When mega star Amitabh Bachchan said confidently 'I can walk English, I can talk English' in 'Namak Halal', he was speaking for most Indians. With the debate in the national media over Nitish Kumar's insistence on Indians doing well without knowledge of English, I started to think if there was some truth to it. Needless to say, you can't survive in a global economy without the language and after all we just need working knowledge of English, are valid arguments. However, language lovers often think of it as a disservice to any language to not learn or practice it the proper way. However, the peculiar Indianized English ('see below in connection to my above'; 'I live in your backside'), the wrong grammar that we are taught in schools, compounded with the sms generation, are majorly to blame for the state of English we speak. Then there is the urban, semi-urban divide in learning and exposure that widens the gap, terming 'English speakers' as snobs and non-speakers as bumpkins.
So here's a page from the diary of the snobs (in red are my thought crimes):
When we were 21ish, the best friend, a true blue Bangalorean who had grown up in England, rolled her eyes and said with great firmness:
“Whatever I do, I wouldn’t date a guy with bad grammar.” She spoke clipped English, watched Brit comedies and would say ‘cut me some slack’ in those days.
I hemmed and hawed. Of course, I could never set such standards I told myself silently. My English was heavily influenced by Maharashtra and North India where I had grown up and I spoke with a Bengali accent, which is what I am by birth. I argued with her mildly in English,
“English is not our first language na. It’s an acquired language. We don’t think in English, we don’t speak the language at home…our expression is bound to be different. Aren’t we supposed to go for the person and his content?”
She dismissed me, “You have no idea, dating someone with bad grammar is like a verbal assault, day after day.”
Over the next decade, I was verbally assaulted a few times to finally bow down to the bestie's infinite wisdom. Now I remember one particular case, where the candidate under consideration was perfect in every other way except for his peculiar grammar. After a month of active consideration, during which we crossed the stages of eye contact, silent communication, basic greetings and started speaking finally, the cookie crumbled:
One morning, by the water cooler at work, the candidate asked:
“Why dint u came to the office yesterday?”
Something like a current (not remotely arousing) passed through me. ‘Dint came’ grated on my nerves.
“There was a problem with my car,” I said, refusing to meet his eyes.
"Oh" he smiled, "So you are not having car today?" (he was strategizing a drive back together).
"No. I’m having car today” (and dying of gastro). I said looking at my feet and went home in a taxi.
Pic courtesy: Patricia West, Creative Monsoon
Another morning, a text message arrived: "Morning medam, your not in office"
"I'm running late" I responded solemnly.
"Haahahahhaaa..are you like the bus or the train that you run late?" was the reply. To which reply I did not reply.
Finally, on a dinner date:
“Who do you live with?” I asked and immediately regretted not asking in Hindi.
“I live in my mummy papa,” he said warmly.
(In Mummy understood, and about 30 years back or so. But Papa? Howwwwwww?)
The conversation went downhill from there. He lit up a cigarette, offered one and asked me graciously,
"You like smoke??"
(Yes, only when I set you on fire).
"No" I shook my head fiercely.
Over soup, he asked me:
“You being to Goa?”
Ignoring the being sitting in front of me, I told the soup, “Yes, just a flying visit.”
“Flying visit? There’s a direct train, dint you knew?” (the bad sort of arousal again)
“Yes, there is. I mean, it was a short visit for work, dint get to see too much.” (dinting was infectious).
“Oh Ho, Goa is famous for its biches! Wait till you throw yourself to the biches of Goa.” he said brimming with excitement.
“I am shivering in anticipation at the thought”, I said sarcastically.
Over dinner, I insisted on speaking in Hindi and he, in English. We were finally having a good conversation on multinationals targeting B and C cities, when he said:
“See, there’s hell lot difference in urban and rular India. So the pograms must be different.” He then spoke for a while about the characteristics of rular India and the different pograms, while I tried to keep my anger in check. (If I was your teacher, I would make a pogram to spank your backside red with my ruler everyday, I told myself glaring at the dessert menu).
I wasn’t supposed to be nasty like this to a nice & intelligent guy, but this was how I was feeling. Golden heart, my foot. I ordered a couple lemon tarts to calm my angry nerves.
“What this fart you order?” he said genuinely impressed.
Here was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. I clutched my purse and shot out. No amount of ‘why dint you stayed’ was going to get me back.
So here's a page from the diary of the snobs (in red are my thought crimes):
When we were 21ish, the best friend, a true blue Bangalorean who had grown up in England, rolled her eyes and said with great firmness:
“Whatever I do, I wouldn’t date a guy with bad grammar.” She spoke clipped English, watched Brit comedies and would say ‘cut me some slack’ in those days.
I hemmed and hawed. Of course, I could never set such standards I told myself silently. My English was heavily influenced by Maharashtra and North India where I had grown up and I spoke with a Bengali accent, which is what I am by birth. I argued with her mildly in English,
“English is not our first language na. It’s an acquired language. We don’t think in English, we don’t speak the language at home…our expression is bound to be different. Aren’t we supposed to go for the person and his content?”
She dismissed me, “You have no idea, dating someone with bad grammar is like a verbal assault, day after day.”
Over the next decade, I was verbally assaulted a few times to finally bow down to the bestie's infinite wisdom. Now I remember one particular case, where the candidate under consideration was perfect in every other way except for his peculiar grammar. After a month of active consideration, during which we crossed the stages of eye contact, silent communication, basic greetings and started speaking finally, the cookie crumbled:
One morning, by the water cooler at work, the candidate asked:
“Why dint u came to the office yesterday?”
Something like a current (not remotely arousing) passed through me. ‘Dint came’ grated on my nerves.
“There was a problem with my car,” I said, refusing to meet his eyes.
"Oh" he smiled, "So you are not having car today?" (he was strategizing a drive back together).
"No. I’m having car today” (and dying of gastro). I said looking at my feet and went home in a taxi.
Pic courtesy: Patricia West, Creative Monsoon
Another morning, a text message arrived: "Morning medam, your not in office"
"I'm running late" I responded solemnly.
"Haahahahhaaa..are you like the bus or the train that you run late?" was the reply. To which reply I did not reply.
Finally, on a dinner date:
“Who do you live with?” I asked and immediately regretted not asking in Hindi.
“I live in my mummy papa,” he said warmly.
(In Mummy understood, and about 30 years back or so. But Papa? Howwwwwww?)
The conversation went downhill from there. He lit up a cigarette, offered one and asked me graciously,
"You like smoke??"
(Yes, only when I set you on fire).
"No" I shook my head fiercely.
Over soup, he asked me:
“You being to Goa?”
Ignoring the being sitting in front of me, I told the soup, “Yes, just a flying visit.”
“Flying visit? There’s a direct train, dint you knew?” (the bad sort of arousal again)
“Yes, there is. I mean, it was a short visit for work, dint get to see too much.” (dinting was infectious).
“Oh Ho, Goa is famous for its biches! Wait till you throw yourself to the biches of Goa.” he said brimming with excitement.
“I am shivering in anticipation at the thought”, I said sarcastically.
Over dinner, I insisted on speaking in Hindi and he, in English. We were finally having a good conversation on multinationals targeting B and C cities, when he said:
“See, there’s hell lot difference in urban and rular India. So the pograms must be different.” He then spoke for a while about the characteristics of rular India and the different pograms, while I tried to keep my anger in check. (If I was your teacher, I would make a pogram to spank your backside red with my ruler everyday, I told myself glaring at the dessert menu).
I wasn’t supposed to be nasty like this to a nice & intelligent guy, but this was how I was feeling. Golden heart, my foot. I ordered a couple lemon tarts to calm my angry nerves.
“What this fart you order?” he said genuinely impressed.
Here was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. I clutched my purse and shot out. No amount of ‘why dint you stayed’ was going to get me back.
Oh dear. Lemon fart! Oh dear.
ReplyDeleteThumps up for your thought crimes in red . that just increases the pleasure of reading
ReplyDelete