Not the Melbourne I knew

As I write, for all you know, a helpless Indian student is getting bashed up somewhere in Melbourne. His dreams trashed, his confidence and ego scarred for life, the sacrifices his family must have made in financing his foreign education all down the drain. The thought of where his immediate future lies is just as depressing as the graphic image of him lying in a coma surrounded by tubes and drips. The scenes over the last few weeks has made us all sick in the stomach and it pains me to write this because I can scarcely imagine this is the same city I swooned over, nine years ago.

Back in 2000, I made my first and only trip to Australia. My sister Kadambari had gone to Melbourne for her masters in international business at Monash university. Me and my mom set off for a three-week trip in May, just when autumn was setting in. We stayed with her in a two-bedroom student-type accommodation in the north-east suburb of Kingsbury, bang opposite La Trobe University. Through the eyes of an 18-year old kid, Melbourne looked a dream, with its efficient transport system, squeaky clean and neatly planned suburbs and opulence near the city center. Add the whiff of cool air and you just wanted to hang out outdoors the whole day.

We spent a weekend each in Sydney and Phillip Island, leaving the weekdays to explore Melbourne. My sister would leave for work/uni early in the morning and the two of us would cook, clean and set off after lunch. We were the prototype of the typical tourist – maps and guide books in hand, asking people for directions and help in bus/train and tram routes. And we were never left disappointed or insulted. The locals didn’t see us as encroachers – they sometimes went out of their way to guide us. The politeness was touching.

A lady at a posh boutique store in Flinders Street was kind enough to draw out a map to help figure our way through the complicated business district. We once hailed a cab to the Imax Theatre and nearly shrieked at the sight of the driver – a 40-plus hippie who looked doped from head to toe. If looks could deceive. He was the friendliest bloke - gave us tips on how to get by, asked about our stay, recommended places to visit. The lad at the convenience store near our house would never fail to say “hello, how are you.” The lady at the information desk at Flinders station always patiently answered our questions – no matter how dumb they were. A cab driver in Sydney asked if I was in town to catch the AFL game. I said no, and we ended up chatting about cricket. At a lonely subway near Jolimont, I was slightly intimidated at the sight of a massive, rugby-toned guy in khaki pants walking in the opposite direction. He held out something and asked, “Hey lad, d’ya smoke?” I don’t know what crap he offered me, but I just smiled and politely turned him down. Cut to the present and he’d have stabbed me.

The only time I encountered rudeness of any kind was in St Peters station in Sydney. I was a bit lost, not knowing which train to take and the guy behind the counter appeared to look at me as more of an intrusion than a customer. At least he led me to the right place.

The courteousness took me by surprise. Melbourne was THE friendliest place I’d ever seen – if it wasn’t, the swarm of Asian immigrants (esp the Chinese and Koreans) would have cleared out long ago. The attacks on Indians may be entirely racially driven, and if it’s true, it would be a sad reflection of what the city has become. The victims claim that they never instigated or provoked the attacks. A section of drunk, unemployed youth in the city have let their tempers flay and used cowardly means of letting out their frustrations. We hope it’s only a minuscule percentage of the population.

A lot of overseas Indian students hail from small towns and villages who sometimes fail to understand what dignity is all about, especially in another country. They can be loud, brash, show no respect to road signs, traffic signs or public manners. It can be putting off for fellow immigrants as well, but do any of them deserve to go through this torture? It’s a haunting thought for my sister, who was in their shoes, in the same city which taught her how to stand on her own feet.