The Last Burmese?

The train slowed down as the Chennai beach station came into sight. The morning rush was evident, as passengers clasped around poles and railings in an effort to hold on. As the train finally came to a halt, the madness began. People jumped onto the platform with little regard for safety. The bridges connecting the platforms seemed pointless as people rushed across active rail lines. Students, going to schools, men and women rushing to work, and even vendors trying to push their merchandise; the Beach station was as busy as always.

Step out through the exit, and the iconic Burma Bazaar comes into sight! It was in 1969, that the Tamil Nadu government built this market for the Burmese community who had settled there. Thousands of Burmese families had migrated to Chennai in the mid-1960s. The market gradually became the focal point of their livelihood and their culture. It has evolved over the years and has created its own niche. Lined parallel to the road, there are around 200 shops which sell imported merchandise like mobile phones and perfumes. The shopkeepers continuously beckon you into their shops as you walk through the narrow pavement. People can be seen packing CDs, repairing gadgets, and making last minute preparations before the rush hour.

I strained my ears to catch nuggets of a language which my ears would shrug off. Tamil, and Hindi were easily recognizable; but nothing that stood out as foreign. For a market, almost exclusively run by the Burmese community, this seemed strange.

Right opposite the centre of the bazaar, is the Tamil Burmese workers’ union. A couple of desks, arranged with aesthetic disdain, piles of folders, screaming for attention, and the soothing voice of S P Balasubramaniam welcomed visitors. A lone man ensured that the office wasn’t desolated. He was staring intently at the tiny remote, possibly fiddling with the idea of changing the channel. My arrival spurred him to action.

Syed Mohammed has been working in the Union office, since his retirement from government service. “Everyone here is of Burmese descent. But you cannot find anyone who had actually migrated in the 60s”.  “I have spent around 10 years in Burma though…”, he continued with a mischievous smile. With this, he turned down the TV’s volume; a subtle invitation to talk more.

An internal conflict was evident on his face. He was contemplating the idea of talking to me without a nod from the secretary. “I was born in 1950, right here in Chennai. Then at the age of 4, my family went back to Burma. We returned in 1964.”, he said.

Suddenly, Syed jumps out of his chair and takes out a ruffled backpack and begins rummaging inside it. He took out what looked like a very old piece of parchment. It was his passport. And sure enough, there was a picture of teenaged Syed, with a glint in his eye, and the same quirky smile. Time has not been kind to Syed, but he is content with life in Chennai. “Now we are all Tamilians”, declares Syed. Like all other instances of cross-border migration, the third and fourth generation gradually assimilates to the extent of forgetting their roots.

“Most of us live in colonies across Chennai. Some have moved out of the colonies, but most prefer to live together. I live in Netaji Nagar, which is one of the bigger colonies.” With this, Syed stretched his legs and gave a half-hearted yawn. It was time for lunch, and he was not about to miss it for me.

Time and distance are slowly breaking the emotional connection that the Burmese Tamilians had with their ancestral land.

Netaji Nagar is a short bus ride from Burma Bazaar. The state government had granted the Burmese migrants land across the city to build exclusively Burmese settlements. Netaji Nagar has a similar story and has now fledged out beyond the original area. It looks like any typical Tamil neighborhood. There is nothing about the appearance of the area that even remotely suggests that it houses Burmese migrants. The narrow and crisscrossing streets were lined with houses stacked wall to wall. The familiar sight of ‘rangolis’ outside the house affirmed what Syed had told me about cultural homogenization.

 Netaji Nagar has a predominantly Muslim population with the Burma Tamil Muslim Jumma Masjid, being the de facto centre for all activities.

The Masjid is located at the heart of Netaji Nagar and is a very busy place. Community leaders were huddled together inside the Masjid. The school across the street had dispersed for the day, and parents were eagerly waiting outside with their scooters already purring. A quick enquiry at the Masjid revealed that Abu Hanifa was the man to talk to.

The Mosque runs a school which most of the Burmese Tamil
children attend. 

A kind gentleman offered me a ride to his house. As we sped through the uneven street, I noticed an atho noodle shop. Atho noodle is a Burmese delicacy and has been a great ambassador for Burmese food across the world. The dish is made by Burmese Tamils, but is an Indianized mutation that is a lot spicier.

The atho noodles is often had with plantain soup which customers pour
from a boiling cauldron. 

Abu Hanif is a respected community leader who is never shy of sharing his stories. He was waiting in his room when I went in. Clad in a dhoti and vest, he was finishing up lunch as I drew a chair.

“I came to Chennai in 1969, aboard the SS Saud ship on 26th December. We spent around one week out in the sea before reaching Chennai on the first.”, said Abu. “The ship journey was gruesome.”, he continues. “There were around 1500 of us. The food was horrible.” For a moment you could see the horror flash across his face as he traveled down what was surely a traumatic memory.

“But life has been good after coming here. We started an attar store in Burma Bazaar which is still run by the family. Life was difficult in Burma. The unrest and the spiraling economy had made coming to India a natural choice.” At this point, Abu gestures his wife to bring him his passport, along with a new line of attar which they were going to sell soon. Abu’s wife had a perennial smile on her face. She disappeared into one of the adjoining rooms and came back with her husband’s passport and a few boxes of attar. The 18 year old Abu Hanif looked impressive, with longer hair and a faint moustache.

 “I have a lot of relatives back in Rangoon.”, Abu Hanif declares. He then takes out his phone and skims through pictures of his kin from Burma. His face betrayed the giddiness that he was suppressing. Abu still calls his cousins and nephews in Burma and mostly talks in Burmese. “I can talk well in Burmese.”, he says. “But the language has undergone a lot of changes back in Burma, but we have no clue about those changes. Only a handful of us who were teenagers when we came to India can still speak Burmese.”

Abu called up his friend Mohammed Ismail, whose Burmese can apparently shame even the pundits. Ismail came to Chennai in 1970 and has lived here ever since. Lean, and soft spoken, Ismail is a man with no match in Chennai. “I lived in a Buddhist monastery for around 5 years, back in Mandalay. We used to beg for food and eat only when the sun was directly over our head.”, says Ismail and immediately breaks into a Buddhist proverb about happiness. The multitude of identities that Ismail carries around with him is truly inspiring. He is a Muslim Burmese Tamilian, who is well versed in the Buddhist way of life. In an era of receding cultural heterogeneity, Ismail is truly an exception.

Abu and Ismail then engage in a conversation about their relatives back home. The relationship is built on a very stable foundation, and the emotional attachment is quite evident. Abu’s wife slowly walks in with a bright orange sling bag. “This bag was sent to us by my cousins back in Burma.”, Abu informs me with a wide smile.

 After a steaming cup of cardamom tea, Abu and Ismail take me out for a quick tour.

The whole community looks up to both Abu and Ismail with almost spiritual reverence. Most passersby salute them and enquire about their health. The first place that we went to was a kitchen that made a traditional Burmese delicacy called Paycho, which is essentially fried atho noodles. A father-daughter duo were busy frying noodles in circular shapes. The father talks to Ismail and Abu in Burmese, as I and his daughter share the same blank expression! While a quick look might suggest that this community has lost their cultural genome, strands of Burmese culture lives on in each of these Paychos.

Our next stop was at a madrassa run by a man called Aftab. The madrassa is home to around 20 orphans of Burmese descent. Interestingly enough, none of the kids can speak Tamil or Burmese. But they are quite fluent in Hindi. The kids were sitting on the floor in their white kurtas and caps, with the Quran in front of them. The sound of the recital reverberated across the dimly lit room. The role of religion in holding this community together is evident. These children will one day become the flag bearers of a community that they know little about.  “One of the first things we did after coming here, was build this mosque.”, says Abu. “We used to save rupee by rupee, and the whole community pitched in. Slowly, but steadily, the Tamil Burma Muslim Masjid became a reality.” The call for namaaz suddenly boomed in the distance, as if a re-affirmation of the heavenly blessings the community counts every day.

“What started out as a community of a few hundred helpless migrants, has now become a powerful and self-sufficient community of responsible citizens.”, says Abu with a sense of pride. Ismail gives an acknowledging grin. As the sun started showing signs of tiredness, we headed back to Abu’s house. Over some surprisingly sweet coconut water, Abu talked about the dynamics of the Burmese Tamils. “Unlike in other parts of India, there are no religious problems in the community. Hindus and Muslims live like brothers. When we first came to Chennai, Hindus and Muslims used to eat from the same plate. Even today we partake in their festivals, and they come over during Ramzan. We are a community first, and our religion is secondary!” Even after half a decade of relocation and generational gaps, the famed Burmese traits of tolerance and secularism have not disappeared.

Ismail had left us at some point during our walk, and so I offered my gratitude and bade goodbye to Abu and his wife. A quick observation would suggest that the Burmese Tamils are a community whose cultural connection to their homeland is being attrited by a strong and overarching Tamil culture. The current generation cannot understand their ancestral language, their cuisine has been tweaked and now leans towards the Indian palate, and there is nothing about the way they dress or look, which would be suggestive of their Burmese ancestry. But culture is not just about material attributes like food and attire. The culture of a community is best represented by their way of life, their temperament, and the strength of their relationships. In this regard, the Burmese culture is very much alive in Chennai. The youngsters cannot speak Burmese, but they know what it means to be a Burmese. Their secular and tolerant attitude is part of their Burmese heritage. Every time a Burmese Tamil bites into some atho noodles, he is acknowledging his ancestral roots. In this sense, culture can never be taught or instilled. It is inherited. It germinates into habits and chores that may seem corollary, but are actually the desperate thrusts of a long forgotten way of life trying to resurface.

The last generation of Burmese Indians are not living in Chennai. While Abu and Ismail may one day stop sharing their stories, their experiences will never fade away, their contribution to the community will never be forgotten, and through them, a part of Burma will always be alive in Chennai!