My knowledge of Hindi is remarkably deficient despite
my living in the northern parts of India for three whole decades.
The language never appealed to me.
Rather, my Hindi teachers at school, without exception, were the coarsest
people I ever met in that period of my life and they created my aversion to
Hindi. Someone told me later that those who took up Hindi as their academic
major in Kerala were people who failed to secure admission to any other course.
That is, if you’re good for nothing else, then go for Hindi. And so they end up
as disgruntled people. We students became the victims of that discontent. I don’t
know if this theory is correct, however.
Though I studied Hindi as my third
language (there was no other option) at school for six years, I couldn’t speak
one good sentence in that language when I turned my back on school happily and
with immense relief after the tenth grade. Of course, I could manage some simple
sentences like में लड़का हू। [I am a boy.] A few lines
from a poem remained with me for many years: पर्वत पर से आती सरिता…
That was more or less an imitation of
Tennyson’s poem ‘The Brook’ though I hadn’t even heard of Tennyson when I was
forced to commit ‘Sarita’ to memory.
Later, while I was doing a two-year philosophy
course as part of my ecclesiastical (mis)pursuit, I was given an option to
choose between Hindi and Tamil. I chose Tamil merely out of spite for my earlier
Hindi teachers. Ironically, knowledge of Hindi became important to me sooner rather
than later. South India couldn’t give me a job when I graduated.
My first job was in Shillong where most people
spoke English fluently and hence my ignorance of Hindi didn’t matter much
except in the markets and the public transport. The bus conductors in Shillong’s
lousy little tin cabins that the city buses were gave me the biggest urge to
learn Hindi. I say ‘lousy’ because those buses would take almost an hour to
travel 8 km, the distance from the bus terminal near my school to the place of
my residence. I used to sit and read novels during those journeys. In case you
didn’t manage to get a seat, it was hell. The conductor would come every now
and then and push you saying आगे
बढ़ो
(move forward) even if you’re standing
right in front of the bus. Those tribal boys who worked as conductors didn’t
know more Hindi than that, I think. But I wanted to learn Hindi, enough to tell
them not to manhandle passengers. I tried too. But the effort was abandoned
soon when I realised that bus conductors in Shillong didn’t take lessons in
civility from passengers.
When I took up job in Delhi, I was told
explicitly by the school’s management not to learn Hindi. “Let the students
speak only in English to you.” I took that injunction too seriously. My natural
aversion to Hindi must have been the real impetus.
Now, for the last ten years, I have been
living in Kerala where Hindi has no more role to play than in my schooldays of
Sarita, the brook. But I joined a free Hindi course with Duolingo last week. The reason: all the
workers I get for any job now in my village are from North India. Most of them
know enough Malayalam to manage daily affairs. But for effective communication,
some knowledge of Hindi will help, I decided.
Moreover, I’m learning some very innovative as
well as effective methods of language learning from Duolingo. Now I’m not quite
sure whether it is Hindi or Duolingo’s teaching methodology that appeals more
to me.
Comments
Post a Comment