[Reader-list] the 5-6 in the philippines

[parvati at sarai.net]

The Indian diaspora gets a lot of attention. Its efforts at preserving 
culture, creating identity and communicating, down its generations, the need 
for a sense of nationhood that relies on building outside in order to, at 
some indefinite point in the future, rebuild inside, are scrutinised, lauded, 
mocked, turned into alternatively moving and mocking fictions. In the host 
country, they are typecast fairly quickly into roles they may protest but 
cannot entirely transform. Hardworking, unprotesting, quiet, enclosed in 
ghettos marked by the smell of spices, they are doctors, lawyers, 
businessmen, engineers, IT professionals, taxi drivers, family men and women. 

In the Philippines, they are the 5-6. 

Arriving, for entirely unexplained reasons, from either Sind or the district 
of Jallandhar, there are approximately 30,000 Indians in these 7000 islands. 
The Sindhis are traditional businessmen: they make a lot of money selling 
Chinese goods, live in big houses and visit the Indian Embassy with their 
complaints. The Sikhs from Jallandhar bribe their way to a visa, cut their 
hair, pack away their turbans, force themselves to acquire a working taste 
for seafood and become moneylenders. They lend at the rate of 5:6. 

In a sense, they are the economy’s rural credit. Equipped with some capital 
and a motorbike, a 5-6 will lend, in Saeed Naqvi’s description, 100 pesos to 
a shopkeeper. Then, for the next month, he will collect 4 pesos a day 
[http://www.indian-express.com/columnists/saee/20010420.html]. Without 
collateral or written record, frequently robbed on their way home, engaged in 
work that is not only illegal but has nothing to do with their own trade or 
community, rarely granted permanent citizenship or even long-term visas, only 
infrequently recognised officially, they are each others’ only family. Robert 
Frost said that ‘Home is where when you go, they have to let you in’. The 5-
6, living his entire life on credit, has to force his way wherever he goes.  

Vigan, in the province of Illocus Sur, is among UNESCO’s World Heritage Sites 
because represents a ‘unique fusion of Asian building design… with European 
colonial architecture’ and is an ‘exceptionally well-preserved example of a 
European trading town in… South East Asia’. It also has cobbled streets and 
dhabas where you can drink beer sitting on rickety benches in the sun. And 
the ubiquitous McDonalds and Dunkin Donuts.  

The two Indian ‘families’ in Vigan are not on talking terms. The first 
consists of Sikhs from Jallandhar led by a Sindhi married to a Phillipina. 
The other is a purely Sindhi family with one son and three daughters.

They are all brought out for an Ambassadorial dinner. The Sikhs occupy one 
end of the table. The Sindhis an adjacent corner. Dinner consists of shrimp, 
fish, pork, rice and wine. The 5-6 watch their leader eat salad. The 
province’s flamboyant Governor encourages them to eat while making sardonic 
comments on their profession. 

‘They are illegal, of course. But we let them stay, the 5-6!’ he remarks to 
the Ambassador. While the 5-6 resist this invitation to shrimp, the 
Ambassador plays the interesting diplomatic game of making a point with a 
dulled pencil. 

‘Governor, this is an intriguing point: none of them do this sort of work at 
home. Just ask them what they did before they came here!’

‘Student.’
‘Tailor.’
‘Electician.’
‘Shop keeper.’
‘Mechanic.’

‘Well then’, the Governor retorts, ‘We will be more than happy to give them 
jobs that suit their training here. With us!’

The 5-6 look up in alarm. 

‘You know why they won’t work for us? Because of the 5-6! It’s too good 
business.’

‘Maybe. But you must admit, their work is essential to the economy. And, I 
don’t know if you are aware of this, but at least one Indian dies every 
month – is murdered. The business may be good, but it is dangerous.’

Deuce. 

Diplomatic questioning and Governorial interjections reveal that this is a 
silent, secret community. Because of their illegal status, they cannot buy 
land, build a house, settle down. They live in rented houses, work every day 
of the week, learn as much Tagalog as is necessary for their work and cook 
their own food at home. The spectre of a lost turban hangs over each head at 
table, the long, sharp noses, broad jaws, hooded eyes recall it as a symbol 
of lost professions, dignity, home. Without it, they seem to have little to 
contribute to any social occasion. When encouraged to introduce Philippinos 
to tandoori chicken and bhangra, they smile shyly. 

Sunita Lajvani’s white salvar suit makes a statement of shyness belied almost 
instantly by her conversation. 
‘I have my own business: a shop.’
‘Your father’s shop?’
‘No, no. I started it. My father was 5-6.’
‘Really? You started the shop alone?’
‘Yes. After my MBA. Now I’ll do a Doctorate in Business.’

She visited her village, near Amritsar, recently, to find a boy. 
‘Any luck?’
‘No! Eight months I spent there – froze my fingers and no boy!’
‘You didn’t like the cold?’
‘Not at all! I spent the whole winter indoors. Tried to warm my hands by the 
angithi, but they said ‘Your hands will get black’, so I pulled them away.’
There were other problems too. 
‘They don’t let you wear your clothes. I tried to go out in pants: they were 
cut a little high you know – up till here – and as I was going out my Dadi 
caught me. She said, ‘Wait one minute, I’ll just sew that slit in your pants. 
It’ll take no time.’ What could I say? I said, ‘Take it Dadi, I’ll wear a 
skirt.’ So she sewed them up, I put them away, along with all the other 
clothes. What can you say?’

Why not look for Philippino boys then?
‘They’re no good. Look very sweet and all, but they’re very happy go lucky. 
No stability.’

She eats a specially made vegetarian meal. 

‘You don’t eat any meat? Not even seafood?’
‘See, I thought of it like this: if my husband asks me to eat meat, no 
problem. But supposing I start eating, then I get married to a vegetarian and 
he tells me not to, I’ll say ‘What the hell?’ So better like this.’

Half an hour later, back to the question of Philippino boys. 
‘My parents also you know. I’ve had boys ask me and all, but my parents 
don’t, obviously…’

I have read this conversation in books, seen it on film, heard it before 
even. The white salvar suit ironed by the mother for an occasion, hastily 
substituted for jeans, the sweet Indian girl smile, the search for a husband. 
Even after every cynical impulse is ruthlessly buried, it seems impossible 
not to know what it all conceals. If Sunita eats meat, drinks beer and has 
Philippino boyfriends it will surprise nobody, perhaps not even her Dadi. 

Just as it surprises nobody, when maybe it should, that the 5-6 ride 
motorbikes sitting bolt upright with their arms stretched out, wear helmets 
brought from home and cannot speak Tagalog in turbans.