I don’t like my column in this week’s Mint. To do it right, I should have delved deeper into the “personality” of languages; and delved deeper into the notion of mother tongue. But being neck deep in badam halwa and other Deepavali sweets, this is the best I could do. So I was pleasantly surprised to see this Reuter’s response to the piece, which, by the way, I like better than the piece itself. One comment has already come and calls my attitude “intensely offensive.” It says that I was– to use psychology parlance– projecting. Maybe I was, although I would like to think not. If the visiting young man had the whip-snapping casualness of a Mumbaikar, I would have broken into Thamizh, no problem. But he was sooo formal. I know that Mumbaikars find me formal, so maybe it is a geography/location thing. Anyhow, got to go get patakas. Happy Deepavali!
The Reuters piece below and then, my piece.
I discovered when I wrote the blog post, “Hindi, Tamil and English: linguistic lessons in pragmatism,” that I am not the only person who thinks languages in India is an interesting topic. The comments that I received in that post, in which former Supreme Court Justice Markandey Katju wrote about the value of learning communal languages such as Hindi and English, reflected opinions from all over the map, and usually centered on how my language is best vs your language is worst.
Katju, chairman of the Press Council of India, made several points in his controversial opinion pieces, but he emphasized that common languages such as English in a country of incredible linguistic diversity is important for people who want to be literate, sophisticated and successful.
Shoba Narayan, writing in Mint, offers a different reason to use English: to keep some distance between you and the person you’re talking to. Here’s an excerpt from Narayan, who caught my attention and affection with her author’s note that she can “swear like a truck driver in multiple languages.” The story concerns a young man who works with her husband, who came to their house to invite them to his wedding. Judging by his name, accent and story, she decided that he was Tamil, and was prepared to speak to him in her language. But she stopped. Read why:
Speaking Tamil to a nervous young man who barricaded himself behind the formality of English would have unnerved him. It would have catapulted me from being the boss-man’s wife to becoming a friend. And while I might have been okay with that, I am not sure he was. Hence English: to maintain a distance.
Narayan writes more broadly about this idea in her essay:
When you meet a stranger and you can tell they share a common language, first of all, do you switch from English to Bengali or Hindi or Telugu? Or do you continue speaking in English? Watch yourself next time and let me know. Some part of it has to do with the circumstance. When you are in a boardroom and are introduced to a fellow Sindhi or Kashmiri, it is unlikely that you will switch to your mother tongue in front of others. But what if you are alone, inside your home?
How do you handle these linguistic differences? Why do you use English in certain situations and not in others? Is it ever OK for me to struggle through Hindi, Urdu or Bengali with you because I’m a student? Or is it artificial and weird to depart from English, the language that we know we both speak? Finally, how much does language reinforce the notion of being separate people — and in a way, separate countries — inside a democracy whose borders were drawn by other people many years ago?
(An Indian Army recruitment sign in Bangalore. The second language is Kannada, the language of the state of Karnataka. Photo: Robert MacMillan)
First Published: Thu, Nov 08 2012. 07 50 PM IST
English creates barriers of formality.Photo: Thinkstock
In urban India, this has taken a new form. Work colleagues come home to invite the boss-man or boss-woman to their wedding. And so it came to be that this young man, whom I shall call Raj, came to invite us. An interesting website, called Differencebetween.net, has a whole host of reasons as to why we are this way, the most obvious one being that Indians are family-oriented. India is also hierarchical. In the still-rigid social, familial and cultural hierarchies that define India, nonagenarian toothless relatives come first; followed by college professors, scholars, senior citizens and only then superiors within the workplace who are often called “chairman-ma’am” instead of being addressed by their name. Work-life boundaries blur as junior employees phone and invite themselves home with a simple excuse: “Ma’am (or Sir), I would like to come home and invite you for my wedding.” In such situations, the bosses, however much they believe in privacy, can scarcely refuse to allow the young analyst from entering the sanctum of a home.