A Mid-Summer Night's Dream

As my head sank into the pillow, I drifted into a soundless slumber only to be woken up by the bright lunar shine on my face. The moon was full and overhead, smiling brightly and made me fuzzy. 

I decided to take a walk in the garden. A gentle breeze blew with the scent of summer night flowers.  A handsome man from down South sat under a banyan tree. He alternated between crunching numbers in his head and frantically looking for something. On being asked, he said humbly he was looking for ways to pull out the Indian economy from the dumps. He was  in charge of the country’s central bank and he looked a tad despondent.

Feeling sorry for him, I walked a few steps ahead and stopped short, hearing sweet nothings being whispered by what looked like, lovers. As I walked closer, I realized that this was a new game where the protagonists alternated the same notes of passion with different partners. I went closer to get a better look. Under the breeze and the stray clouds, a cute boy called Ranbir held a tall dusky woman in his arms; within a blink she was replaced with a full-bodied Brit girl with dubious Asian roots. I rubbed my eyes and blinked once more to now find the tall dusky woman rolling in the hay with a crazy guy called Ranveer. (Ranbir-Ranveer..they even chose similar sounding names so they wouldn’t get slapped in the act when they moaned the wrong name, I thought).  This game was called musical beds. A popular gen Z game like Angry Birds, Candy Crush Saga, Serious Sam.

Scandalized, I returned to my room. Here I was shocked to find an overgrown Assamese school-boy in a black suit, red tie and bulbous eyes glaring at me from an idiotic looking box. His name was Arnab Goswami and if only he didn't lean at a 20-degree angle, one could spot his half-pants under the table. He was the nation’s conscience keeper, who would call 6 panelists to his show every night, not let them speak more than 6 words altogether, subject them to abject humiliation and then hiss and yell at the audience the remaining time. Presumably this Arnab (pronounced Ornob) was angry because he could never spout a full-grown manly moustache. Which is why he chose to spout venom on prime time instead.  

Presently, this terminator flashed a piece of paper at me with a smug smile. The pencil sketch mush cast a light shadow over his pink lips. In his war room voice, he proceeded to yell. “Mr. Jha…Misterr Jha…Misterrrr Jhaa…MISTERRRR JHAAAAAAAAAA” (at which a couple of panelists wiped their brows, two others suffered failed bladders and one of them said ‘Hello hello..I think I’ve lost signal’). Unfazed, the fear evoking monster proceeded to demolish them one by one. He waved a paper victoriously at this Mister Jha and said with murderous rage – “I have a piece of paper with me today. I haaave a pieeeeece of paper with me today that the whole country will see. The Nation wants to knowww!! Misterrr Jhaaa with this paper you will be disrobed in front of the whole nation!!” On impulse I shut my eyes to the indignity of a Sanjay Jha without his robes.  I have seen better in my youth. I could do without trauma in middle age. Maybe if my name was Hasiba Amin I would have enjoyed the party's strip show.

Shaking my head, I decided to step out on the street for a gulp of fresh air. Potholes glistened under the moonlight. The streetlights that were forgetfully left switched on during the day were turned off. Suddenly the peace of the dark silence was shattered with a growl of vehicles and laughter. It sounded like a Roman victory parade - soldiers, horses, women et al, fast approaching with their spoils of war. 

Turns out it was no less a war. Haryanvi men wrapped in designer blankets, drenched in Dimple whiskey, riding Harleys and brandishing axes were chasing 3 women in a Meru cab, who along with the driver cowered like lambs to slaughter. That the women were Ugandan just added to the apathy of the watchers and the testosterone of the chasers. It was our very own Wild Wild North. Smart women had already taken care to avoid such a plight. At dusk, they had slipped into their chic made-in-China iron vest and lower, put on a chastity belt and tossed the key in the dry bed of Yamuna. 

As the climax progressed, I woke up with the sound of the dramatic chase and gun shots. 
It was winter, there wasn’t a moon, the Romans were gone and I had had too much to drink.

English Vinglish

When mega star Amitabh Bachchan said confidently 'I can walk English, I can talk English' in 'Namak Halal', he was speaking for most Indians. With the debate in the national media over Nitish Kumar's insistence on Indians doing well without knowledge of English, I started to think if there was some truth to it. Needless to say, you can't survive in a global economy without the language and after all we just need working knowledge of English, are valid arguments. However, language lovers often think of it as a disservice to any language to not learn or practice it the proper way. However, the peculiar Indianized English ('see below in connection to my above'; 'I live in your backside'), the wrong grammar that we are taught in schools, compounded with the sms generation, are majorly to blame for the state of English we speak. Then there is the urban, semi-urban divide in learning and exposure that widens the gap, terming 'English speakers' as snobs and non-speakers as bumpkins. 

So here's a page from the diary of the snobs (in red are my thought crimes):   

When we were 21ish, the best friend, a true blue Bangalorean who had grown up in England, rolled her eyes and said with great firmness:

“Whatever I do, I wouldn’t date a guy with bad grammar.” She spoke clipped English, watched Brit comedies and would say ‘cut me some slack’ in those days.

I hemmed and hawed. Of course, I could never set such standards I told myself silently. My English was heavily influenced by Maharashtra and North India where I had grown up and I spoke with a Bengali accent, which is what I am by birth. I argued with her mildly in English, 
“English is not our first language na. It’s an acquired language. We don’t think in English, we don’t speak the language at home…our expression is bound to be different. Aren’t we supposed to go for the person and his content?”

She dismissed me, “You have no idea, dating someone with bad grammar is like a verbal assault, day after day.”

Over the next decade, I was verbally assaulted a few times to finally bow down to the bestie's infinite wisdom. Now I remember one particular case, where the candidate under consideration was perfect in every other way except for his peculiar grammar. After a month of active consideration, during which we crossed the stages of eye contact, silent communication, basic greetings and started speaking finally, the cookie crumbled: 

One morning, by the water cooler at work, the candidate asked:
“Why dint u came to the office yesterday?”
Something like a current (not remotely arousing) passed through me. ‘Dint came’ grated on my nerves.

“There was a problem with my car,” I said, refusing to meet his eyes. 

"Oh" he smiled, "So you are not having car today?" (he was strategizing a drive back together).

"No. I’m having car today” (and dying of gastro). I said looking at my feet and went home in a taxi.  

                                      Pic courtesy: Patricia West, Creative Monsoon

Another morning, a text message arrived: "Morning medam, your not in office"

"I'm running late" I responded solemnly.

"Haahahahhaaa..are you like the bus or the train that you run late?" was the reply. To which reply I did not reply.

Finally, on a dinner date:

“Who do you live with?” I asked and immediately regretted not asking in Hindi.

“I live in my mummy papa,” he said warmly.
(In Mummy understood, and about 30 years back or so. But Papa? Howwwwwww?)

The conversation went downhill from there. He lit up a cigarette, offered one and asked me graciously, 

"You like smoke??"

(Yes, only when I set you on fire). 

"No" I shook my head fiercely. 

Over soup, he asked me: 

“You being to Goa?”

Ignoring the being sitting in front of me, I told the soup, “Yes, just a flying visit.”

“Flying visit? There’s a direct train, dint you knew?” (the bad sort of arousal again)

“Yes, there is. I mean, it was a short visit for work, dint get to see too much.” (dinting was infectious).

“Oh Ho, Goa is famous for its biches! Wait till you throw yourself to the biches of Goa.” he said brimming with excitement.

“I am shivering in anticipation at the thought”, I said sarcastically.

Over dinner, I insisted on speaking in Hindi and he, in English. We were finally having a good conversation on multinationals targeting B and C cities, when he said: 

“See, there’s hell lot difference in urban and rular India. So the pograms must be different.” He then spoke for a while about the characteristics of rular India and the different pograms, while I tried to keep my anger in check. (If I was your teacher, I would make a pogram to spank your backside red with my ruler everyday, I told myself glaring at the dessert menu).

I wasn’t supposed to be nasty like this to a nice & intelligent guy, but this was how I was feeling. Golden heart, my foot. I ordered a couple lemon tarts to calm my angry nerves.

“What this  fart you order?” he said genuinely impressed.  

Here was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. I clutched my purse and shot out. No amount of ‘why dint you stayed’ was going to get me back.