Linguistic chaos in the hospital
I WAS one of the few Punjabi-speaking resident doctors in my speciality at the PGI, Chandigarh. During the late-evening ward rounds in the hospital, Telugu was commonly spoken as a large section of the doctors hailed from Andhra Pradesh. Doctors like me and the patients were left high and dry because of our inability to understand much about the goings-on during these rounds, but we would nod in agreement.
Since many patients were from Punjab, I was often called in by my colleagues to resolve the language-induced confusion. ‘The patient is speaking pind (chaste) Punjabi,’ was the common refrain asking for urgent intervention.
It was left to me to explain that latt meant lower limb and not necessarily a bad habit. Hath meant hand, and not being obstinate. ‘Dhidd saaf nahi hoiya’ had nothing to do with cleaning or bathing but constipation. In most such situations, I was able to acquit myself well, but in others I was a failure. ‘Puttar mera chitt ghaaoon maaoon karda hai’ could not be translated despite my best efforts.
Many of these patients did not know beyond a smattering of Punjabi-mixed Hindi. This conversation I overheard near the medicine OPD: a doctor from a northeastern state was trying to elicit information from a patient troubled by worm infestation in the bowels. ‘Kya aapki latrine mein jaanwar aate hain?’ She got a quick rebuttal: ‘Kaise aaenge, doctor sahib? Main darwaja band karke latrine mein jaata hoon.’ I had no choice but to acknowledge the straightforwardness of the patient, while I empathised with the doctor.
The language imbroglio crept into the requirement of doctors as well. The more enterprising ones among us would want to use the language barrier to our advantage. A batchmate wanted leave to visit his hometown after working hard for over a year. Our department was headed by a renowned professor with a Punjabi surname. My friend decided to take along an invitation card in Telugu to boost his claim for leave. It was submitted that since his sister was getting married at a short notice, he would have to go urgently; then he proffered the ‘wedding invite’. Horror of horrors, the HoD started reading the invitation card loudly in Telugu. My batchmate did not know where to hide as it was actually a mundan ceremony card!
To his chagrin, it was revealed to him much later that the teacher had his school and college education in Andhra Pradesh. The boss, understandably livid, used chaste Telugu expletives. It was evident that linguistic subterfuge could not stop the truth from being heard loud and clear.
