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ShareAll attempts at following any conversation were going belly up. Ennui was cloaking stealthily, inch by painful inch. I wanted a stiff nepenthe, a drink that induces forgetfulness, to even endure the blunted discussions. Out of the blue, things got interesting."Characteristic of a parvenu," the Sapphire Martini with the collagen-pumped lips and crimson talons whined.
"I mean with all the new money he is throwing around he surely can get some private lessons in spoken English. It's now fashionable to be perceived as bourgeois even if you have bags of money." Nodding sagely, the Single Malt Scotch swirled his highland indulgence, "But you have to understand he has bigger ambitions. If he is perceived as forgetting his mother-tongue roots, he would be sacrificed at the altar of all things political by the very votes he wants. Any leanings towards improving spoken English etc at the moment would be hara-kiri. Your husband has political ambitions; you too will have to learn to speak the local language with his supporters. "
I soaked in every word anticipatorily. The woman in question was from an old Bangalore family. "I have lived here all my life, so have my parents, but I find it difficult to speak the local language. I still can't. Don't think I ever can," she fussed, very nearly making it sound like an accomplishment. I bristled. Quite surprisingly, so did some others who overheard her at the fashionably elite Saturday soiree. Confrontationist I am not.
Family and friends would vouch for that. But on my list of unpardonable abominations, this was high. "What's wrong with speaking the local language? You should not make it sound like a bother. Part of being a Bangalorean is embracing all aspects of the very city that has embraced you, language included, right?" I baited her almost aggressively.
There was no response.I began to notice a theme developing as some others joined in. "I know many people right in this room who won't speak our language even though they know it. It's shameful," said a dyed-in-the-wool Bangalorean. "Try doing this in another country where the local language is not English and you won't have a choice but to learn that language," said a fashionista who swore that learning Kannada recently gave her a better understanding of the city and its people. More joined in and the topic gained momentum. Missiles flew. All but annihilated, martini and scotch lost their voices. I was pleased as punch.
The next day at Russell Market I heard the bellow of a Sunday shopper ordering his bi-weekly quota of tarkaris in chaste Kannada and chiding the vendor for last week's stale inclusions. The voice belonged to a rotund Punjabi restaurateur with perfect diction and an impeccable command of the Kannada language. A few yards away his Chinese counterpart -- another restaurant owner -- was speaking to the vendor in Kannada that would make the purists proud. No trace of an accent, no difficulty framing sentences.
How can this not warm your heart the way it did mine -- this is bona fide blending in. When you wholeheartedly embrace cultural differences, truly learn to belong and make a sincere attempt to respect the language and vernacular nuances of a place, any language will come naturally.
