Hindi Humour

No, this isn't exactly the usual humour of Bengali accent in speaking Hindi. This one's originality lies in the fact that it's premised on real life events and by real life, I mean my life. In no way am I demeaning the language, I've only penned what happened in actuality.

As if two languages weren't enough to communicate with, we had a third one, Hindi. After all the mugging up, I'd scrape about 68¼ out of 100 in my Hindi test at school. Funny she was to throw around fractions, but it helped little in my rat race to the top three coveted positions in class. The only saviour, it was a part of our curriculum for just three academic years.

Later in life the fun began as I grew close to a couple of Hindi speaking friends. One wintry evening when it was snowing lightly outside, we were having a warm delicious dinner inside with one such family. They decided to regale us by playing the DVD of their marriage. It was a lengthy and opulent one, and as was the wont, the dulha (bridegroom) came astride a horse to take his beloved and heavily bedecked dulhan (bridegroom) away for a happy beginning; happy indeed - we were already witnessing the couple in a harmonious bond, then with a toddler girl few months elder to our own child. Regardless, after the lengthy recorded ceremony finally ended they remarked, 'fir hum ghorha bechke soye', which literally translates to 'finally we sold the horse 🐎 and slept'. While all others in the room indulged in discussing how extravagant marriages were in India and how each had a distinctive cultural touch, I was still analysing their last remark quietly. Finally I couldn't help but ask, 'Wouldn't you have slept if you couldn't sell the horse? Why would you sell it? I believe you get it on rent.'

Their first reaction was, 'Wait, What?'

They stared at me, incredulous, as I confirmed what I asked of. After a pause they were all over the floor clutching on to their tummy, rolling, crying, and trying to speak all at once through peals of laughter as if I were a stand up comedian delivering some slapstick humour. Eventually when they were satiated with their share of laughter and had gained their composure, they offered the simple clarification through occasional bursts of chortle that it was just a popular proverb, an old adage, to express they slept peacefully (relieved  after days of cumbersome rituals). Sounds reasonable I eschew the use of 'from horse's mouth', doesn't it?

That wasn't the last gaffe when it came to my Hindi skills. A little less than a decade later I was facing the strictest teacher of a reputed school, introspecting my son's performance in Hindi. Unlike mine, it was one of his major subjects and more weighty. Apparently, in his test he failed to match one of the given letters correctly to a diagram that had a circle on a leaf. Needless to say how jumpy I was, yet I mustered the strength and asked, 'Mam, do you expect these little children to know the Hindi of transpiration?'

Again the familiar incredulous look told me I had botched up and so I tried to ease it by adding, 'I mean, it's a term from life science, so I was wondering if they are learning anything like that in Hindi.'

My naivety might have elicited some compassion from her. The tough lines on her brow softened as she offered, 'Well, you see it's actually oos, so we expect them to match the letter o with that picture.'

'Really? I've never heard of that word before. Interesting, so oos is transpiration', a hint of wonder in my voice couldn't have gone unnoticed.

(That's how thick you can get when you have no clue about something.)

'Thanks for illuminating me; I'll educate my son on this,' I added in an obliged tone.

Instantly her smile faded into an expression of hopelessness as she stared at me from across the small wooden desk, clearly straining to be polite enough to refrain from saying, 'Please don't.'

Instead she wrapped up the PTM (parent teacher meet) unceremoniously by closing my son's book with a thud that made me jump out of the little wooden bench. I needn't be told it was over, yet an unwavering voice rang, 'Oos is dew drop, Mrs Bhattacharyya'.

When you are not an aficionado, and yet you can't accept it, strive harder to be one. That's what I always believed in the past. Maybe, starting all over again with my son would enrich my Hindi vocab, or so I thought. Hence the grinding started with visceral vigour, pitch going higher with every new word, making it impossible for people around to tell who was vying for the best score in the test - mum or son.

Thus the house resonated with my authoritative instructions, 'Repeat loudly after me bo-ho-no - bohon means carrying-a-load and shaw-ho-đ - shawhođ is health.'

And who'd have heard that but my spouse. He pranced out of his room and asked, 'What makes you think bohon is carrying a load?'

'Well, that's what it is in our native language, isn't it? How different can Hindi be with the same root,' I retorted back, plainly not seeing I could be wrong.

'And anyways what brings you here? Are you even bothered about his studies? Go do what you do the best - watch your match highlights, leave us alone,' I whirled my head in anguish from him to the book, muttering, 'it's I who always teach.'

'I wouldn't if I were you.'

If looks could kill...

With a lopsided smile he offered, 'It's bəhən as in sister, not bohon.'

Wide-eyed I asked back, 'But there isn't any ekar to pronounce that way!'

(Ekar is a symbol of a vowel that alters the sound)

'Keep wondering about it. And shohođ my dear sounds like shəhəđ, meaning honey, not health. Health in Hindi is sehət,' he scoffed and chuckled to himself adding, 'my poor child.'

Mistrust is not just confined to certain matters. So the moment he turned on his heels, I ran to the kitchen, grabbed the honey bottle and searched for the three Hindi letters frantically to prove how wrong he was. But unfortunately, they were sitting right there near the bottom of the jar in small bold letters, twinkling at me, declaring sarcastically and emphatically how mistaken I had been. I rushed back to my son and added matter-of-factly, 'Forget what I taught. Wipe them off your memory, OK?'

He stared at me blankly as I walked off, damage already done.

Heaven knows he'd have done better if I had left him be.

All such little blips were aplenty in every occasion I tried to communicate in Hindi, yet I always felt I was doing better than before. But it was never enough to just feel, I had to flex my skills too. So when a colleague cum neighbour visited us, I dragged her to where I showcased a brightly painted boomerang that I had brought as a memoir from Sydney. Pointing at it I exclaimed with profound confidence and excitement, 'See! I know that's an ustara.'

Inspite of the same incredulous look, I was unruffled. I couldn't be wrong this time as I had a proof up my sleeve and that too in black and white - a picture on the very page of my son's book saying ooo for ustara.

'But it's a boomerang, there's no Hindi term for it.'

'Yes there is,' I replied defiantly and produced my proof proudly, still unfazed.

She looked at the picture, aghast, mumbled something to herself, and said, 'Unfortunately it's only the shape and the bend that are similar. You have mistaken a knife used in shaving for boomerang. Not your fault dear, this print isn't that clear.'

I retired, closing the book with a thud like the Hindi teacher did earlier, and never ventured to offer unsolicited suggestions in Hindi to anybody thereafter.

Boomerang 

Ustara

(Now, imagine these pictures in black and white without the motifs and inscriptions; that'll corroborate why I misunderstood.)

Pictures downloaded from Google

Dona, Sydney, July 2021