I’ve been introducing a few of my British friends to Bollywood movies. Bollywood is a world within itself. If you’re not accustomed to the giant, colour- coordinated sets, the cliches, the ‘item’ numbers and the see-saw nature of many of the plots- it can come across as intimidating. The last Bollywood movie I thoroughly enjoyed was Rocky Aur Rani Ki Prem Kahani. In English, Rocky and Rani’s Love Story. It’s a simple tale of star- crossed lovers from different backgrounds. Rocky is a wealthy traditionalist and Rani is a child of Western circles and culture clubs. Her father is a Kathak dancer, her mother teaches English at the University of Delhi. While watching it with my friends, tucked away into the most rectangular (believe me) living room I have ever been in- a question emerged. Why do they keep speaking in English? Great question. The movie makes a point of this as well. Rocky with his bizarre English is constantly dubbed a fool by some fairly cruel (or funny?) subtitling. Rani, on the other hand, Bengali bred, educated in Western circles is referenced as someone who ‘probably sneezes in English’. Obviously, this is a comment on class, on breeding, on elitism. Yet, her grasp on the language is worlds away from Rocky’s.
Her mother practically has a British accent. In comparison, Rocky’s accent, his use of the language is a source of humour. Later, in the film- it is a point of contention. Why does he bother in English- if his English is so broken ? To a man of Indian descent, it might seem an odd question. The puzzles of bilingualism are obvious to so many. In my head, the question lies- why wouldn’t they be speaking in English? Could it be framed as their own language?
Anyway, we’re not here to speak of Hindi but English. Today, roughly 30% of India can speak English. Take into account a population of 1.408 billion and that number is significant. However, the number of first-language English speakers is dwindling. That number lies in thousands, hundreds of thousands. I remember a moment from my flat in Durham on Claypath.
A flatmate of mine was surprised that my Indian friend could only speak English. He commented that “her English doesn’t sound like it’s her first language”. Simply put, she didn’t sound British or North American. Yet, it had been the only language she had spoken growing up. It was hers. My flatmate wasn’t being cruel either. A second memory that comes to mind is that of the crying Chemistry teacher. She had been pronouncing “diamond” differently. Slicing the syllables instead of letting them lead into each other. The class of Indian boys had hollered, calling her out. Within moments, the head of the year was standing like a monument in the middle of the class, condemning such attempts at correction. This isn’t your native tongue, how could you correct her?
I remember being upset. What did she mean? English was the only language I had ever spoken growing up. That’s what I had spoken with my parents. What my parents had spoken with each other. They only used Malayalam to keep secrets from their children, and they’ll admit readily today that it was far from orthodox.
To most English-speaking Indians, English was an interloper. A squatter. A squatter that had become quite friendly over time, offering tea and scones and social advancement and opportunities.
Today, the Indian government wants to see Hindi replace English as India’s trade language. In many ways, it’s played that role for seventy years. Yet, I’m uncomfortable with this. Maybe, that’s horrible of me. To me, it feels colonial all over again. Maybe, that’s the inescapable truth of nation-building. Unity is built on the train tracks of eradication.
Although English was initially a destructive force that came into the subcontinent, over the years Indian English in many ways has become its own thing, but even today there is a struggle for recognition. The merging of syllables, the syntax and the language has evolved quite organically.
A few examples of Indian English are as follows:
Prepone: the opposite of postpone.
Good name: added on to introductions. E.g. —What’s your good name?
Brinjal: Not aubergine. Not eggplant. Brinjal. No, it’s not a Hindi word. It’s an Indian English word.
Do the needful: Do what needs to be done.
Duffer: Idiot.
Cousin Brother/Cousin Sister: used to refer to cousins. It implies a closer connection which is quite cool.
Picture: a film or movie.
Monkey Cap: Used to define a balaclava.
This is but a handful. Yet, what needs to be done to legitimise Indian English? Why is it afforded less status? What drives me mad is Indians are often made fun of for their ‘funny accents’ despite often speaking fluent English. I’m all for banter, let it be made clear. We can find things funny, while also acknowledging a need for respect. Yet, Indians are held to a higher standard. I’m not here to complain, but rather, to point out a fact. India is home to the largest band of English speakers, only after the United States. Yet, English isn’t allowed to belong to Indians. Is it time to accept that while English wasn’t born in India, it’s spent enough time ‘on-board’ to be seen as ‘home’? Even if it’s a rental. What’s the answer then? Does Indian English need to be codified? Will English just be done away with? I have no idea. I have very little power when it comes to the inner workings of Modi’s cabinet.
Yet, I’ll say this - English is too large and beautiful a language to belong to one nation wholly. Even in smaller circles, it’s time to admit that the upper-class, university-coded English of Rani doesn’t make Rocky’s local twang inadmissible in the court of respect.
As a Christian, there’s the definite case of providing any human being respect, regardless of caste, accent and social class-simply because they are made in the image of God. How often do we forget this? Jesus himself might have borne a regional accent, Nazareth was no Decapolis. Nazareth was a backwater town. Jesus was a brown man, in a colonised land, controlled by the Romans. Let’s have a think about those dynamics at play here.
On the other hand, people say we shouldn’t lose our sense of joy at such things. How often have schoolkids giggled over a certain pronunciation that seemed quite left-field at the time? Humour and respect can ride in the same car. After all, it is a car probably owned by Tata.
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