Despatch from Australia

---

“Another Raj Incident?” – Musings on Desis Down Under
By S. N. Roy

Every time I return to Australia, I notice that the Indian footprint has grown — not just in size, but in visibility. You see it in the long queues at Indian grocery shops, the aroma of sambhar mixing with sarson da saag, and of course, in the unmistakable presence of Indian accents at every second corner. But this year, something stood out more than usual.

The desi presence has become… tactile. Trolleys pushed at Coles? Indian. Garbage bins wheeled in rhythm? Indian. Car washes with bhangra beats in the background? Also Indian.

But the intrigue truly began with Piyush.

The Curious Case of Mr. Piyush

One afternoon, while my wife went veggie shopping, I sat peacefully with my cappuccino — a habit I’ve developed to help caffeine and curiosity coexist. Behind me, two men were speaking in Hindi. Naturally, I turned. (At my age, subtlety is optional.)

One was a Nepali, who’s been manning the veggie shelves for ten years. The other was pushing a garbage bin with such precision, you'd think he had a GPS installed in his shoes.

I struck up a chat.

“How many days in Australia?” I asked.

He laughed, “Not days, uncle. Thirty years.”

“What’s your name?”

“Piyush.”

A twinkle appeared in my eye. “Then your surname must be… Goyal! Like the cabinet minister?”

He roared with laughter and said, “Nahi uncle, main sirf bin minister hoon.”

I must admit, the resemblance to Tamil comedian Yogi Babu in the recent hit film Ace added to the fun. In that film, Yogi plays a garbage collector in Kuala Lumpur with hidden wisdom and sharp wit. Just like this Piyush — perhaps a philosopher in fluorescent overalls.

Jatland Down Under: The Gaddi Files

Later that week, we made friends with the Gaddis — a jovial Punjabi couple. Mr. Gaddi is a retired Military Engineering Services officer, full of old war stories, loud laughs, and louder opinions. Their son, an IT engineer, now works from home and owns a neat unit in Upper Coomera. He codes by day and barbecues by evening — all made possible partly by Mr. Gaddi’s retirement fund and completely by Mrs. Gaddi’s aloo parathas.

The Gaddis, like many Indian families here, have blended in comfortably. They represent the rare, balanced migratory tale — where roots are intact and routes are smart.

The Silent Lives of Many

But not everyone has it this smooth. Many youngsters from Punjab, Haryana, and even Nepal land up here via student visas or migration consultancies. Their parents, mostly prosperous farmers or traders, fund these journeys — ₹30–40 lakhs, with hopes pinned like medals on their chests.

The destination? Australia.

The reality? Driving Uber, pushing trolleys, stacking shelves.

Now, there’s no shame in honest labour. In fact, a garbage collector here earns more respect (and dollars) than an average office clerk in India. But one wonders — did they migrate for this, or was the dream lost somewhere at a red light?

Social media often mocks Indian truck drivers here with the slang “Another Raj incident” when accidents happen. It’s a bit racist, yes — but also a reminder that integration is still incomplete. Their English needs polish, civic behaviour some guidance — but their intent is pure and their backs strong.

Library, Walks, and Rebus

Meanwhile, I’ve found my own rhythm in Upper Coomera — staying mostly with our son’s family. Every morning, my wife and I take our walk to the community centre, 1.5 kilometres away. It's our ritual. There, at the library, we meet people from all over the world — Chinese grandmothers, South African toddlers, European retirees. But strangely, never any Indians. Perhaps they are too busy coding, cleaning, or driving trucks.

As for me, the library is my temple. Books are my prayers.

The last one I read was The Final Curtain by Keigo Higashino — a subtle, suspenseful farewell. Now I’m engrossed in Midnight and Blue by Ian Rankin. I’ve always been a fan of Inspector Rebus — the only detective who can out-stubborn a Scotchman and out-think a whisky.

I often joke that books are keeping me alive — they engage the mind, stir the soul, and politely ignore my aging knees. While others count calories or steps, I count chapters.

Final Thoughts

Australia is a kaleidoscope of cultures — where dreams meet dustbins and destinies collide at coffee shops. Whether it’s Piyush the garbage collector or Mr. Gaddi’s son in IT, each has a story, a struggle, and a smile.

As for me, I’ll keep sipping my cappuccino, keep reading my books, and keep writing my thoughts — because as long as there are stories, life refuses to retire.

– S. N. Roy
Upper Coomera, July 2025