A Language, Everybody's

First language, second language, third language. English medium, Hindi medium, Tamil medium. Mother tongue, too. What is this whole deal about languages all about? Right from school and at home, there has been a constant demand to learn and preserve "our" language. Which one, I am still to figure out. I studied English, Tamil, Hindi and Sanskrit at school. Malayalam for a very very brief period, which completely equals my knowledge of that language. I have relatives in Karnataka and Maharashtra which has helped me pick dollops of Kannada and Marathi words. Since Andhra was just a political boundary away from home, easily one's environment had Telugu speaking people too. Invariably, from the Tamil parodies too, I did pick a few Telugu words. What more, you ask? I will tell you.

Fortunately or unfortunately I could never pick up Hindi in the two years I studied it at school. My college days in Delhi were my Hindi classes. Again, fortunately or unfortunately, I had friends from Bihar and Bengal to Punjab and Rajasthan. In the end my Hindi too became a kichdi of distinct Devanagri-derived languages. A tinge of Bhojpuri, a liberal dose of Lucknawi, a garnish of Punjabi and viola! As a friend of mine remarked, "bhasha ka balatkar ho gaya."

In India this is nothing new. We are a country defined on the lines of language and nothing else! Of course, now newer and more complex political reasons call for separation of states, that's a whole different deal. It literally speaks volumes, that boundaries began where a language ended. It was a matter of connecting with the others by a common tongue, to make the people of a land one's own.

So with a mash of many languages, predominantly only English, Tamil and Hindi (the rest I realise do good only for my self-esteem!) I came bag and baggage to Haryana. First thing the Director at SCRIA warned me was that I would find the people and their language rough. I could definitely adjust, I then thought. A couple of months down that day, every tenth word in my spoken language is Haryanvi. It was a necessary and desperate move to communicate with the people. Nothing like a common language to be the ice-breaker, I realised.

And then, this happens. I was attending a Gram Sabha, where 40 men and only 2 women had turned up. This from a voting population of 1800 odd. Post the Sabha, I was generally talking and interacting with the members stating the necessity to encourage the participation of other villagers, especially women. As it always happened, after my speaking to them, they bombarded me with a barrage of questions. Marital status. Check. Family members and annual income. Check. How come I know their language? Check. The crowd soon dispersed. One old man stayed back. He sat next to me for a minute and just smiled. I asked him if he wanted to know anything about the Gram Sabha or Panchayat. He carefully ventured, "unn paeru enne?" What is your name. I was pleasantly taken aback.

Like a mad monkey I just kept staring back at him, beaming wide, forgetting the courtesy of answering his question! "Yashaswini", I replied after a full minute. Then he went on to say how he was in the Army, had friends from South India and had himself stayed in Tiruchirapalli for 2 years in his youth. Closing his eyes momentarily to recover from his memory, he counted "onnu, rendu, moonu.." as he slowly showed them with his fingers, accompanied by a toothless, proud grin. He escorted me back to the bus-stop, shouting to just anybody on the way, "yeh hamari bhasha bolti hai", "yeh hamari ladki hai", "hum sab ek bolte hain"!!

Former Subedar Jagdish Singh had made my day. At times in the past I have struggled to explain to the villagers here, where Chennai is. Using Tirupatti Balaji, dosas or Sridevi as references, I usually manage. To hear Tamil this far away, I simply did not see that coming. I can see this reciprocated in the villagers when they hear me throw in few desi words in my language. The support staff at SCRIA dropped their formal demeanour the day I asked them to speak with me in only Haryanvi. Now they treat me like family. One of their own.

These instances reminded me of times in Delhi when I would just stop to listen to random people conversing in Tamil in the Metro, even missing my stop. There was even that once when I followed a Tamil family discretely through the stalls of the International Book Fair, so that I could hear more of the familiar words. One another villager here told me that Tamil sounded to him like few stones rolling in an otherwise empty tin can. I laughed it away. I myself had thought that the locals were always fighting and ready to throw a punch. Such was the language, rude and rough. Now, I do know that the tone is just the same whether they are affectionate or aggressive. So too each one his or her prejudice.

In all these moments- the several "Hindi-is-the-best" sermons I have heard, Jagdish Singh counting to three, the support staff giggling at my comic attempts to speak Haryanvi- I see only one thing. A need to bond with the rest through the spoken word. This is the language that is everybody's. A language that makes a mother understand the baby's gibberish. A language that we reciprocate in a foreigner's  namaste. Communication is for transaction of information. Language is only a vessel for the emotion. We all have the same emotions. Everybody has a language.

Ek Paed. Ek Jeev.

Over a vast green meadow, there was one huge tree. Just that one huge tree. The lush green grass seemed to be glistening always and it looked like the sun beamed forever over the meadow and the Big Tree. The Big Tree was a creation of splendour. Gigantic and solid, the massive brown trunk supported the thick canopy. The top had a million branches and even more twigs. The dark brown of the trunk was set out against the yellowish green carpet of the grass and the shining dark green of the leaves. The sky of blue and clouds of white made the scene look like it was a master piece of a Genius Painter. The canvas was indeed a marvel.

The tree breathed with life at any point of time. The trunk's hollow had hundreds of birds nesting in it. The canopy had thousands and thousands. What was unbelievable about the birds was that no two birds were alike. So many wondrous hues and sounds, the Big Tree was a riot of colours and chirps, a carnival of its own. There was a bird of every feather and a bird of every colour. Even in the night there were birds that sat up. Their glowing eyes made the Big Tree look like a hive of fireflies hanging beneath a glorious night sky.

The fruits on the tree were enough to feed its birds and the birds on the tree were enough to take care of one another. The seasonal rain and occasional rainbow nurtured the tree and made the birds flap with joy and chirp with awe.

One bright summer's day, there was a twig on the tree where there was quite some excitement and happiness. The birds were aflutter, chirping in all enthusiasm and remarking with new found joy-  "A young 'un had hatched out of its egg!" However, the other branches were oblivious to this branch's excitement, but that was how the Big Tree was-- huge and birds bustling about with their activities. The Father and Mother decided to call their little one 'Ek Paed' after the one Big Tree that was their all.

Ek Paed was a chirpy bird from his birth. Ek Paed flew up and down the branches just as soon as his tiny feathers became new wings. Ek Paed was also really mischievous. His parents were never surprised by the complaints that they got everyday. Sometimes Ek Paed stole a fruit, sometimes he teased other birds. Sometimes Ek Paed whizzed from behind younger birds and sometimes he cracked jokes on others. Some other times Ek Paed would just go away without telling his mother and simply perch on a branch and watch all the other birds. How ever he was and whatever he did, Ek Paed remained the darling of his parents and neighbours.

Soon Ek Paed had to go to school. At school Ek Paed saw and befriended a hundred other birds. Every morning he had some excuse to avoid going to school. But once he got to school, he played all day without a care and never wanted to go back home. Ek Paed used to chirp the whole while and he always had funny things to say. His beak was firmly shut only when the teachers spoke to him, but the mischief in his eyes told more. "He skips classes", the teacher birds complained. Though they could never hold a grudge against him because Ek Paed had the most endearing smile that the birds in that part of the tree ever knew. He had charmed both the teachers and students alike.

As he grew, Ek Paed developed interests in bird games, became a busy bird, volunteered regularly for good causes and started behaving like a bird on his own. His naughtiness and good humour never diminished one bit, though. He had a prank up his sleeve and a twinkle in his eye always. His jokes kept his bird friends laughing and wherever he went, he could connect with all the other birds. He was a cheeky bird, but never did anybody mind. All the colour and chatter from Ek Paed kept his immediate surroundings lively.

It was time that EK Paed's education got over and that he sought some work. These issues troubled him little. He knew that he was not like any other bird and he simply did not want to go scurrying in the bird race.

On one winter's day, Ek Paed and his friend were flying to college. The Big Tree was as usual, characteristically at any time of the day, swarmed by other busy birds flying up and down and in and out of the canopy. Just a few branches away, on the way, a big and hard-looking bird flew right into Ek Paed. His friend swooped the other way, but EK Paed was hit.

Ek Paed fluttered for a moment, the big bird passed without a hassle and his friend helped Ek Paed straighten his wings again. Few seconds after setting off, Ek Paed screeched, gave his friend an innocent smile and with the same old twinkle in the eye, he flew off in another direction. Away from the canopy.

Ek Paed's friend was shocked. Ek Paed's branch and twig, Mother and Father, teachers and friends, relatives and all the other birds on the branch waited and waited. Some were angry that he flew away. Some were sad that he was gone. Few of them calmly perched on the twig waiting for the sun to set. There was so much noise and clatter, silence and sorrow, the branch felt drained by the night. Still a few birds sat up, as usual, waiting in the dark.

The grim hours of the previous day gave way for the next. Anger gave way to sorrow and sorrow to pain. Some birds were broken, all of them bereaved, it was a separation none of the birds saw coming. There was so much chaos inside and outside but not one bird chirped. The rest of the Big Tree was oblivious to the pain of Ek Paed's absence, but that was how the Big Tree was-- huge and birds bustling about with their activities.

Ek Paed's near and dear birds just knew that wherever he was now flying, he still had the twinkle in his eyes and a laugh in his chirp.

Ek Paed had left behind just  as many colours as he had taken away with him.

Ek Paed was always a bird of the Breeze.

In loving memory of

S Deepak

(20/6/1992 to 7/12/2012).

A friend whose liveliness, warmth and humour added many temperatures to the melting of the pot.

A Lamp whose flame sought confluence with the Bigger Fire.

Travelling travails in an Incredible !ndia.

Hanging on to dear life; journey in a traditional tempo.

It was just a couple of weeks ago that I had to go to Bawal, a neighbouring block, for an RTI camp. Between Rewari and Bawal, there is a state two lane highway, that is lined with trees and often breaks towards small villages in the distance. A typical Haryana state highway is just like the veins of a leaf. One straight road, that has multiple smaller roads shooting from it in the opposite directions. And while I call it a two laned highway, it is only equivalent in width to one half of Delhi's Barakhamba Road or Bengaluru's MG road or Chennai's Nungambakkam High Road.

While going for the camp, I justtt managed to hop on the last step of the bus and it got moving. The nick-of-time boarding was not due to my running late, it was due to the crowd.

I managed to reach the doors of the bus quite ahead of other passengers. Seeing the older people and women carrying luggage scrambling after me, I gave way to them first. However, a large number of other men too pushed forth and managed to hop on before I did. As I amusedly looked on, the conductor's shrill whistle shook me out of my thoughts and I stepped on to the footboard. The bus chugged forward. I weaved my way through the standing crowd and managed to plant myself right at the entrance, but at least well within the roof of the bus and on the aisle.

The immediate crowd around me was a mother standing with her baby in her arms, a milkman who stubbornly refused to move his cans from the way and two men, one with a backpack and the other with a basket of plastic wares. My standing position could have easily been registered as a feat of yoga where I on a mat and breathing slowly in solitude. Body twisted at odd angles, one hand was reaching out towards the nearest bar for support, while the other was clutching on dearly the jhola that had my diary, my cellphone, my wallet, my all. After some heated exchange in Haryanvi between a lady who was seated and a college student in the front, the latter offered his seat to the standing new mother.  Noticing my plight, several other comfortable passengers asked the milkman to make way for me so that I could seat myself on the cushioned gear and engine space at the front. Phew! After completing a 2 metre hurdle race, I got myself firmly plonked on top of the rumbling gear box. My grin of relief was immediately washed away by the bristling driver who asked me to duck the whole while not to impend the side-view. The remaining 30 minutes of the drive was an amazing people-watching experience, though my vision was from only the waist level. (More on that, later)

After the camp was over, one of my co-workers offered a ride on his bike till Rewari. There was another co-worker too who had to take a bus from Rewari. "Ajjest karlenge", they said.  So we made a cautious triple-seater journey on the way back. The bumpy highway made for excellent moments of thrill, just as the passing trees and birds gave an authentic "Incredible !ndia" feel. It was like the popularised Swades still where an America-return Shah Rukh Khan was sharing pillion space with Makarand Deshpande as they criss-crossed an arid landscape on another villager's bike. This is also a still that has been popularised in the latest Incredible !ndia tourism  ad. A single foreign woman is seen riding pillion with two other villagers pointing to this and that on the way. 

It was nearly 5.30 pm when I had to take a tempo from Rewari to Khori, my village. If my day's travelling experience was anything to go by, I should have seen what was to come next. Winter being the season, everything winds down with the setting of the sun. I could see the sun very well edging towards the end of the Western horizon, it was nightfall beginning. I had missed the 5.15pm bus to the village and the only option was to get back in the tempo. The tempo that was almost ready to go had two spots vacant- one besides the driver and the other to sit on haunch heels at the back. Not a woman on the vehicle, the driver was considerate enough to offer me the seat beside him. "Ah, luxury!", I thought looking at the space crunch behind me. 15 men squeezed together in the space meant for ten. Just as the motor revved, a harried man came along and asked if the tempo was headed towards Khori. Immediately the driver saw his opportunity to gain the extra eight bucks and asked me to step aside for a moment. The harried man immediately sat where I was earlier seated and I looked on confused. The driver adjusted himself a bit, the new entrant shifted a little more and I was pointed  the corner of the seat. And very soon the machinations in my head began working, debating if I had to really take this ride or if I could afford to wait for the next one, by when it would surely be dark? I hopped on again, firmly clutching on to the sides of the vehicle. I was seated parallel to the side rear-view mirror, one half of me nearly swinging outside the frame of the tempo.  The journey started, the night started, my prayers started. The twenty five minute ride seemed like an eternity and I just wanted to make it back to my room safe.

The road was just as bumpy and dusty. My overworking head was hallucinating the piercing glares of the men behind my back. Just as the Khori bus-stop came close, I asked the driver if this was the final stop or if he would be taking passengers into the village (atleast one km away) too? The adda, was to be the final point he said, however he was willing to drop me off at the railway crossing further ahead. And true to his word, he dropped me, and only me, closer to the village and waved me off with a smile. On the other side of the track was the road leading to the village and I just had to beat the 200m quick. That I did. As I crashed into my room with relief and exhaustion I chided myself for not trusting my fellow passengers. In retrospect, I see this cynicism towards humanity, a suspicion of people's motives, something that is largely a part of an urban upbringing. The rural people are so generous and unassuming, I wonder why their city counterparts are burdened by nagging doubts every waking moment of the day. Some, even in their sleep.

Double decker buses are passe. Even the modern tempos support a first floor.

Just the week before that I was on a two-day trip to the Braj-bhoomi. Backpacking and wandering through the winding streets of Mathura, Vrindavan, Gokul and Goverdhan over the two days of Diwali, I experienced both the highs and lows of being a single girl travelling alone. Not that anybody made any untoward advances, but one had to be on high-alert the whole while. Just as much as kind  the rickshaw and chai-wallahs helped me plan and spend a good two days milling with the festive crowd, I was also the subject of many furtive glances, subtle leers and lecherous looks.  And this finally brings me to the point of this post. The new Incredible !ndia ad.

The ad shows a single woman travelling alone and experience the "real" incredible !ndia. Sleeping in Rajasthan's royal bed chambers, frightened by the same people's kadak moustaches, sneezing across a courtyard where women are sorting red chillies, etc. True just not Taj Mahal and Qutab Minar and Kerala's ayurvedic spas make India incredible. These- triple rides on bikes, space crunches in the public transport vehicles, a benevolent chai-wallah guiding you, and India's every readiness to welcome and treat a guest with reverence- make it incredible. But a single foreign woman. Alone. Really?

Even after making ample contacts and knowing the local language, my travel experiences have not been devoid of stress and caution. Be it in Chennai's residential streets, Delhi's wide campus lanes or Haryana's bumpy two-lane highway, one eye had to always be on the lookout, a hand ready to deal with any untoward incident and a voice ready to shout for help.  The famed night life and secure environment for women in Mumbai was witness to molestations two New Years ago. To drop all worries and meditate in Benares, might be all picturesque and alluring. What the viewer might not register is that a cameraperson is at least company to the woman in the shoot. How easy and possible is it for a woman to travel alone in a land completely unknown? Devoid of local contacts and knowledge of local language is it possible that India can seem just as incredible? This could be any country in the world for that matter. Trust issues aside, logistics aside, that one final question for the day remains.

It is difficult, but not impossible. Even liberal Indian parents think twice before sending out their daughters on such a journey. The question is out of place for a village girl who has not even been to the town market sans any company. The frills and thrills of incredible India is definitely not for the lonely traveller, especially female. We easily discount in the discourse the incredulous India. This package promises lechers, leers, ill-intended jostling in the crowds, flashing and a obscene commentary. These are true personal accounts from my own experiences and friends'. There must be a constant broadcast to the near and the dear updating of one's location, place of stay (and new company, if any found) and next place-to-be. The no-baggage, no-worries woman traveller is unknown in India, yet. When that day comes, I would volunteer to shoot the incredible !ndia tourism ad myself.