I am an Anglophile — a wholesome and guilt-free one. I am fond of everything English, most of all the language itself that has been bestowed on us almost as a legacy. ‘London Bridge is Falling Down’ was probably the first rhyme to be drilled into many an Indian’s ear. A veritable reason perhaps, for the most illustrious landmark (that has braved many a fire and a Viking invasion) to be etched to deep in our consciousness. Of course, Her Royal Highness of the British Isles was first introduced to us by the legendary feline who ‘had been up to London to visit the queen!’
The most scrumptious aspect that the memory evokes through association when one proclaims ‘English’ would probably be the cuisine. Books are replete with mouth-watering descriptions of cream teas, muffins, croissants, crumpets, shortbread, the traditional suet pudding, a variety of cheeses. The exotic fare is often tasted by many an Indian in the memory’s palate much before they actually get an opportunity to try it thanks to the authentic, vivid biblio descriptions.
As an spoken English trainer for a short while, I confess to being in a bit of a spot trying to interpret the concept of high tea to students from the most remote recesses of India. Later, I was to learn that the courtesy of high tea goes to the Duchess of Bedford who incidentally felt a little peckish between lunch and dinner and had a few friends over in the afternoon for tea and a few recherché snacks. ‘High Tea’ did little more than assuage untimely hunger pangs and became correlated with genteel table manners and socialising among the upper class women. The trend soon caught on like wildfire and became a symbol of the elite in England.
Students who have had the privilege of studying English literature are often introduced to the Anglo-Saxon world of words with the famous epic poem Beowulf. Poets of the Romantic Era — Keats, Shelley, Blake and Wordsworth are worshipped. It is no wonder that many an Anglophile has reported to having felt an ineffable frisson when standing in front of John Keats’ house in London or William Wordsworth’s ‘Dove Cottage’ at Grasmere in Lake District. The staple diet of many an Indian’s formative years would be Jane Austen, the Bronte sisters, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Thomas Hardy, and not to mention the Bard of Avon.
It is a no strange fact that the English revel in talking about their weather. The typical Britisher, with the confidence (can’t always vouch for accuracy) of a seasoned meteorologist predicts that the day is either going to be fine, glorious, rainy or stormy. In fact, according to studies, they spend an average of six months talking about it.
Most of us, Indians are half-British by heritage if not by blood whether we acknowledge it or not. We Indians are fortunate to be imbibed by the best of the East and the West. India is loved for its colours, earthy textures, the bustling crowds in the market, the fragrance of jasmine and…spices and also the sweet agony of heat and dust. Equally England is dear for its art, architecture, music, literature, cuisine, the culture, etiquette (the stiff upper lip included), the picturesque country houses with their carefully tended gardens and even the mercurial weather. James Baldwin once said, ‘Perhaps home is not a place but simply an irrevocable condition’.