Mysore? Dirty Place!

Before I recount the following story, I have to declare that I bear no animosity towards my countrymen, whichever part of the country they come from. I have always been a bonglo-phile (to coin a term?) so much so that I even learnt the script and can still read a little. As for Bihar and Biharis, I have excellent memories of the friends I made there and later too. This story is just an incident that gives, hopefully, some insight into human nature - nothing more, if anything, a lot less. I hope it makes even Bengalis and Biharis who read this smile, indulgently.

It was the winter of 1979. I was living and working in Ranchi. I had been to Calcutta on work. I was returning to Ranchi by the night bus.

A Bengali old man sat next to me and the bus made its way out of Calcutta. The old man started a conversation with me. Typical bus conversation: “where are you going?” “When did you come to Calcutta?” And then, “Where are you from?”

I said that I was from Mysore. “Mussoorie?” was the query. I did not fit a “North Indian’s” (For South Indians anything other than the four southern sates is North India, even Maharashtra!!) concept of a South Indian and hence this was quite a common confusion. “No, no, Mysore, not Mussoorie”.

“Ah! Maishore. Darty plesh” Translating from Bonglish to English, it is “Ah! Mysore! Dirty place”.

This was news to me, who had lived almost all his life in Mysore. Like most Mysoreans, I too believed (and still do) that it was (is) heaven on earth. Now, here comes a man in impeccable white dhoti and kurta (Punjabi, as the Bengalis call it!) from dirty Calcutta and calls Mysore dirty?

I am not very quick when it comes to trading insults in earnest. It is something else when it is good friendly leg pulling. But, this was different. Stung by this undeserved insult to my beloved city, I was inspired.

I asked innocently, “when were you there?” He said, “During Dusshera”.

I was quick in my response. “Oh, Dasara? That is not the time to visit Mysore. It is always a clean city but, during Dasara all kinds of people, you know, like Bengalis and Biharis come to Mysore and make it dirty.”

End of conversation.

Bangalore? What a Lovely Place!

I was standing in a queue at a post office in Southampton. Being in a queue in England is a quintessential part of the memory of even a brief visit to England. One author, who should know, says that “an Englishman, even when he is the only one at a counter, stands in “an orderly queue of one”. But, I digress.

I had a letter to my wife in my hand. I wanted to buy stamps. There was this very handsome old gentleman, in a casual suit, behind me in the queue. He said, “Excuse me young man, I could not help noticing the address on the cover in your hand. Are you from Bangalore?” I said, “No, my wife is. I am from a smaller city about 150 kms. away”. “You mean Mysore?” he asked.

Ah, this was getting interesting. Bangalore was not so famous in those days as it appears to be now. I said, “Yes, how do you know?”

He told me that he was posted in Bangalore as a young RAF officer during the War (WW II). He had very fond memories of Bangalore. He had visited Mysore too.

It was such a pleasant interlude. His pleasant face with twinkling eyes, which had gone misty when he talked of his days in Bangalore, was a great sight. I was glad I had taken this man on a brief journey down memory lane.

The Fortune Teller

One of my favourite Sunday programmes used to be to go to Manasa Gangotri, sit under a tree and read something.

One day as I sat there reading, I was disturbed by a itinerant fortune teller. Usually these people are from the northern parts of Karnataka. They wear kachche panche and jubba (kurta) and a Gandhi cap.

This one was persistent. I tried to ignore him and realised that you can't ignore someone and read at the same time. I tried telling him that I was not interested. He did not believe it. I told him that I did not believe in it. He tried to tell me that I should try him once and I would know.

Finally I asked him, "You do not even know your own future - whether I will let you tell me my future and pay you for it. How could you know my future?"

He beat a hasty retreat.

Just One Word of French

Of a lazy Sunday afternoon, I was home reading a novel. A friend of mine, Niri, called me and asked me if I was game for a couple of games of chess.

This friend ran a popular arts and crafts shop (Mysore Curios, Arts and Crafts) in the city centre. It was strategically located and during the ‘season’, attracted many tourists, quite a few of them foreigners. One such tourist, Roger, a French speaking Swiss had struck up a conversation with Niri and had asked him if he knew anyone with whom he could play chess.

I played a lot of chess during the years of the great rivalry between Spassky and Fischer. Many of my friends were drawn to chess thanks to the unbelievable amount of media attention that the antics and eccentricities of Fischer generated. But I was never a good player.

I explained all this to Niri and he in turn to Roger, who said that it did not matter. So, we decided on the venue - the lawns of Hotel Metropole, at 3:30 in the afternoon.

I went there and played a few games. Roger went on sipping beer and I thought I had an advantage since I did not drink any. But it was not to be. He beat me comprehensively in all the three games.

We folded the board, packed the pieces away and chatted.

Roger asked me, “Do you have any French?” I said, “Unfortunately, I know only one word in French”. Roger was very curious. “What is that one word?” he wanted to know.

“Merde¹”, I said.

He held his head in his hands and groaned, “Of all the words in French!”

I laughed and consoled him, “I said that too only because that was the first word to pop up in my mind. In fact, I know Merci² too”. He was much relieved.

1: Shit

2: Thank you

Just a Word of Gujarati

Some friends and I had been to Calcutta (In the IIT Kharagpur – Kgp – lingo, we had been to Cal) and were returning to Kharagpur by train. There was a guy sitting next to me and as it usually happens, a conversation developed. Everyone was talking to everyone else. The guy next to me was multilingual and spoke fluent English, Hindi and Bangla. I tried to figure out what his mother tongue was but was unsuccessful. He could have been from anywhere in India.

Finally we reached Kharagpur and walked towards the two-wheeler stand and I asked him about his mother tongue. I was told that he was a Gujrati, born and brought up in Kgp. Being a businessman he knew all the mentioned languages.

As we were about to part, he on his scooter and I on my cycle, I gave him a cheery and confident “aaujo”. I don’t know if the transliteration is even correct, as I do not know the original correctly. However, it had the desired effect.

He stopped abruptly and asked me with excitement, “Are you a Gujju too?”

Alas, no but this is the only Gujju word I know…..

Just a Few Words of Tamizh

I was travelling from Ranchi to Bangalore by train. The train reached Madras a little late and I had to catch the train to Bangalore. There was very little time and there were no boards to lead me to the platform from which the train to Bangalore started.

I found a railway official sitting at a desk and answering queries from other travellers. I went there too and tried my luck. “Excuse me”… “Excuse me”…. No response. I tried a few more times. No luck. Then I realised that this would not work. I raised my voice a bit and said, “inge paarongo saar”. The reaction was immediate. I had caught the attention of the man. I asked my question, got the answer and was on the train straight away.

The trick was to talk to the man in his language and this was about all the Tamizh I knew!

Phew……

Just a Few Words of Bangla

I had just arrived in Nuremberg by train and was checking in at the hotel. Viktoria was the name, I think. There came another Indian to check in and as soon as he asked the receptionist about checking in, I knew that he was a Bengali. The accent and the sentence structure are dead give-aways.

I waited for him to check in and once he finished asked him, “apni bangali na ki?” (Are you a Bengali? I hope this is correct!). His face lit up like a 1000 W bulb. He said, “yes!” (of course) and proffered his hand and asked, “are you a Bangali too” in English. That made things easier. I said “No, but I can speak a little Bangla”.

He said, “Great, let us have dinner together! You will be my guest. I have been traveling for the last few weeks and am sick of talking to clients and only in English.”

My first job was In Ranchi and I had many Bengali friends. I had learnt some Bengali from them.
An hour or so later, we met at the reception again and he took me to a Chinese restaurant and we had a great meal. The conversation was tri-lingual. Hindi, English and Bangla. I had a great time. I was not a comfortable traveler in those days (I am not much better even today). So, his company was most welcome.

Not bad for just a few words of Bangla, eh?