Incredible how every autorickshaw zipping in the rain had people stealing indulgent kisses through chattering teeth. Large trees stood over expensive cars, and hurriedly parked lunas, watching a frail woman straightening the urgently wrapped polythene bag on her husband’s balding head.
A leaf broke off from its home twig to ride the wind and found unabashed snorty laughter from a little boy as it hit his father splat! on his mustached face.
A girl in dripping wet jeans and t-shirt hugged her bag closer to her chest and carefully crossed the street, moving deliberately farther away from the hooting adolescent boys at the chai shop (which was still open and doing roaring business). Still, she tossed her soaked hair and sucked her tummy in, in case they were looking.
She passed the formally dressed man leading his very corporate looking female colleague to the very dry, spic-and-span restaurant on the other side of the road. The security guard quickly dumped his chai cup, paid the chaiwala and brought the hotel umbrella towards the prospective guests.
They all watched the crazy, barefooted, scrawny boys scramble out of their blue tent on the footpath, take off their hand-me-down shirts, swing them in the air and run into the puddles with loud screams.
“Rine, rine, go aaaye!! Gumaage aaanaaye!!” they yelled tunelessly.
Why the world didn’t screech to a stunned stop is beyond me.
Friday, November 26, 2004
Thursday, November 18, 2004
must i quote gerald durrell?
Family get-togethers are always chaotic.
No, no, chaotic is way too timid a word. Rowdy is more like it. Proud grandparents (the hosts), loud aunts, eager mums, reticent dads, a nerdy nephew disgusted about being the only boy around, giggly nieces, newborns wailing in the background and sussuing like clockwork, teens reenacting scenes from F.RI.E.N.D.S and still watching the reruns, young adults learning to be experts at diverting attention just when conversation deliberately reels to “that handsome CA boy who came to dinner yesterday”— put them all under one roof, and you have ear-splitting gossip, tons of bitten-back retorts, and food abundance.
And visitors. Yes, more people who’ve seen you “when you were soooo smaaall” (said with hand describing a tiny dashund sized person very close to the ground). “How you’ve grown! Children grow up so fast these days…” (Bitten back retort: I promise I tried to stay that size so we could’ve avoided this conversation).
I tried telling one obscure uncle I didn’t remember him, and threw myself into his nostalgic abyss for a very long hour. He promptly went and fetched the photo album in which, he, dressed in tight bell-bottoms and a large collared printed shirt, was planting several sloppy kisses on my eight-month-old tummy. “You always laughed when I did that,” he said dreamily, pointing to my very petrified-looking baby-face in the photograph.
Some people can never read expressions. Even if you stick your tongue out at them, they’ll offer you a tongue-cleaner.
Then you have the TV-starer. This is one person (usually male and over 40) who, poor thing, has the remote control stuck in his hand, and is seemingly hearing impaired (assumed since you have no way to tell if the volume control is jammed). As all the women gather around the dining table or in the bedroom, filling gossip gaps, and men stick it out in the living room, itching to trade tittle-tattle too but forced by habit to discuss Jayendra Saraswati, this lone ranger doesn’t take his eyes off the TV.
“Please eat lunch…” grandmom will gently urge him. To keep her heart, he’ll walk like a zombie to the table, fill his plate and plonk himself back on the TV-facing sofa. Of course, by the time he does this, a cousin would’ve swooped in and tuned into ET, but his hay-day would last only for a couple of minutes. The disgruntled cousin must automatically return the power-staff when the TV-starer returns with his plate. It’s a phenomenon, this TV-watching. I for one truly look up to such perseverant estrangement (though not the potbelly. They always have a potbelly)
Strangely, all the economy you’re taught throughout the year is flung right out of the window in a houseful situation. Everyone wants to pay for everything. A bill has to just arrive and it’s a race to who fishes the wallet out first. My granddad, to many people’s apparent annoyance and secret delight, has perfected the art of footing the bill. When that heart-beat-stopper bill is delivered in a leather bound folder (we eat at places that can afford leather only when more than one set of parents is at the dinner table), his hand sweeps it right off the table, while his “lovvvely assistant” grandma holds the fort by bringing up a contentious issue like the will, or granddad’s suddenly failing health. (Yes, they’re utterly shameless) Before you know what hit you, the waiter has left with the money. Granddad attributes his swiftness to years of hoodwinking smugglers as a Customs official. I attribute it to his years of handling ready cash instead of credit cards...
Hmmm... It was three absolutely tiring, glorious days with people you’ve grown up with, noticing how last year’s teenage mustache has turned into a cool French beard, laughing about that kitten we thought was going to die of bum-cancer when it menstruated, remembering the green backyard that had now given space to the guest house (we unanimously hate it, btw), sighing sympathetically about the terrible clothes your aunt never fails buys for you….
The best part? I got a family photo out of all this. Not some stupid formal one with stiff smiles and height order. But one that is asymmetric, chaotic and slashed with laugh-lines. Patience was only a small price to pay.
No, no, chaotic is way too timid a word. Rowdy is more like it. Proud grandparents (the hosts), loud aunts, eager mums, reticent dads, a nerdy nephew disgusted about being the only boy around, giggly nieces, newborns wailing in the background and sussuing like clockwork, teens reenacting scenes from F.RI.E.N.D.S and still watching the reruns, young adults learning to be experts at diverting attention just when conversation deliberately reels to “that handsome CA boy who came to dinner yesterday”— put them all under one roof, and you have ear-splitting gossip, tons of bitten-back retorts, and food abundance.
And visitors. Yes, more people who’ve seen you “when you were soooo smaaall” (said with hand describing a tiny dashund sized person very close to the ground). “How you’ve grown! Children grow up so fast these days…” (Bitten back retort: I promise I tried to stay that size so we could’ve avoided this conversation).
I tried telling one obscure uncle I didn’t remember him, and threw myself into his nostalgic abyss for a very long hour. He promptly went and fetched the photo album in which, he, dressed in tight bell-bottoms and a large collared printed shirt, was planting several sloppy kisses on my eight-month-old tummy. “You always laughed when I did that,” he said dreamily, pointing to my very petrified-looking baby-face in the photograph.
Some people can never read expressions. Even if you stick your tongue out at them, they’ll offer you a tongue-cleaner.
Then you have the TV-starer. This is one person (usually male and over 40) who, poor thing, has the remote control stuck in his hand, and is seemingly hearing impaired (assumed since you have no way to tell if the volume control is jammed). As all the women gather around the dining table or in the bedroom, filling gossip gaps, and men stick it out in the living room, itching to trade tittle-tattle too but forced by habit to discuss Jayendra Saraswati, this lone ranger doesn’t take his eyes off the TV.
“Please eat lunch…” grandmom will gently urge him. To keep her heart, he’ll walk like a zombie to the table, fill his plate and plonk himself back on the TV-facing sofa. Of course, by the time he does this, a cousin would’ve swooped in and tuned into ET, but his hay-day would last only for a couple of minutes. The disgruntled cousin must automatically return the power-staff when the TV-starer returns with his plate. It’s a phenomenon, this TV-watching. I for one truly look up to such perseverant estrangement (though not the potbelly. They always have a potbelly)
Strangely, all the economy you’re taught throughout the year is flung right out of the window in a houseful situation. Everyone wants to pay for everything. A bill has to just arrive and it’s a race to who fishes the wallet out first. My granddad, to many people’s apparent annoyance and secret delight, has perfected the art of footing the bill. When that heart-beat-stopper bill is delivered in a leather bound folder (we eat at places that can afford leather only when more than one set of parents is at the dinner table), his hand sweeps it right off the table, while his “lovvvely assistant” grandma holds the fort by bringing up a contentious issue like the will, or granddad’s suddenly failing health. (Yes, they’re utterly shameless) Before you know what hit you, the waiter has left with the money. Granddad attributes his swiftness to years of hoodwinking smugglers as a Customs official. I attribute it to his years of handling ready cash instead of credit cards...
Hmmm... It was three absolutely tiring, glorious days with people you’ve grown up with, noticing how last year’s teenage mustache has turned into a cool French beard, laughing about that kitten we thought was going to die of bum-cancer when it menstruated, remembering the green backyard that had now given space to the guest house (we unanimously hate it, btw), sighing sympathetically about the terrible clothes your aunt never fails buys for you….
The best part? I got a family photo out of all this. Not some stupid formal one with stiff smiles and height order. But one that is asymmetric, chaotic and slashed with laugh-lines. Patience was only a small price to pay.
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
straight turrrn maadi
Footpath, rocky terrain, and mud tracks… nothing stops the Bangalorean from taking the route that would make sure he gets to his destination at least a minute early. At a traffic signal, impatient pizza, courier and death delivery boys fidget with their keys, visibly debating if it’s worth it to switch off the engine. You can see all necks straining to see ahead, to find an inch of space where the two-wheeler can squeeze itself. Horns will blare, voices will curse (“Thu! Nin magne! Nin thathan road-a?!”, “Haiyyo … Evarigella yaaru licence kotro, rama…” and a girl on a kinetic will add, “ExCuuuuse me! Uncle! Can you PLEEEASE move your BIKE?!” and go home to tell her roomies how she lost her cool and “blasted some idiot on the road”).
Then, a two-wheeler rider of great initiative will change all. He will lead all mankind out of this dark, smoky, suffocating agony. Only this chosen one will notice the vantage point — a clean entry spot onto the pavement. He will maneuver his bike deftly, riding along hawkers, pedestrians and parked cycles. And that will get him right in front of the cars, autos, lorries, buses and slow-witted bikes. Not to worry, the traffic cop won’t chase him. After all, it’s nothing out of the ordinary…. Plus, as this brave traffic warrior leads his motor vehicle on to the footpath, at least 15 other bikes would’ve followed suit. Yes. Even if there’s a maddening jam on the road, traffic flows freely on the footpath and adjacent roadless by-lanes. —“Adjust maadi” at it’s best.
But there are some places where alternative routes are avoided like plague. The one I notice everyday is near a road that leads into Ulsoor market. The market is always, always bursting at its seams with people, vegetable vendors, banana stumps, beggars, temple-goers, flower sellers, night-idli makers, auto-men smoking beedis, marwadi pawn shops, parked Safaris and Sumos… All the world comes together in this one pavement-less road, and despite the desperate need to squeeze into all spaces, and find every damn side-road, all the world avoids the adjacent notorious Hijra Street.
Hijra Street is near the now demolished Begum Mahal, where a rich muslim woman is said to have lived. She encouraged and trained dancers who lived in little houses near the Mahal. Many of these performers were hijras and they too lived nearby, reassured by the security and compassion the Begum extended them. Now the Begum and her Mahal are gone, but a large hijra community still lives there, regularly greasing the palms of cops and corporation authorities that relentlessly try to evict them.
Apart from the regular auto-drivers who park near this street and of course, the General Stores owner at the entrance, only a few women riders venture into Hijra Street. The rest of the city, with all its impatience and aggressive road behaviour, is an uneasy, petrified, almost idiotic group of oldies. This time, the term “oldies” has nothing to do with age, of course.
Then, a two-wheeler rider of great initiative will change all. He will lead all mankind out of this dark, smoky, suffocating agony. Only this chosen one will notice the vantage point — a clean entry spot onto the pavement. He will maneuver his bike deftly, riding along hawkers, pedestrians and parked cycles. And that will get him right in front of the cars, autos, lorries, buses and slow-witted bikes. Not to worry, the traffic cop won’t chase him. After all, it’s nothing out of the ordinary…. Plus, as this brave traffic warrior leads his motor vehicle on to the footpath, at least 15 other bikes would’ve followed suit. Yes. Even if there’s a maddening jam on the road, traffic flows freely on the footpath and adjacent roadless by-lanes. —“Adjust maadi” at it’s best.
But there are some places where alternative routes are avoided like plague. The one I notice everyday is near a road that leads into Ulsoor market. The market is always, always bursting at its seams with people, vegetable vendors, banana stumps, beggars, temple-goers, flower sellers, night-idli makers, auto-men smoking beedis, marwadi pawn shops, parked Safaris and Sumos… All the world comes together in this one pavement-less road, and despite the desperate need to squeeze into all spaces, and find every damn side-road, all the world avoids the adjacent notorious Hijra Street.
Hijra Street is near the now demolished Begum Mahal, where a rich muslim woman is said to have lived. She encouraged and trained dancers who lived in little houses near the Mahal. Many of these performers were hijras and they too lived nearby, reassured by the security and compassion the Begum extended them. Now the Begum and her Mahal are gone, but a large hijra community still lives there, regularly greasing the palms of cops and corporation authorities that relentlessly try to evict them.
Apart from the regular auto-drivers who park near this street and of course, the General Stores owner at the entrance, only a few women riders venture into Hijra Street. The rest of the city, with all its impatience and aggressive road behaviour, is an uneasy, petrified, almost idiotic group of oldies. This time, the term “oldies” has nothing to do with age, of course.
Sunday, November 07, 2004
dance the body music
Lokua Kanza isn’t wearing a madly colourful Afro shirt. Neither is his hair long, braided and stacky. When you ask him about it, he throws his head back and laughs, his gummy smile surprisingly ugly. “I think so, Indian want Osibisa from all African people!” The smile gets uglier. “You listen my song, and say if I African or French. And please don’t say I sound American. You kill my soul.”
And soul he has loads of. His voice seems to come from inside my own head. Crystal clear. Gliding over drum beats. Not even remotely anything but African. Swahili, Lingala, French… none of which I understand. But my hands ache from applauding so much and I’m tired of pretending to be a critiquing connoisseur instead of a grinny fool exploding with happiness at his ‘Mbiffe’ and ‘Salle’.
I quite like him. And he reminded me of Osibisa.
Osibisa had performed in India as one of the first international bands long before I was even born. But the only trip my mind took on hearing 'Osibisa' was to Diwali.
After two days of revelling with tappaas (crackers), sur-sur-bhatthi (sparklers) and 100-walas, we used to sweep up all the half-exploded-crackers in a pile, and throw in some bijilis. It was our very own bonfire. And it was always higher and hotter than the bonfires on any other lanes in the locality. As it crackled and spit sparks out at us, we pranced around it, chanting “Osibisa… osibisa”, the ‘Osi’ powerful and the ‘bisa’ in a whisper. No one questioned what the hell we were saying. We had no clue it was the name of a band that defined world music. It just sounded tribal enough to use in a victory dance for Diwali.
Come to think of it, it’s almost scary how much this city has absorbed.
And soul he has loads of. His voice seems to come from inside my own head. Crystal clear. Gliding over drum beats. Not even remotely anything but African. Swahili, Lingala, French… none of which I understand. But my hands ache from applauding so much and I’m tired of pretending to be a critiquing connoisseur instead of a grinny fool exploding with happiness at his ‘Mbiffe’ and ‘Salle’.
I quite like him. And he reminded me of Osibisa.
Osibisa had performed in India as one of the first international bands long before I was even born. But the only trip my mind took on hearing 'Osibisa' was to Diwali.
After two days of revelling with tappaas (crackers), sur-sur-bhatthi (sparklers) and 100-walas, we used to sweep up all the half-exploded-crackers in a pile, and throw in some bijilis. It was our very own bonfire. And it was always higher and hotter than the bonfires on any other lanes in the locality. As it crackled and spit sparks out at us, we pranced around it, chanting “Osibisa… osibisa”, the ‘Osi’ powerful and the ‘bisa’ in a whisper. No one questioned what the hell we were saying. We had no clue it was the name of a band that defined world music. It just sounded tribal enough to use in a victory dance for Diwali.
Come to think of it, it’s almost scary how much this city has absorbed.
Friday, November 05, 2004
blush pale blue
The price seemed reasonable, location
Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived
Off premises. Nothing remained
But self-confession. “Madam,” I warned,
“I hate a wasted journey—I am African.”
Silence. Silenced transmission of
Pressurized good-breeding. Voice, when it came,
Lipstick coated, long gold-rolled
Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was foully.
“HOW DARK?”… I had not misheard… “ARE YOU LIGHT
OR VERY DARK?” Stench
Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak.
Red booth. Red pillar-box. Red double-tiered
Omnibus squelching tar. It was real! Shamed
By ill-mannered silence, surrender
Pushed dumbfounded to beg simplification.
Considerate she was, varying the emphasis—
“ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT?” Revelation came.
“You mean—like plain or milk chocolate?”
Her assnt was clinical, crushing in its light
Impersonality. Rapidly, wave-length adjusted,
I chose. “West African sepia”—and as an afterthought,
“Down in my passport.” Silence for spectroscopic
Flight of fancy, till truthfulness clanged her accent
Hard on the mouthpiece. “WHAT’S THAT?” conceding
“DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT IS.” “Like brunette.”
“THAT’S DARK ISN’T IT?” “Not altogether.
Facially, I’m brunette, but, madam, you should see
The rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feet
Are a peroxide blond. Friction, caused
Foolishly, madam, by sitting down, has turned
My bottom raven black—One moment, madam!”—sensing
Her receiver rearing on the thunderclap
About my ears—“Madam,” I pleaded, “wouldn’t you rather
See for yourself?”
(1962)
--Telephone Conversation, Wole Soyinka (b.1934)
Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived
Off premises. Nothing remained
But self-confession. “Madam,” I warned,
“I hate a wasted journey—I am African.”
Silence. Silenced transmission of
Pressurized good-breeding. Voice, when it came,
Lipstick coated, long gold-rolled
Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was foully.
“HOW DARK?”… I had not misheard… “ARE YOU LIGHT
OR VERY DARK?” Stench
Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak.
Red booth. Red pillar-box. Red double-tiered
Omnibus squelching tar. It was real! Shamed
By ill-mannered silence, surrender
Pushed dumbfounded to beg simplification.
Considerate she was, varying the emphasis—
“ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT?” Revelation came.
“You mean—like plain or milk chocolate?”
Her assnt was clinical, crushing in its light
Impersonality. Rapidly, wave-length adjusted,
I chose. “West African sepia”—and as an afterthought,
“Down in my passport.” Silence for spectroscopic
Flight of fancy, till truthfulness clanged her accent
Hard on the mouthpiece. “WHAT’S THAT?” conceding
“DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT IS.” “Like brunette.”
“THAT’S DARK ISN’T IT?” “Not altogether.
Facially, I’m brunette, but, madam, you should see
The rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feet
Are a peroxide blond. Friction, caused
Foolishly, madam, by sitting down, has turned
My bottom raven black—One moment, madam!”—sensing
Her receiver rearing on the thunderclap
About my ears—“Madam,” I pleaded, “wouldn’t you rather
See for yourself?”
(1962)
--Telephone Conversation, Wole Soyinka (b.1934)
Monday, November 01, 2004
lingui-stuck
Gadaf Khan: "Jee haan, hamare mein guggu... goobe... Khabristan mein, hunse jhaad mein kuntkandi, murda henage tinkandu badko jaanvar." (Guggu= owl in kannada. Goobe= owl in Shivajinagar Urdu. Definition of an owl- In graveyard, sitting on Tamarind tree, eating dead body, and thus living creature)
Shetty: "Idemi? Vipareetam aipoya..." (What this is? (in telugu) Bizaare (kannada) it became (Malayalam))
-- Saabara Kathe, by T.P. Kailasam, who wrote all his works in a kichdi version of Kannada.
"None could use Kannada with all its nuances like Kailasam did, and his mother tongue, incidentally, was Tamil. One could hardly contain one's laughter when one overheard a retake of Kailasam's character in the neighbourhood medical shop.
There was this little Muslim girl asking: "Maamo, maamo, ammange bedhi hogaya kate, maatre dee maamo." (Maamo, mummy got loose motion, give tablet, maamo)
And guess what the Shetty had to ask in his own brand of Urduised Kannada? "Nungne ka, cheepne ka?" (nung = swallow in kannada. cheep= sip in kannada)
And this one was heard at a local bus stand: "Bisil mein khadku khadku sust aagaya so" (In heat standing standing, tired came off)
Kailsam, in one of his short poems, 'Uptodate Sakhi: Tanna Gelatiyarige', writes about our proclivity to use generous doses of English in our daily conversation.
"Yeni garden-u bahala silly, nodalu not a rose or lily, waste of time-u walking illi..." (What this garden is verrry silly, to see not a rose or lily, waste of time to walk here)
And this one: "Mane coxtown-u, manushya hen-pecked-u" (this will be lost in translation, so i'm not trying)
So, when you hear a Tamil shopkeeper say: "Adondu bandu 25 roobaayi", you know it is a transliteration from the original Tamil "Aduvandu iruvattanj roobai". Not to forget "Maga Ganabathi" for Maha Ganapathi and "Cunnikamba Road" for Cunningham Road. When you hear phrases with extensive use of plurals such as "Talegalella novu" or "Saana bedhigalu agtaite" you know for sure it is the Telugu influence on Kannada. "
---Excerpt from Deepa Ganesh's article in The Hindu, on Oct. 30, 2003, on the eve of Kannada Rajyotsava, with my translation inputs
Maybe Kannada is dying a fast death, at least in Bangalore for sure. And as one of my friends put it, "Even distortion is part of a language's evolution, if it means better communication".
But every time someone says "Straight hogi, Left togoli, Adjust maadkoli", an image of a man (with 'Kannada' written in the jalebi script on his forehead) bleeding to death pops in my head. Simultaneously, I stomp my foot on the ground about the kichdi language being so Bangalore that I ought to be holding on to it. "Suryange torcha?" or "Nangey fitting madthiyaa?" never fails to make someone laugh. Or surely get the message.
So maybe I'm a non-kannadiga getting all thrilled listening to "Huttidhare kannada naadal hutta beku!" (If you're born, it must be in Kannada land). But I also flare up when someone who isn't familiar with Tamil, curses people in Chennai for not being cosmopolitan enough to speak in any other language. I mean, why must they? They've never had the need to.
Unlike Tamil, Kannada never had a major language movement. If it did, it was never political. It was always anti-tamil and anti-askers-of-Kaveri-water. I've also sung "Endindigoo nee Kannadavaagiru" (Be a Kannadiga forever) a thousand times in Rajyotsava competitions, my heart swelling with pride when I actually show off the 'Tipu Sultan', 'Kuvempu', 'Kempegowda' biographies (written in Kannada) they gave as prizes. I know how insecure kannadigas must feel if they need to be jingoistic enough to stone theatres playing non-kannada movies. But even today, 'Sen Tamizh, pon Tamizh vazhga' (Long live golden/pure tamizh) makes me nod.
Come to think of it, two homes are better than one. And two native languages, even if at loggerheads, are better than one.
Shetty: "Idemi? Vipareetam aipoya..." (What this is? (in telugu) Bizaare (kannada) it became (Malayalam))
-- Saabara Kathe, by T.P. Kailasam, who wrote all his works in a kichdi version of Kannada.
"None could use Kannada with all its nuances like Kailasam did, and his mother tongue, incidentally, was Tamil. One could hardly contain one's laughter when one overheard a retake of Kailasam's character in the neighbourhood medical shop.
There was this little Muslim girl asking: "Maamo, maamo, ammange bedhi hogaya kate, maatre dee maamo." (Maamo, mummy got loose motion, give tablet, maamo)
And guess what the Shetty had to ask in his own brand of Urduised Kannada? "Nungne ka, cheepne ka?" (nung = swallow in kannada. cheep= sip in kannada)
And this one was heard at a local bus stand: "Bisil mein khadku khadku sust aagaya so" (In heat standing standing, tired came off)
Kailsam, in one of his short poems, 'Uptodate Sakhi: Tanna Gelatiyarige', writes about our proclivity to use generous doses of English in our daily conversation.
"Yeni garden-u bahala silly, nodalu not a rose or lily, waste of time-u walking illi..." (What this garden is verrry silly, to see not a rose or lily, waste of time to walk here)
And this one: "Mane coxtown-u, manushya hen-pecked-u" (this will be lost in translation, so i'm not trying)
So, when you hear a Tamil shopkeeper say: "Adondu bandu 25 roobaayi", you know it is a transliteration from the original Tamil "Aduvandu iruvattanj roobai". Not to forget "Maga Ganabathi" for Maha Ganapathi and "Cunnikamba Road" for Cunningham Road. When you hear phrases with extensive use of plurals such as "Talegalella novu" or "Saana bedhigalu agtaite" you know for sure it is the Telugu influence on Kannada. "
---Excerpt from Deepa Ganesh's article in The Hindu, on Oct. 30, 2003, on the eve of Kannada Rajyotsava, with my translation inputs
Maybe Kannada is dying a fast death, at least in Bangalore for sure. And as one of my friends put it, "Even distortion is part of a language's evolution, if it means better communication".
But every time someone says "Straight hogi, Left togoli, Adjust maadkoli", an image of a man (with 'Kannada' written in the jalebi script on his forehead) bleeding to death pops in my head. Simultaneously, I stomp my foot on the ground about the kichdi language being so Bangalore that I ought to be holding on to it. "Suryange torcha?" or "Nangey fitting madthiyaa?" never fails to make someone laugh. Or surely get the message.
So maybe I'm a non-kannadiga getting all thrilled listening to "Huttidhare kannada naadal hutta beku!" (If you're born, it must be in Kannada land). But I also flare up when someone who isn't familiar with Tamil, curses people in Chennai for not being cosmopolitan enough to speak in any other language. I mean, why must they? They've never had the need to.
Unlike Tamil, Kannada never had a major language movement. If it did, it was never political. It was always anti-tamil and anti-askers-of-Kaveri-water. I've also sung "Endindigoo nee Kannadavaagiru" (Be a Kannadiga forever) a thousand times in Rajyotsava competitions, my heart swelling with pride when I actually show off the 'Tipu Sultan', 'Kuvempu', 'Kempegowda' biographies (written in Kannada) they gave as prizes. I know how insecure kannadigas must feel if they need to be jingoistic enough to stone theatres playing non-kannada movies. But even today, 'Sen Tamizh, pon Tamizh vazhga' (Long live golden/pure tamizh) makes me nod.
Come to think of it, two homes are better than one. And two native languages, even if at loggerheads, are better than one.
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