile, the kids stagger back with dozens of Coke cans and every single paper napkin from the freshly refilled tray. If a sudden drought hits the airport, the Sharmas will survive. Their cabin bags will be pre-stocked bunkers.

*Shabda and the “Tarankcalla” Sutra: Do not argue that “Quiet Zone” signs show a universal symbol of a finger held to the lips. We read 28 languages while your ancestors were still dangling from branches, treating hoots and grunts as high literature, okay? Vedic acoustic tradition outlines four stages of sound, from the sublime to the gross, and you’re lucky to witness the last. Consider us your benevolent mascots shattering your negative energy. Blasting “Desi Boyz” at a jackhammer-level 129 decibels on your European train is actually a cosmic healing service. As for calls on speakerphone, we’re preserving our 77-year-old trunk call tradition -- how else are we supposed to be heard in Bathinda, 5,000 km away? Besides, you didn’t listen to us through all those centuries you squatted on our land. It’s our turn to deafen you now.

*The Vegadharna Sutra: Nothing unites snooty content creators faster than filming an uncle drinking tea at a decibel level that defeats jet engines. Ayurveda dictates that “vegadharna” -- natural urges like slurping, burping and belching -- should never be suppressed. Listen up, airheads: internal winds must flow unhindered in all directions. Consider yourself lucky when an Indian tourist undoes a few buttons, lets a hairy belly hang out, and releases his inner dragon. It’s a free lesson in how to respond to an internal weather forecast.

*The Drishti and Darshan Sutra: Inside India or out, we love to stare. It doesn’t matter if a culture considers it rude; staring is our birthright. You are there, so we must stare. The devout long for darshan, for the spiritual gaze. And since every Indian is a little gift from God to the world, consider it divine interaction with the deity to be stared at by one. Do stare back, even if the darshan bestower happens to be digging for gold while goggling you.

Channel your inner guru. If you can master the downward dog, you can ace the frontal gawk too. Locking your gaze traps the mind and stops it from wandering. It’s yoga, stupid!

*The Adhikara Sutra & The Harshit Bagga Uncertainty Principle: When flight departure is announced, the Harshit Bagga Uncertainty Principle kicks in. Indians instantly converge in a “passenger wave packet”. Papaji, Mummyji and Jijaji simultaneously sidle, shift, or float toward the boarding gate. Watch the aunties advance, repel and adjust to one another exactly like electrons. Their spatial coordinates are hard to pin down, given their giant duty-free bags. Given our absolute mastery, I suspect this Principle was originally ours, and plagiarized later by a German upstart named Heisenberg. We’re aces at Quantum Chaos too, so physics must have been born in India. Finally, storming the aircraft first, occupying every available inch of overhead bin space, changing seats at random, and demanding an immediate upgrade to “Aggjactive” class -- this, my friends, is Adhikara, or birthright.

*The Bhumidevi Sutra, or how to stay grounded: Finally, we are on board. After multiple car and train rides from New Jersey to Newark, the duty-free walkathon and the gate scrimmage, we’re ready to take-off. While we wait for free drinks to be served (double pegs of everything and to us first) and a vegetarian dinner (which we never pre-booked, also to us first), it’s time to ground ourselves. And what better way to connect with Mother Earth in the air -- and facilitate the easy passage of internal winds at the same time -- than to peel off our socks, and sink cross-legged into seat 26B, kneeing those on either side slyly, but persistently till they give up squirming? Don’t grumble about pong, remember the role of sweat in the Skanda Purana. Sacred trees like the Bel, and even certain great historical figures, were born from the sweat of deities. God gifted us Indians to you. You in 26A, touch my bare feet and pray for a safe flight.

And you in 26C, kindly do the needful and pass over my double peg of “Walking Johny”!

The writer is a much-travelled foreign correspondent and author based in New Delhi