In the eternal quest to adapt to my surroundings, I have always felt that language can play a defining role in whether this is an easy or a challenging process. This is why learning the local language has always been at the top of my list whenever I have moved somewhere new. It's what led me to learn Hindi all over again, with the help of a dictionary; pahadi (a mountain dialect) from groups of women harvesting their crop; Swahili in a language lab, with the the eternal hope that I may some day travel to East Africa (which I haven't managed to do yet); and now, Kannada.
It's simultaneously frustrating and exciting when I arrive in a new place and feel that I have to fit in all over again. I've almost always had a basic grasp of the language before my arrival, but Kannada is a total mystery to me. So with this thought in mind, and after a recommendation from a colleague, I showed up last Sunday morning for my first class, in a hospital in the centre of Bangalore, with uncertain expectations.
As I walked up to the classroom, I realised that this portion of the hospital had been abandoned for a new shiny building next door. There were old beds and machinery stacked up in dusty corners of different floors, and it looked like the venue of my classroom was being used during weekdays to teach aspiring medical students. On the wall, there was a fairly detailed and labelled drawing of the human heart.
I took my seat and looked around. This was going to be interesting, I thought. There were about ten others- a smorgasbord of people of different ages and appearances. Our teacher, a soft spoken lady, began the lesson by asking everyone a series of questions in Kannada- a recap from the previous class (I had missed the first session). As she moved around the room, I began to get a sense of the people around me- a housewife from Maharashtra, a retired army man from Amritsar, a Tamil couple that had just returned from Dubai, a Malayalee consultant, a Gujarati factory owner, an Assamese engineering student, a Telugu yoga master. The everyday Bangalorean. Seriously? I couldn't believe it. Add me in that mix, and you truly have a recipe for fun.
After the first two hours and a short coffee break, we resumed class with the founder of the school, a five-foot something Kannada enthusiast. In between our lesson on possessive pronouns, we were treated to debates on the Telengana dispute with the non-committal yoga teacher, anecdotes on the diet and habits of Punjabi retired officers (along with tips on how to have a good relationship with one's daugher-in-law) and the tribulations of running a plastic factory. I felt as if I was living out an episode of Mind Your Language. It made me realise how unbelievably diverse my country is- what brought us all together in that class was our interest in learning a language not spoken by billions of people around the world, or one that would help advance our careers- but a language that would help us negotiate the city that we had all become a part of.
As I walked out of class, I couldn't wait for the next one. Since I'm away this weekend, I'll be missing out, but am looking forward to the next time, when I can learn from and interact with this rich tapestry of experiences that come alive in those three blissful hours, on sleepy Sunday mornings in Bangalore.
Chennagidhini.
It's simultaneously frustrating and exciting when I arrive in a new place and feel that I have to fit in all over again. I've almost always had a basic grasp of the language before my arrival, but Kannada is a total mystery to me. So with this thought in mind, and after a recommendation from a colleague, I showed up last Sunday morning for my first class, in a hospital in the centre of Bangalore, with uncertain expectations.
As I walked up to the classroom, I realised that this portion of the hospital had been abandoned for a new shiny building next door. There were old beds and machinery stacked up in dusty corners of different floors, and it looked like the venue of my classroom was being used during weekdays to teach aspiring medical students. On the wall, there was a fairly detailed and labelled drawing of the human heart.
I took my seat and looked around. This was going to be interesting, I thought. There were about ten others- a smorgasbord of people of different ages and appearances. Our teacher, a soft spoken lady, began the lesson by asking everyone a series of questions in Kannada- a recap from the previous class (I had missed the first session). As she moved around the room, I began to get a sense of the people around me- a housewife from Maharashtra, a retired army man from Amritsar, a Tamil couple that had just returned from Dubai, a Malayalee consultant, a Gujarati factory owner, an Assamese engineering student, a Telugu yoga master. The everyday Bangalorean. Seriously? I couldn't believe it. Add me in that mix, and you truly have a recipe for fun.
After the first two hours and a short coffee break, we resumed class with the founder of the school, a five-foot something Kannada enthusiast. In between our lesson on possessive pronouns, we were treated to debates on the Telengana dispute with the non-committal yoga teacher, anecdotes on the diet and habits of Punjabi retired officers (along with tips on how to have a good relationship with one's daugher-in-law) and the tribulations of running a plastic factory. I felt as if I was living out an episode of Mind Your Language. It made me realise how unbelievably diverse my country is- what brought us all together in that class was our interest in learning a language not spoken by billions of people around the world, or one that would help advance our careers- but a language that would help us negotiate the city that we had all become a part of.
As I walked out of class, I couldn't wait for the next one. Since I'm away this weekend, I'll be missing out, but am looking forward to the next time, when I can learn from and interact with this rich tapestry of experiences that come alive in those three blissful hours, on sleepy Sunday mornings in Bangalore.
Chennagidhini.
Aaaah, I also want to join! I was the only one who ever used to pay attention in my Telugu classes. My paavam teacher much appreciated my enthusiasm.
ReplyDeleteBtw, doesn't that mean 'I'm fine'?