First Voice (shrill, Young, Loud) : “Uh-AAh-E-EEEEE-OO-OOOOO-HARI....”
Second Voice (Shriller, Older, MUCH louder) : …..”NO AJAY, NOT HARI, its HRRI”....
The first voice wasn’t the sound made by a monkey excited at the prospect of getting a banana…it was a 4 year old me, desperately trying to master the intricacies of the Hindi alphabet. The second voice was that of my mother, who lost the best years of her life trying to make me learn the language. I, my dear friends, am a south Indian. To put it very crudely, I SUCKED at Hindi(still do by the way…I’m ashamed of it, but blame the Education Board for crying out loud!!!)
Affectionately christened as the ‘Dahi wadas’, we South Indians were always the butt of the Hindi jokes made by the ‘Butter Chickens’ and the ‘Konde Maamas’(These were the names which we so affectionately gave back to our brothers and sisters from the North, the second being specially for Sardarjis.) When I so confidently say ‘we’, I am referring to most of us who were brought up in Christian and Anglo Indian Institutions (KVs being excluded almost immediately from the elite bracket)
One might ask why my mother (very much a South Indian) NEVER had a problem learning the national language. She speaks the language beautifully and without a trace of that distinct South Indian accent. The answer is simple...She was brought up in the North.
I on the other hand, was brought up in the South, in an Anglo Indian School and never spoke a word of Hindi outside Hindi Class. Coming to think of it now, I never spoke a word of it INSIDE the Hindi class either. THAT WAS THE PROBLEM.
For all the North Indian readers and those who are fortunate enough to speak the language fluently (OH I ENVY YOU’LL!), let me tell you how our Hindi classes were in school. I'm sure most of my type will agree with me. A teacher would stand in the front of the class (99 times out of 100, a fat, old happy lady), and read something out to us in Hindi. We (I speak for my beloved last bench mates here) would see stars when that happened and soon return to what we were doing before she came into the class (most of time that would be gossiping, sleeping or brewing treacherous plans to ambush Karl Mehta’s lunch box…his mother knew how to cook…Oh yes she did!)…for those who cared to listen, the teacher would then translate whatever she had said in Hindi, to English and the basic medium would be English. Occasionally, a piece of chalk, flying at alarming velocities towards the back benches, would stop us from continuing our evil endeavors and we would sit upright again and 'listen'.
One particular Hindi teacher(no names here because that would be very rude) used to find sadistic pleasure in laughing as she corrected our Hindi papers…this as we sat praying to the lord above that we fall over the red line by his grace(or hers…i.e. the teachers!). She would smile and giggle, sometimes guffaw as she moved her red pen on our artwork like a wand. When things got very funny (for her of course), she would make the respective joker read his/her essay out to the class (which was a very mean thing to do I must say). I had that pleasure of reading to the class twice. Again, I’m not proud of it.
This would invariably make her laugh and that would trigger sniggers from her “pets group” which comprised of a group of children whose surnames ranged from Gupta to Mehra. It would be appropriate to mention that we gave back the same to her henchmen when it came to Maths and Physics(where they didn’t know the difference between factorials and powers…snigger snigger)
This of course, was just one teacher. Some of them were really very helpful and kind, almost pitying us for our deficiency. Why one teacher was so sweet that she actually told my mother to take me to Hindi movies because that would improve my pronunciation and gender realizations.(the KAA’s, KAY’s KEE’s and KOO’s baffle me…note the tense of that statement…baffle)
As a result of this trouble which I had, anybody who asked me in Hindi, to do something or expected a reply in Hindi would get a bovine look from me…Its not that I didn’t understand the language…NO…definitely not. I understood it…it was speaking in it that was the problem…speaking it correctly to be more precise.
By the time we had reached higher classes, so much Hindi had been rammed into our cranial cavities that the only Hindi we knew was TEXT BOOK stuff.
In this context, I will end this article with a rather funny incident that springs to mind, which I’m sure, will make you experienced folks laugh (it has never failed to bring a smile on anybody’s face)
It was a Sunday afternoon sometime during our 10th standard holidays where we had finished the last contact in our academic lives with the subject (most of the people in my friend circle didn’t opt for a second language course for pre-university…in fact some preferred to take zoology as the extra subject) A big group of us, right from us young boys to older working men and servants were playing cricket in the building where we stay. During the game, our ball went out of the compound into a nearby field where the batting team was sitting(they didn’t need to field that day as there were too many people who wanted to play)….so me being closest to the boundary, sauntered to the fence. Raju was standing there. Raju was the old man who delivered tea to the employees of offices in our building from the local tea stall, the vendor of which was also there that day. We got along really well till the part where we had to communicate (which was mostly done by gesturing). Raju knew only Hindi. So not wanting to show that I was lesser to anyone when it came to speaking our national language, I pointed at the ball which was next to this big tree and said “ Bhai sahib, Gaend Vriksh kay sameep hai” …(“Dear Sir, the Ball is next to that tree” in the purest Hindi imaginable …)We didn’t play anymore that day because play was stopped due to aching stomachs. All those who listened to that innocent statement, dropped down to the floor and laughed till they cried…Those who didn’t, laughed anyway and laughed again when they heard about why they were laughing the first time. It is a very contagious thing laughter; In 5 minutes, groggy, half awake residents had started poking their heads out of the windows to see what the din was all about, which had woken them from their siestas. They just saw 25 people laughing their heads off. Some of them who witnessed the laughter filled scene started laughing too.
I didn’t laugh because deep down in the depths of my gut, I knew that the results of the board exams were due and laughing at a subject I took would make Saraswati, the Goddess of Knowledge, angry. After all, I must point out that Sita(her fellow goddess…if ever there is a term like that in English) was sitting very "sameep" to the "vriksh" when Hanuman arrived in one of our lessons (how else do you think I made up that statement. Huh?).
The results came 8 days later and I had passed in Hindi (got a whooping 64, the best performance in my LIFE). But the fact remains that Im 23 years now, nearly done with my education and all…What would happen if I were transferred to a location in the North???
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Monday, February 06, 2006
School...a short anecdote on how i got in!!!
The making of this short article was triggered off by a questionnaire wherein there was a question regarding which school I studied in and what I had to do to get in. This probably takes me back to my first few hours(pretty hilarious on looking back) which I spent in the institution…the same institution where I spent more that half my life in.(14 years to be precise)
My earliest recollection of me at school go way back to a bright, well furnished foyer where we were waiting to be summoned by the School’s Head Mistress. My father was all suited and booted, mother - decked up in her most gorgeous blue sari, jewelry and all; both looking nervous as hell. And there I was, sitting on the bench in between the two, wondering where the tips of my nails and the dirt behind them had disappeared. My mother had forcefully scrubbed and cleaned me up (much to my disgust) for the occasion.
I was 3 and a half summers old in bright red short pants, and an equally bright yellow T shirt which had 'ANGEL' printed on it in bold red capitals(which would have made Govinda, Armani, Donna Karen and God, all cringe in shame at the same time)…the thing is, my mother had sole rights to my wardrobe. She felt that the brighter the clothes got, the cuter a kid looked. Apparently I looked just like Dennis the Menace dressed up for church but then again, Bill Watterson hadn’t published his brainchild yet ! My hair was neatly slicked back with the help of coconut oil (a sight which was very rare to get a glimpse of in those days) and the base of my scalp could be spotted after the "summer cut" I had got on the previous day. I vividly remember nearly kicking the barber’s teeth out because he "poked me with the scissors" but I very clearly remember the spanking I got after coming home. I stood barely 2 feet off the ground in my brand new red "BATA" sneakers(another of my mothers investments for the occasion…Mrs. Karen, I wont be spotted dead in any of those anymore I assure you). All in all, I was one ball of energy and spunk, waiting to be unleashed into the Indian education system. I personally didn't think I needed the schooling because as I had pointed out to my mother the earlier day,(just before dislocating the barbers jaw) I knew my alphabets till S and numbers till 100(i.e. 1-2-3-5-7-6-8-9-10-100…where 100 was yelled out in the midst of peals of laughter and appreciation from admirers)…And like every self respecting mother, I was the apple and all the other fruits of her eye and was undoubtedly going to dethrone Einstein’s theories some day. But somehow she insisted that it was a good place and that I would have fun in it though I had pictures of jail floating in my head when the word was mentioned. I told her so.
Anyway, when it was finally my turn to be interviewed we were shown into a small room by a smartly dressed peon in khakis. I remember that the walls were painted pink and there was an old lady sitting at the only table in the corner. She had grey hair and very soft eyes. The rest of the furniture included 3 chairs, (of which, the small green one was obviously for me) and a filing cabinet by water cooler in the adjacent corner There were Stuffed toys and other play things all in a big brown carton on the other side of the room. Her name was Mrs. Warden (ironic considering the fact that at that point, I thought school was a place where children who misbehaved were sent…to do time) and after the initial pleasantries, she started asking me a lot of questions….too many for my little brain to process. She had been badgering me with questions like "what’s this shape called", "what’s that colour" and "what’s this animal called"...I answered all those question alright, but my 3 and a half year old brain couldn’t comprehend that fact that such an aged lady didn’t know all these things...
“SHES SO OLD…SHOULDN’T SHE BE KNOWING ALL THIS?” I asked my father quiet confused and rather loudly…all in English.(we speak English at home) Of course my father turned purple and cringed, my mother sank through the floor(after changing into a pretty shade of crimson) and Mrs. Warden burst out laughing. Little did I realize that it was probably that "innocent" wise crack which was the reason why I’m working for such a big company today. My School taught me everything I know today and I will dedicate any accolades that I encounter (hopeful here) to that institution.
That was the beginning, a very rare beginning indeed to my learning cycle and though things havn’t changed much(...my brain is still 3 and a half years old as Im as kiddish as they come), I will never forget those GOLDEN years at school. The Frank Anthony Public School….MY SOUL RESIDES THERE.
My earliest recollection of me at school go way back to a bright, well furnished foyer where we were waiting to be summoned by the School’s Head Mistress. My father was all suited and booted, mother - decked up in her most gorgeous blue sari, jewelry and all; both looking nervous as hell. And there I was, sitting on the bench in between the two, wondering where the tips of my nails and the dirt behind them had disappeared. My mother had forcefully scrubbed and cleaned me up (much to my disgust) for the occasion.
I was 3 and a half summers old in bright red short pants, and an equally bright yellow T shirt which had 'ANGEL' printed on it in bold red capitals(which would have made Govinda, Armani, Donna Karen and God, all cringe in shame at the same time)…the thing is, my mother had sole rights to my wardrobe. She felt that the brighter the clothes got, the cuter a kid looked. Apparently I looked just like Dennis the Menace dressed up for church but then again, Bill Watterson hadn’t published his brainchild yet ! My hair was neatly slicked back with the help of coconut oil (a sight which was very rare to get a glimpse of in those days) and the base of my scalp could be spotted after the "summer cut" I had got on the previous day. I vividly remember nearly kicking the barber’s teeth out because he "poked me with the scissors" but I very clearly remember the spanking I got after coming home. I stood barely 2 feet off the ground in my brand new red "BATA" sneakers(another of my mothers investments for the occasion…Mrs. Karen, I wont be spotted dead in any of those anymore I assure you). All in all, I was one ball of energy and spunk, waiting to be unleashed into the Indian education system. I personally didn't think I needed the schooling because as I had pointed out to my mother the earlier day,(just before dislocating the barbers jaw) I knew my alphabets till S and numbers till 100(i.e. 1-2-3-5-7-6-8-9-10-100…where 100 was yelled out in the midst of peals of laughter and appreciation from admirers)…And like every self respecting mother, I was the apple and all the other fruits of her eye and was undoubtedly going to dethrone Einstein’s theories some day. But somehow she insisted that it was a good place and that I would have fun in it though I had pictures of jail floating in my head when the word was mentioned. I told her so.
Anyway, when it was finally my turn to be interviewed we were shown into a small room by a smartly dressed peon in khakis. I remember that the walls were painted pink and there was an old lady sitting at the only table in the corner. She had grey hair and very soft eyes. The rest of the furniture included 3 chairs, (of which, the small green one was obviously for me) and a filing cabinet by water cooler in the adjacent corner There were Stuffed toys and other play things all in a big brown carton on the other side of the room. Her name was Mrs. Warden (ironic considering the fact that at that point, I thought school was a place where children who misbehaved were sent…to do time) and after the initial pleasantries, she started asking me a lot of questions….too many for my little brain to process. She had been badgering me with questions like "what’s this shape called", "what’s that colour" and "what’s this animal called"...I answered all those question alright, but my 3 and a half year old brain couldn’t comprehend that fact that such an aged lady didn’t know all these things...
“SHES SO OLD…SHOULDN’T SHE BE KNOWING ALL THIS?” I asked my father quiet confused and rather loudly…all in English.(we speak English at home) Of course my father turned purple and cringed, my mother sank through the floor(after changing into a pretty shade of crimson) and Mrs. Warden burst out laughing. Little did I realize that it was probably that "innocent" wise crack which was the reason why I’m working for such a big company today. My School taught me everything I know today and I will dedicate any accolades that I encounter (hopeful here) to that institution.
That was the beginning, a very rare beginning indeed to my learning cycle and though things havn’t changed much(...my brain is still 3 and a half years old as Im as kiddish as they come), I will never forget those GOLDEN years at school. The Frank Anthony Public School….MY SOUL RESIDES THERE.
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