God has been extremely merciful. Praise be upon Him.
Saturday, 20 July 2013
Monday, 1 July 2013
English, Lookin Back: Part-I
“Here…open your mouth wider…bas, that’s it…there you
go!”, his mother cooed, as she fed the last morsel from the plate into his
mouth. The morning had dawned, finally, and he had bathed, and now, even
finished his breakfast. He looked up at the wall clock. 20 minutes to 7, it
read. His mouth was dry, and he swallowed down the morsel somehow. His mother
passed him the glass of water. “Finish it, dear, and wait. I will just be ready
in a while”, she smiled, and disappeared into the other room.
10 minutes later, with his spirits as glum as the overcast
sky above, he walked down the road with his mother. The brand new, navy-blue
school bag didn’t contain more than three books and perhaps a couple of
notebooks, yet the bag appeared to be weighing down his shoulders. With
reluctant steps he strode, keeping his gaze on the road, watching as his new,
black shoes picked up specs of dust on their shiny texture. It was going to be
his first day at his new school – the prestigious St. Paul’s.
Before story may move ahead, a slight digression would
perhaps be suitable. The school had
earned a reputation throughout the district for discipline and its seasoned
ICSE curriculum, but what established St. Paul’s School as a coveted brand was
the fact that unlike most English Medium schools, it took its medium of
instruction too seriously. Teachers were mostly from Kerala, although there did
exist a local minority; but every teacher, be it a Keralite or a localite,
talked to you in English when they explained the lesson, they directed you in
English when you went for them in the Staff Room, they scolded you in English
when you earned their wrath (even that plump lady, Mrs. Jha, who spoke Maithili
at her home, screamed, the speech garbled by her overtly shrill voice, in
English). If this didn’t appear to be enough, even the Hindi and Sanskrit
teachers spoke in English when they weren’t explaining a lesson! You came
across a plethora of accents, ranging from Malyali ( ayi! Aa sed, appanda
buk – Hey! I said, open the book!) to blatant Bihari ( ae phellow, don
talk or I bill send u aaut!). Even the students laughed in English, wept in
English, fought in English, ate their tiffins in English and went home in
English. Of course, a private conversation would have its share of exchanges in
Hindi, but this usually was limited to very close buddies talking over matters
which were best discussed in Hindi. But if you decided to throw caution to the
winds and were caught ‘doing something’ in Hindi by a teacher, you will be
rushed to the Section Incharge, who will, again in English, demand explanations
of your Hindi misdeeds – a futile exercise, for you will be caned no matter
what you say, if you say at all, in defense.
By the rustics of Bihar, English was perceived as a ticket to success in the modern world – something that could earn you a job even if you had no good degree, something that could earn you respect and awe. English, especially in the spoken form, was a status symbol – on few evenings of the summer that I annually spent in my village, my uncles would make me stand in the porch on that large wooden log, and I would be asked to deliver an English speech on topics which were both important and popular those days, like “Cow”, “My Country”, “Holi”, to name a few. My audience would include my cousins, kids from the neighborhood, middle-aged friends of my uncles, and often the village priest. In middle of my speech, often my uncle would interrupt. "Hey, why are you speaking so fast, boy? Do you think anybody is following you? Go slow!" he'd bark, and I would flush deeply. As I went ahead with the declamation, my audience would gaze at me in rapt attention, dazzled by things which made no sense to them; the house lad would turn from milking the cow to listen to me, his hands still clinging to her udders; and my uncle, who used to serve as the moderator, would swell with pride and look around the audience, returning their awestruck glances with a smug chuckle. After I would finish, elders would quietly talk among themselves. ‘ The boy is smart’, one would concede. Another would join in, ‘Indeed! Did you see how fluently he spoke? He will surely be an IAS officer one day!” My cousins would sit with their arms around me, while the kids from the neighborhood would keep staring at me, as if I was a demigod. Men would come and pat my back, encouraging me to study harder and harder and become a great man. Such sessions used to cause a great deal of embarrassment to me, but brought my uncle a great sense of superiority and pride. To the villagers, English was synonymous to sophistication. Perhaps it has been conducive to understand how St. Paul’s School, with all that it stood for and all those it stood among, stood as an iconic institution.
By the rustics of Bihar, English was perceived as a ticket to success in the modern world – something that could earn you a job even if you had no good degree, something that could earn you respect and awe. English, especially in the spoken form, was a status symbol – on few evenings of the summer that I annually spent in my village, my uncles would make me stand in the porch on that large wooden log, and I would be asked to deliver an English speech on topics which were both important and popular those days, like “Cow”, “My Country”, “Holi”, to name a few. My audience would include my cousins, kids from the neighborhood, middle-aged friends of my uncles, and often the village priest. In middle of my speech, often my uncle would interrupt. "Hey, why are you speaking so fast, boy? Do you think anybody is following you? Go slow!" he'd bark, and I would flush deeply. As I went ahead with the declamation, my audience would gaze at me in rapt attention, dazzled by things which made no sense to them; the house lad would turn from milking the cow to listen to me, his hands still clinging to her udders; and my uncle, who used to serve as the moderator, would swell with pride and look around the audience, returning their awestruck glances with a smug chuckle. After I would finish, elders would quietly talk among themselves. ‘ The boy is smart’, one would concede. Another would join in, ‘Indeed! Did you see how fluently he spoke? He will surely be an IAS officer one day!” My cousins would sit with their arms around me, while the kids from the neighborhood would keep staring at me, as if I was a demigod. Men would come and pat my back, encouraging me to study harder and harder and become a great man. Such sessions used to cause a great deal of embarrassment to me, but brought my uncle a great sense of superiority and pride. To the villagers, English was synonymous to sophistication. Perhaps it has been conducive to understand how St. Paul’s School, with all that it stood for and all those it stood among, stood as an iconic institution.
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