Learning Indian (2)

Last night I ate out at a licensed restaurant. My experience of such places since I've been in India is that the title 'Restaurant & Bar' means that the clientele will consist of middle-aged men sitting alone, drinking spirits, eating snacks and engaging the waiters in lengthy conversations. I assume the occasional addition of 'Family' to the title is intended as a joke. Invariably the lights are low, the cigarette smoke thick. All such places that I have visited had an air of what can only be described as 'slight dodginess'. But I wanted a beer with my dinner so I went in. The middle-aged Indian man at the next table started a conversation with me in Hindi, I converted it to Marathi (Mi Marathi bolto thoda thoda. Mi Hindi bolt nahi), and we talked while he drank whiskey and ate parathas and I drank beer and ate chicken. One question he kept asking, and I kept misunderstanding, involved a word I couldn't decipher. I guessed the question was 'When did you come here from London?' This morning, as I opened my notebooks to begin Marathi shiktoy, I saw the word he'd used staring me in the face, and realised he was asking me when I'm going home.

However, this experience has been the exception rather than the rule in my Marathi conversations so far. I learnt early on that 'thoda thoda', meaning 'a little', is the most useful phrase for a foreigner to know in Maharashtra. Say anything in Marathi to someone and their surprised response will be to ask 'Tu Marathi boltos?' ('Do you speak Marathi?'). If you say 'Thoda thoda' to this they will be all smiles.

Various people in the areas of Pune I most frequently frequent recognise me now and greet me when they see me, the white man who tries to speak Marathi to everyone even when they speak English. My longest Marathi conversations have been with rickshaw wallas, for obvious reasons. One gave me his mobile number at the end of the journey, and stopped to say hello (and to ask where I was going) when he saw me out walking a week later.

I've also made friends with a group of boys who hang around on the street near my lodgings. On our first meeting their ringleader commanded me to stop (Bas!) and introduced himself as Sachin. I nicknamed him Tendulkar, whereupon he introduced two of his friends as Kemel (Lotus) and Kajul (the Indian equivalent of mascara). On our second meeting he approached me borne on the shoulders of Mascara (or was it Lotus?), asked my father's name, and told me he was off to visit his wife. Tendulkar can't be more than 10 years old. Even if I understand most of his Marathi (or at least the sentences he speaks to me, rather than about me), it's hard to know when he's being serious and when he's teasing the white man who keeps asking him to huloo huloo bol (speak slowly).

And the obligatory factoid: although recorded alcohol consumption per capita has fallen since 1980 in most developed countries, it has risen steadily in developing countries. In India consumption by 'adults' (15 years and above) increased by 106% between 1970-2 and 1994-6. In addition, during this period the international brands have claimed a large chunk of the market. In the places I've been to, the price of a bottle of beer is equal to, or greater than, the price of a meal. Cheers.

Horn Ok Please

My feeling is that the Indian motorist's use of the horn, like the Indian headwaggle, has certain rules of usage, but these rules are not the sort of rules that western minds are accustomed to (see Wittgenstein and Bourdieu). Despite this feeling, here is my attempt at interpretation.

The head waggle means neither yes nor no; it means 'I understand what you're saying'. So if you say 'Deccan Corner' to a rickshaw walla and he gives you a headwaggle, climb in. If you say 'Do you know where Deccan Corner is?' and get a headwaggle, change your question.

Shortly after I began cycling in Pune, it became apparent that Indian motorists do not, in fact, honk their horn a) continuously or b) whenever the hell they feel like it. Neither do they do it just to say hello, as someone suggested to me. Rather, the horn has a very precise meaning: 'I'm about to do something really quite dangerous, so be aware of my presence and don't hold me responsible if one of us winds up dead, because I did warn you'. The horn is necessary, I presume, because Indian motorists keep their eyes on the road ahead, or rather on the next motorist, who is invariably so close you can see the whites of his eyes even though he's looking the other way. Without the horn, they would have no idea what is just behind them or to their side, and might be tempted to brake or swerve into a space that isn't there. The horn is necessary because it is the only rule of the road they've got. Thus the mantra 'Horn Ok Please' is emblazoned on the back of every truck, just in case anyone should forget.

Sorry if this all sounds like I've spent too long thinking about it. I clearly have. But what made me think about it was the fact that no Indian I have spoken to has been able to explain these things to me; they're just things Indians do without thinking.

Hence Wittgenstein (and Bourdieu). Mwah.

Hints and Tips (1)

If your landlady offers to show you the basics of Pranayam, clear your nose before you begin. Otherwise the breathing exercises that follow will.

A Million Armpits Now

I now have a bicycle, so I can avoid rickshaws and buses and get some exercise. On my first night here I was told Pune is a two-wheeled city, and it is. In a city which has recently seen massive growth but little change in its public transport system, motorbikes and scooters are the vehicles of choice of middle-class youth, and bicycles transport [a statistic I couldn't find, and who cares anyway] people to work each day. No helmets. When I told them of my plans to get a bike, Sid asked if I knew the rules of the road in India. We drive on the left here, he began. I asked him if he’d seen how people drive in Pune. People do drive on the left here – when it suits them. And while one or two cyclists in London sometimes jump traffic lights (no names mentioned), here the hordes of motorbikes and scooters commonly jump them too. But don’t worry too much mum, the traffic in Pune moves only marginally faster than Bombay’s snail pace and a lot slower than in London. And knocking off cyclists doesn’t appear to be a sport here, as I sometimes suspected it was in London. Still, I’ll try and introduce Critical Mass if I can.

Bombay, unlike Pune, is a city of trains. Two north-south lines connect the tip of the peninsula in the south with the mainland in the north. I love Bombay trains. I seriously think British theme parks should consider developing a ride that simulates the experience. At the least, London Underground could install some mechanical device at tube stations to lift passengers on and off trains in a fashion similar to the way a crowd of commuters lifts passengers on and off Bombay trains. And the simple genius of obviating the need for A/C by having no doors on carriages never ceases to amaze me. Several people die as a result of falling from the trains each year, usually during rush hour. Rush hour on a Bombay train really has to be seen to be believed. Long before the train comes to a halt, people are jumping in and out of carriages that quite obviously have less than no space in them. I grit my teeth and ready my elbows for action. A million armpits now.