The myriad hues of Hindi

Usha Bande

THE taxi glided slowly and came to a halt at Nongpoh. ‘Chai, didi,’ the driver announced. My eyes half-closed, I had immersed myself in timeless Hindi hits, such as the songs by the Mangeshkar sisters, Rafi, Talat, Kishore da and Noor Jehan; Hari Om Sharan’s bhajans in his booming voice; Alok Ganguly’s ‘Shiv Bhola Bhandari’; and Mira’s soul-stirring melodies, sung by Anuradha Paudwal. Nongpoh is midway between Guwahati and Shillong; it is a vibrant stop to refresh oneself for the uphill drive. I stepped out, silently thanking the driver for those Hindi songs our generation grew up with. Initially, I had an apprehension that I would have to tolerate songs of his choice, but he surprised me. I asked him about his tryst with Hindi. ‘Mujhe Hindi bahut pyari lagti hai,’ he said in immaculate Hindi tinged with his soft Assamese accent and intonation and then talked about his Army stint. I felt guilty for having judged him so hurriedly and harshly.

Another encounter with a Hindi buff happened long back when I was travelling by a city bus from Secunderabad to Osmania University. A woman sitting next to me started a conversation, which I understood only partially. Amid the din inside — the conductor’s shrill whistles and the rattling of the ramshackle bus — I could barely make sense of her words. Embarrassed at my inability to respond to her queries, I ventured, ‘Telugu nahi, Akka.’ The woman was not ruffled. She laughed heartily; thumping my shoulder with a heavy hand, she uttered good-humouredly, ‘Indi bolta, Amma.’ Surprised, I looked at her sheepishly. ‘Dakkani Indi bolta’ (Hindi from the Deccan),’ she added. She got down at the next stop, cheery as ever, while I sat brooding over my silliness. Dakhani Hindi and Dakhani Urdu are widely spoken in Hyderabad since Nizam-ul-Mulk’s days, but these are too heavily accented for a novice.

Hindi has flexibility, and like English, it can be moulded as per the speaker’s diction. A friend from Madhya Pradesh observed, ‘You speak good Hindi, but it is Punjabi Hindi.’ She meant that my intonation had a touch of Punjabi.

From Kashmir to Kanyakumari, people understand and speak Hindi, howsoever flawed, except when the issue is politicised and people convince themselves that they can do without Hindi. Mixed with local or English words, Hindi can generate much fun too. Here is a parting shot: once, an octogenarian woman, talking about her hardships, cribbed, ‘Meri to luck hi kharab hai (my kismet is bad).’ A mischievous octogenarian male sitting next to her quipped, ‘Oh no, you still have a shapely lakk’ (in Punjabi, lakk is the word for the waist). One can imagine the resultant glee.

Who says languages are dry and sombre?