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Kuchalambal's Diary
‘School teacher stabbed to death in Chennai’ screamed the headlines. Kuchalambal strained to read the details below, hurriedly searching for her glasses. The winter morning haze did not help much in illuminating the room. She struggled up to switch on the lights, so as to be able to read the newspaper.
“A teacher was stabbed to death in the classroom of a private school here on Thursday, allegedly by a 15-year-old student who was upset at being repeatedly reprimanded by her for not doing well in studies. The boy had failed in Hindi. The teacher had written remarks in his diary which had angered him.”
What a shame she thought, two precious lives destroyed beyond redemption, , children rendered motherless, parents in distress, and scores scorched by the event. All because of a child’s inability to learn a language!
She was reminded of their own travails, of landing up in an unknown city, not knowing much more than a smattering of English. Her knowledge of Tamil & Telugu, was of hardly any use in this strange land, where people seemed to understand only Hindi and nothing else. Of what use is English when one has to buy a kilo of pulses, from a grocer, or for that matter in asking for Asafoetida, or tamarind, camphor, sesame oil, curry leaves from a shop keeper who had never been near a word of English. She could not imagine a life without any of the above items of cooking.
Thankfully buying veggies out of the vendor’s cart used to be an easier task. One just had to just pick up any item and ask him for two hundred grams of the stuff. Someone in the crowd would translate for her and the job would be done. But the funny thing was that if the vegetable that one wanted was not displayed up front, she could never ask for it by name; she never knew in the initial days what to call what. ‘Alooo’, was the first word that she learnt, it sounded so easy, ‘alooo’, she rolled the word around in her mouth, it felt so good, ‘alooo’, yes she though, it may not be so difficult after all. And it was easy to remember too, her brother’s name was Balu, and he looked so like an ‘alooo’ to boot, she smiled to herself. ‘Muli’ was the next one she learnt, again because it spelled like her cousin Murli’s name. She was now having ball learning Hindi.
Buying milk turned out to be so much easier. She learnt that it goes by the name of ‘Doodh’ but the difficult one was to get the preferred milk of one’s choice, ‘Cow’s milk’, she struggled with the milk man the first day. She had caught hold of him delivering milk from a can, a few buildings away, and had somehow made him come over to her own gate. She was warned earlier, that buffalo’s milks is more prevalent in Delhi, so she was trying to convey to him that she did not want buffalo’s milk. As if ordained to save her from embarrassment, a cow ambled across the road in slow motion. She indicated to that animal, and said to the milkman ‘Cow’ ‘Cow’. By now the milkman whose whole world revolved around bovine creatures understood, like a mathematician understanding a difficult puzzle, and promptly took out the precious contents off a different can. “Gai ka Doodh” he said. She nodded, as if a great awakening had dawned, Gai, similar to bhai, she giggled to herself.
She balanced the vessel full of milk on one hand, and navigated around the puddle in the courtyard, holding her sari pleats in the other hand. Pattabi watching from the terrace above could not hold a smile. She looked so divine, he thought, the radiance of a newly wedded bride, the hope, the wonder, in her eyes, the milk in her hand as though symbolizing a brimming cup of life. The soft thud of her foot falls as she climbed the stairs, the clinking of her anklet, as if echoing the distant peeling of temple bells, entranced him as he watched his goddess incarnate, walking into the small kitchen which was just across the terrace, to return with that invigorating cup of coffee in her hands.
Providence solved her communication problems to a large extent. The second day into her life in Delhi, she met ‘Lakshmi Mami’. Mami & Mama for those not familiar with the term, is a common reference to a lady and a gent respectively. (The term Mama & Mama is also means Maternal Uncle and Aunt). When she first saw a familiarly ‘tamilian looking’ lady walking past her house, she jumped after her and almost grabbed her hand in glee saying ‘neegal tamizha ? (are u a Tamil), and when the lady in question nodded in acknowledgment, Kuchalambal was awed, and gaped at her as if she had met an Eskimo in the African jungles. Forty eight hours of not having met a tamilian was too harsh for the young lass.
The easy going well to do Lakshmi Mami, a good ten years older to her, had herself come to Delhi a decade back and lived a few rows of houses beyond. A tall impressive lady at first sight, she maneuvered herself with elegance unmatched. Her husband too like Pattabi was a civil servant, but financially well settled, which reflected in her own demeanor. A brilliant singer, with a perfect grip on spoken English and Hindi, the lady oozed confidence in her every step. Kuchalambal was impressed and totally in awe of the lady and her persona partly also because she was lost out here in the huge Hindi jungle. On her part Lakshi mami, had never had a younger sister, she had grown up always being bullied by her older siblings, and in Kuchalambal she found the sweetest little sister she could ever find. They struck an instant rapport.
The ladies, alone, after their husbands left for work, had all the time in the world to explore the markets of Karol Bagh. Lakshmi seems to know exactly where to look for items of need. And she was only too happy to act as interpreter whenever required. Thanks to Lakshmi, she got to know of the South Indian Store, on Ajmal Khan Road. The day Lakshmi told her about the store, Kuchalambal dragged her out of the house wanting to immediately go and get her ration for the month. She was fed up with the struggle of buying grocery. The challenge in figuring out the Hindi word for things so simple as rice floor & jaggery, of being confronted by the shopkeeper in his dirty pajamas, scratching himself uncontrollably at forbidden places, as he tried to figure out what was that she wanted to buy. Not to speak of his constant muttering something’s about Madrasi’s under his foul smelling breath.
Kuchalambal's Diary
‘School teacher stabbed to death in Chennai’ screamed the headlines. Kuchalambal strained to read the details below, hurriedly searching for her glasses. The winter morning haze did not help much in illuminating the room. She struggled up to switch on the lights, so as to be able to read the newspaper.
“A teacher was stabbed to death in the classroom of a private school here on Thursday, allegedly by a 15-year-old student who was upset at being repeatedly reprimanded by her for not doing well in studies. The boy had failed in Hindi. The teacher had written remarks in his diary which had angered him.”
What a shame she thought, two precious lives destroyed beyond redemption, , children rendered motherless, parents in distress, and scores scorched by the event. All because of a child’s inability to learn a language!
She was reminded of their own travails, of landing up in an unknown city, not knowing much more than a smattering of English. Her knowledge of Tamil & Telugu, was of hardly any use in this strange land, where people seemed to understand only Hindi and nothing else. Of what use is English when one has to buy a kilo of pulses, from a grocer, or for that matter in asking for Asafoetida, or tamarind, camphor, sesame oil, curry leaves from a shop keeper who had never been near a word of English. She could not imagine a life without any of the above items of cooking.
Thankfully buying veggies out of the vendor’s cart used to be an easier task. One just had to just pick up any item and ask him for two hundred grams of the stuff. Someone in the crowd would translate for her and the job would be done. But the funny thing was that if the vegetable that one wanted was not displayed up front, she could never ask for it by name; she never knew in the initial days what to call what. ‘Alooo’, was the first word that she learnt, it sounded so easy, ‘alooo’, she rolled the word around in her mouth, it felt so good, ‘alooo’, yes she though, it may not be so difficult after all. And it was easy to remember too, her brother’s name was Balu, and he looked so like an ‘alooo’ to boot, she smiled to herself. ‘Muli’ was the next one she learnt, again because it spelled like her cousin Murli’s name. She was now having ball learning Hindi.
Buying milk turned out to be so much easier. She learnt that it goes by the name of ‘Doodh’ but the difficult one was to get the preferred milk of one’s choice, ‘Cow’s milk’, she struggled with the milk man the first day. She had caught hold of him delivering milk from a can, a few buildings away, and had somehow made him come over to her own gate. She was warned earlier, that buffalo’s milks is more prevalent in Delhi, so she was trying to convey to him that she did not want buffalo’s milk. As if ordained to save her from embarrassment, a cow ambled across the road in slow motion. She indicated to that animal, and said to the milkman ‘Cow’ ‘Cow’. By now the milkman whose whole world revolved around bovine creatures understood, like a mathematician understanding a difficult puzzle, and promptly took out the precious contents off a different can. “Gai ka Doodh” he said. She nodded, as if a great awakening had dawned, Gai, similar to bhai, she giggled to herself.
She balanced the vessel full of milk on one hand, and navigated around the puddle in the courtyard, holding her sari pleats in the other hand. Pattabi watching from the terrace above could not hold a smile. She looked so divine, he thought, the radiance of a newly wedded bride, the hope, the wonder, in her eyes, the milk in her hand as though symbolizing a brimming cup of life. The soft thud of her foot falls as she climbed the stairs, the clinking of her anklet, as if echoing the distant peeling of temple bells, entranced him as he watched his goddess incarnate, walking into the small kitchen which was just across the terrace, to return with that invigorating cup of coffee in her hands.
Providence solved her communication problems to a large extent. The second day into her life in Delhi, she met ‘Lakshmi Mami’. Mami & Mama for those not familiar with the term, is a common reference to a lady and a gent respectively. (The term Mama & Mama is also means Maternal Uncle and Aunt). When she first saw a familiarly ‘tamilian looking’ lady walking past her house, she jumped after her and almost grabbed her hand in glee saying ‘neegal tamizha ? (are u a Tamil), and when the lady in question nodded in acknowledgment, Kuchalambal was awed, and gaped at her as if she had met an Eskimo in the African jungles. Forty eight hours of not having met a tamilian was too harsh for the young lass.
The easy going well to do Lakshmi Mami, a good ten years older to her, had herself come to Delhi a decade back and lived a few rows of houses beyond. A tall impressive lady at first sight, she maneuvered herself with elegance unmatched. Her husband too like Pattabi was a civil servant, but financially well settled, which reflected in her own demeanor. A brilliant singer, with a perfect grip on spoken English and Hindi, the lady oozed confidence in her every step. Kuchalambal was impressed and totally in awe of the lady and her persona partly also because she was lost out here in the huge Hindi jungle. On her part Lakshi mami, had never had a younger sister, she had grown up always being bullied by her older siblings, and in Kuchalambal she found the sweetest little sister she could ever find. They struck an instant rapport.
The ladies, alone, after their husbands left for work, had all the time in the world to explore the markets of Karol Bagh. Lakshmi seems to know exactly where to look for items of need. And she was only too happy to act as interpreter whenever required. Thanks to Lakshmi, she got to know of the South Indian Store, on Ajmal Khan Road. The day Lakshmi told her about the store, Kuchalambal dragged her out of the house wanting to immediately go and get her ration for the month. She was fed up with the struggle of buying grocery. The challenge in figuring out the Hindi word for things so simple as rice floor & jaggery, of being confronted by the shopkeeper in his dirty pajamas, scratching himself uncontrollably at forbidden places, as he tried to figure out what was that she wanted to buy. Not to speak of his constant muttering something’s about Madrasi’s under his foul smelling breath.
