Am trying to get babysitting jobs. This is one of those deviously convoluted schemes that divebombed into my head one day when I was trying to figure out good ways to get access to children's books (about this: later). So I advertised my services on the white board of my friendly neighbourhood sandwich bar, and today, three weeks later, I get a call from Mrs. Jordan to enquire about my antecedents.
She wants to know if I work; my age; where I live and with whom; where my parents live; which community I belong to. At the last one, I stumble. This question I usually wave away nonchalantly, secure within my progressive pomo identity. But here I can sense how important it is to tell her, "my dad's marwari and my mum's punjabi". At which she laughs - what a weird coupling - and moves on.
Later, while driving, I hope my children can grow up in a place and time when they don't have to preface the introduction of their selves with such identifiers. For if they couldn't, I wouldn't know how to identify myself.