A Thought.....

When at Shillong many locals used to talk to me in Khasi- the local language, I comforted myself a little thinking that I am basically from UP. I might not understand them word to word but I inferred their meaning. My childhood memories of interactions with locals at Shillong as well as at Hyderabad, my birth place, are very limited. The vegetable woman in a traditional Khasi dress – an elaborate coat and a deep basket suspended by a wide ribbon on the forehead and supported on the back would talk to me (read make fun of me) while mother would sift her basket for fresh vegetables. When she had gone later I would ask, “Ma, what did she say?” Mostly she would smirk and say, “Who knows!” Sometimes when she was free, I would get a detailed account of the happenings of the evenings. I wonder still if she understood Khasi.

Father was posted to Chandigarh next. I said adieu to the north east with a hope of feeling at home in the northern part of the country. Here, my troubles were compounded. The homely feeling vanished as soon as I set foot in the Union Territory. At school, on the road, the milk man- all conversed fluently Punjabi while I tried to read their faces. Oh! What wouldn’t have I given to read the language. 

Time flew by and soon we shifted to Pune. Marathi, sharing its script with my mother tongue, was a little easier to understand. In a few weeks I could grasp most of it. The local accent still kept the Marathis at an arm’s length from me. Agitated by the actions of the MNS sometimes to feeling alien in a Maharashtrian household to sometimes talking in broken Marathi, I would advise them to travel in UP and boast of Hindi- the most widely used language of the country. Similar was my stay at Nagpur although a little more difficult. Even the refined local accent was hard to catch.

At Delhi, it was still a mixture of people from all parts India. It is rightfully called ‘Chota Bharat.’ From Punjabis to Tamilians, gujratis and Bengalis- It has a flavour of all places far and wide. Hindi was widely understood. Oh! What a relief!

The last four years at Himachal Pradesh also flew by. Unfortunately I couldn’t make much use of it. During my travels the not mixing with the locals took away the most joy of the journey. I find the language a little coarse. Nonetheless my will to converse in Pahadi- Panjabi is still strong. Being nominated from Nagpur, many at NIT took me for a Marathi. The last 4 years have been spent in convincing them of the truth. Punjabi songs, jokes all were – and still are- bouncers to me. 

The news of us shifting to Allahabad came as a blessing to me. Finally, I thought, I would be where my roots lie.  Since the last 21 years I have called myself a UP-wallah but could never stay over here. Now here I am, twenty one years of age and still feel alien. The local accent and the language, Hindi, is far from what they teach at school or what I speak at home. Today, the postman came with a very heavy parcel of mine. He had called in the morning to enquire if we were at home. “Haanji, hum post office se bol rahe hain. Parcel aaya hai. Bahut bhaari hai.Ghar pe ho?” As simple a sentence as can be, it took me a minute to figure out what was happening. The betel leaf added to the different accent as much as his pronunciation. Later in the evening he dropped by to deliver the packages. He murmured something and I passed him a smile of acknowledgement. Waiting patiently for him to take out the receipt from his pocket and point at the place to sign it. He looked at me - His eyes waiting for something. The elderly postman asked again. “Arre bhaiya, pani nahi pilaoge?” It is boiling hot over here at Allahabad. “Oh! How could have I not done so!” was the first reaction. Mother gave him a mango drink to refresh him. Later when he had gone, I realised I couldn’t understand Hindi too! Shuddh Hindi and English are the only two languages of my lexicon. 21 years- what a waste!

Who am I? An Indian or just a spoilt city educated nobody? Where is my home? Oh boy! Why did I realise this?