Daily Fix

The Fly in the Ointment
Part II
Prem Kahani

T. SHER SINGH

Considering that I was born and brought up in the Hindi-speaking belt, and that I was a student in a University ‘Honours Degree’ program, my Hindi language writing skills were abysmal.

I had only a functional vocabulary. When I tried to compose sentences beyond the ’simple-past’, ’-present’, or ’-future’ tenses, I would tie myself all in knots. 

Sure, I could converse quite fluently. All our servants spoke only Hindi. Interchanges with neighbours and acquaintances, even the University office staff, was in Hindi.

But when it came to writing in the lingo, I had no history. I had never written a letter in Hindi.

So, here was the problem.

I could express endearment in a hundred innovative ways when I did it in English. But in Hindi the only word I could come up with was the direct translation of “Dear …“

I could say ‘love’ in endless new ways if it was in English -- the language in which I had received my entire education to date. But, in Hindi, all I knew was “pyaar” - which I knew was exactly what I felt for my baby brother!

It wasn’t my fault, really.

Sure, you say … here come the excuses! A Hindi (!) proverb comes to mind: “naach na jaane, aangan tehrrah!” - “He doesn’t know how to dance, so he blames it on the crooked floor!“

Well, it’s my story, isn’t it? So, I can make up whatever tales I want to, can’t I?

So, back to my story …

There was a reason why I couldn’t write Hindi properly. Same reason as why I could write English. It was the teacher! My Hindi teacher was a total disaster. On the other hand, I was blessed with the most wonderful teachers in English throughout.

Mr Rai was his name. He insisted on the “Meeshter”, always … and “R-O-Y“. It was because, he explained virtually every day, he had been to “Shent Looyeesh Misshooree in de Eeyoo-Ess-Ayy”!  

It took us a couple of years to figure out that it was his way of saying that he was “America Return”, a honorific that apparently carries a lot of clout in many Indian circles.

Mr Rai and I had a run-in on the very first day he took over as our Hindi teacher -- an affliction which was to last until I graduated from high school.

“Tapishar?” He paused as he read out my first name. “It doesn’t sound right,” he said. He stared at the list for a few seconds, and then continued. “It should be ’Tapeshwar’, not “Tapishar’”

He then proceeded to detail the Sanskrit etymology of “Tapeshwar”.

I said, no, it was a Punjabi word that I had been named with. No, he said, it should be “Tapeshwar”.

And, he added, “Singh” is wrong too. In Sanskrit it is “Sihn.”

From that point on, and for the next 5 years, he always called out my name as “Tapeshwar Sihn,” … and I never answered.   

There were other difficulties.

Our class had collectively decided early on that he was a certifiable idiot. You can’t learn much from someone for whom you have no respect.

Moreover, he couldn’t teach; he didn’t want to teach. Consequently, we didn’t want to learn. He was easy to distract. All you had to do was ask him about his time in “Shent Looyeesh”.

He loved speaking in the "eengleesh longweesh". It was the product of a brain shaped by Sanskrit sound patterns and an intense desire to speak with an American accent. A very limited knowledge of English -- akin to mine in Hindi -- was not allowed to be an impediment in any way.

He would tell us a long-winded tale in his rendition of the English language. We’d heard it a million times before, never understanding a word. But it never failed to have us rolling over our desks, guffawing and slapping each other on the back. He, for some reason, took it as applause … and encouragement … and simply forged ahead, quite pleased with himself.

Unfortunately, the Hindi paper was important; you had to have a pass-mark at the end of the year if you were to be promoted to the next grade.

I had worked out a system. Come exam time, every year, I would sidle up to him, both in and out of class. I‘d ask him about his days in “Ummreeka“, and patiently listen to his stories.

Inevitably, I passed every year. “40” was the pass-mark. My range remained within “40” to “42.”

So, that’s one of the primary reasons why I didn’t learn much Hindi.

There were others.

Hindi wasn’t cool. It wasn’t then. It isn’t now.

The language of a people -- how it is spoken, how it is enunciated -- is directly tied to how others view those people.

Take the French, for example. For whatever reason, real or imagined, French is considered cool. Get them to talk in English, and you’ll hear oohs-and-aahs all around you.

The Italians have the same effect, to some extent. The Spanish as well. And the Scots too, with the younger crowd.

Hindi?

Uncool.

Bihari dialects of Hindi are cool, though. Bhojpuri, for example. Or Maithili. They have an innocence and sweetness that emanate from them.

Urdu was universally delightful. Especially, if it was “Lukhnawi” - from the city of Lucknow.

But Hindi? Not sexy. 

If you want to impress a girl, and if you are from a Hindi-speaking background, beware: chances are you sound like Peter Sellers' Mr Bagchi in “The Party”.

In India, if you really want to be cool, throw in a few Punjabi words, imitate a Punjabi accent, and you’ll instantly begin to look like Amitabh Bachchan and Shah Rukh Khan to the desi woman.

See what I mean?

*   *   *   *   *

Back to my story.

The task at hand was for me to express my love in my letters … in Hindi.

Never have I done so much with so little.

Being a Virgo, it makes me an incorrigible perfectionist, I’ve been told -- though never as a compliment.

Which meant I stared at a blank piece of paper for hours.

Then, started with a few words. Scratched them out and started anew.

Crumpled and threw away attempt after sordid attempt. 

Finally, I sought expert help. I summoned my servant, Hardyal. Told him that I needed to write an essay in Hindi and couldn’t think of the right words. I would express an emotion or idea to him … all the while being careful not to spill the beans … and goad him into describing what he saw or heard in his own words.

It was a slow and painful process. I got some mileage out of it.

Then, I had another brain wave.

Movies.

It was the golden age of Indian movies, before it deteriorated into Bollywood. Rajesh Khanna was the big name then and had laid claim to the sexiest dialogue ever. So did Raj Kumar. And Sanjeev Kumar.

So I traipsed down the street to the two cinemas in the neighbourhood. Caught two tear-jerkers in a row, carefully taking notes in the dark.

Before long, I was able to belt out what I thought was a half-decent letter. And another. And another.

Well, they created a lot of mirth. Humour, they say, is healthy in a relationship. It worked.

I began to read the local Hindi daily, The Aryavart, every morning, soaking in new vocabulary. I scoured through her older letters, picking up tips from her use of flowery language and stealing and flipping her words back at her, transformed.

I am a quick learner. And she was patient. And had a sense of humour.

The letters in both directions became a daily event. My language skills improved.

And we drew closer by the day.

*   *   *  *   *

We began to hunger for more time together.

We became more daring. My escapades with my Dad’s car became more frequent. And lengthier. I had a Vespa of my own that I could scoot around in, and a Royal Enfield Fantabulus -- no, nothing macho; no ‘Bullet‘ for me! But neither would work because privacy and secrecy were the buzz words.

Ours was no “Roman Holiday’, in terms of transportation, at least.

Gradually, increasingly, we wanted to know more about each other. So, there was lots to talk about over the endless hours we spent with each other.

One day she asked if and how she could visit a gurdwara.

So, one evening I took her to the local one. “You’re sure?” she asked, “Won’t you get into trouble?”

Why would we, I answered. It was a place of worship.

So, we went. We sat and listened to some kirtan for a while. Had langar. And left. Nobody said anything. Why would they?

She thought that was strange. She couldn’t imagine taking me to her place of worship. It just wouldn’t happen. It just wasn’t done.

We didn’t talk much about religion, though she became curiouser about mine. She found it fascinating, she said, especially the freedom, the openness.

We began to bring photos with us, when we met. Showed each other who we had at home, and shared their quirks and eccentricities.

When time allowed, we drove long distances to nearby towns where we could catch a matinee in anonymity. En route, we stopped by roadside dhabas where no one cared who came and went: everyone there, including the staff, were transients. Like us.

There's never been finer dining than those meals together, perched on stringed cots, hidden strategically out of sight behind the shack, waited on hand and foot by the most attentive of waiters -- the most recent stowaway dumped by a passing truck a few days earlier, waiting to hitch a ride with the next one that needed a khalaasi (helper).  

*   *   *  *  *  *

Time flew by. Almost two years. Everything remained simple and uncomplicated.

And then, one day out of the blue, the bombshell.   

CONTINUED TOMORROW ...

February 14, 2013

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