Whose Mother Tongue is Hindi (Khadi Boli) anyway? - My Linguistic Journey

I spent my early childhood in a village not too far from Maghar, where Sant Kabir breathed his last.  And thus I picked up Awadhi as my mother tongue. Later in the childhood, I moved to the city of Faizabad where I learnt another variant of Awadhi as spoken in the city. To illustrate, what was "कहां गइल रहला?" in the village turned into "कहां गवा रहेव?" in the city.  Then I met some relatives from other parts of Eastern UP itself and was surprised to find that some of their verbs and intonations were markedly different from ours, though we could converse fluently without any problem.

All this while, I was, of course, learning the Khadi Boli (KB) variety of Hindi in the school because these spoken dialects were and remain just that, spoken dialects without much written literature.  Of course, dohas from Kabir, Rahim, Soordas do form a body of literature in some of these dialects, and Ramayan is an Epic in Awadhi, but these have been adopted in the Khadi Boli Hindi where explaining the meaning of the dohas form routine examination questions.

In the middle and high school in the city some of us conversed in the local dialect, while others used the Khadi Boli.

My wife is from the Bhojpuri belt in UP that is adjacent to Bihar.  While we understand each other's dialects very well, initially we found some of the expressions and the accent in each other funny.  Then we switched to Khadi Boli.  So we started conversing in KB with each other while using Awadhi and Bhojpuri for conversing with other family members.

Because we switched over to KB, our son never got an opportunity to learn either Awadhi or Bhojpuri.  Same was the case with my cousins, and thus our next generation became the first generation which had KB as their mother tongue.  They largely understand our dialects but cannot sustain a conversation in that.

Thus I suspect that Hindi which is a synonym for KB is a mother tongue only for the city dwellers of North India, while the rural and even the semi-urban populations remain rooted in their language and reserve KB for city dwellers and people from other regions.  And while I have discussed only the languages prevalent in UP, the same applies to the entire Northern Belt including states like Haryana, Himachal Pradesh, Rajasthan etc.

Things have changed more drastically for our second generation, grandsons and granddaughters.  Most of them have studied in English medium schools.  While they do speak Hindi, it is more of Hinglish and what would be a normal conversation between KB speaking people with literary orientation, will not pass muster with them as normal Hindi.  Still others, those who have been raised abroad, have naturally taken to English (most NRIs prefer living in the English speaking world) as their mother tongue and can manage a conversation in Hindi only with difficulty.  Much of whatever KB the visiting grandparents are able to instill in them is partly lost by the time of the next visit.  I, personally, have given up teaching my grandsons KB and have instead started seeking their help to make my spoken English conform as much as possible to theirs.  I do feel bad when I think that they will never be able to enjoy Tulsi Ramayan sung by Mukesh and Ghalib Ghazals sung by Jagjit Singh the way I do.  Of course, they must also have similar feelings about my inability to enjoy their kind of music.  The consolation is that if they ever choose to study the Indian philosophy contained in the Upanishads and Samkhya and what have you, they will be able to do it as well as I have done, for I, too, have studied their English translations only.  Though, I am often able to figure out the meaning of a shloka in Sanskrit with some effort.

I also recall how a friend and colleague from Tamilnadu, who worked in UP for some time, was not able to pick up Hindi initially, but later, when posted in Gujarat, started speaking good enough Hindi, and, surprisingly, not Gujarati.  Then I had a Bengali friend who spoke Bengali like a native but was not able to read or write it!

Again, when I was posted in Lucknow for the first time, a Sharmaji was my next door neighbour.  He was a retired serviceman and a very fine gentleman.  We became like family to him.  Several years later, I was transferred to Gujarat and wrote a letter to him from there.  The letter was responded by his son who told me that Sharma Sr could not read or write Hindi!  He had learnt only English and Urdu as a student.  And during my years of association with him, I had not been able to make that out!

Language is, by definition, a shared attribute of a community.  The basis of the community may be geography, religion, profession and business amongst others.  Insistence on use of regional language shows that geography overshadows other bases.  And thus, if we want a true link language for our people the other bases must get precedence over geography.  That happens when people move from agriculture into professions and businesses that require mobility and necessitate interaction with diverse people and thus underscore the need for a link language.  However, the current 'son of the soil' policies followed or announced by several states decidedly go against this.  If the government truly wants to have a link language, it can help it evolve by facilitating movement of people between regions and not by discouraging it.  A fiat will certainly not do it.

While a link language may confer an advantage to native speakers, but it also places a great responsibility on it to assimilate as much as possible of the languages spoken by its diverse users.  A language that tries to remain rooted and chaste cannot take on the role of a link language.  Look to how English keeps adding words from languages all over the world each year.  It has helped it to become informally the link language of the European Union as borne out by their language policy.  Here is an extract from it:

"All content is published in at least English, because research has shown that with English we can reach around 90% of visitors to our sites in either their preferred foreign language or their native language."

And finally as I said in the beginning, KB is the mother tongue of only a miniscule population of city dwellers in the north.  This was beautifully illustrated decades ago when a niece from a village spent some time with my family.  When his father came to escort her back, she confided to him, "You know, Anupam (my son) talks to his parents in Angrezi!"  KB was Angrezi to her, a North Indian!!

Intoxication - A Tale by Munshi Premchand

I was the son of a poor clerk who had no income other than his salary.  I had Ishwari for my friend.  He happened to be the son of a very wealthy landlord.  We often had heated debates in which I dubbed landlords as leeches, predators and people living off the fat of the land.  Ishwari naturally defended landlords though his arguments were seldom as weighty as mine and for obvious reasons.  The only arguments that he could muster was that not all men are born equal and that it has always been this way.  These could hardly bear the onslaught of moral and humanistic principles invoked by me.  However it must be said to Iswari's credit that unlike me he never lost his cool and kept smiling through the debate.  May be he understood that he was trying to defend something that was not entirely defensible.

Though, Ishwari was always harsh upon his servants and attendants.  He had his fair share of the arrogance and haughtiness that characterized his class.  He was quick to lose his temper if he found his bed was not made well enough, or his milk was not warmed just right for him, or his bicycle was not sparkling clean.  He would not put up with any laziness or lack of courtesy in his servants.  But he was friendly and polite in the extreme with his friends, especially me.  I often wondered if I would be just as harsh to the less privileged if I were in the place of Ishwari.  And I suspected that perhaps I would have been even more so as my love for the lowly was based not so much on principles as the fact that my own place in the society was closer to them.  I also suspected that Ishwari would be an aristocrat even if he were in my place  because that was his innate nature.

The festival of Dashahara was close at hand.  I had made up my mind not to visit my family.  I didn't have enough money to pay for the fare and I didn't want to ask them for more money.  I knew well enough that they were already spending beyond their means on my education.  Also I had to catch up on my studies and that would have taken a back seat at home.  At the same time staying in the boarding house almost alone was not a very welcome prospect.  So when Ishwari invited me to accompany him to his home for the festival, it didn't take much persuasion.  I readily agreed.  Ishwari was an intelligent and hardworking student too.  I told myself that it will be better to study together with Ishwari.

Ishwari was happy when I accepted the invitation.  He was also prudent enough to tell me, "Please take care not to criticize the zamindars (landed aristocracy.)  Not only will my family feel bad, it might be quite disruptive.  You see the servants and peasants are made to believe that they are duty bound to serve us and it is our divine right to be the recipient of their labors.  No one would put up with you giving them ideas to the contrary."

I countered, "You don't expect me to turn into a different person, do you?"

He just said, "I do hope so," and let the matter rest at that.

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This was the first time I would be travelling second class.  I had no experience of travelling even in the inter class, let alone second.  We both were excited about the vacations and the journey and reached the railway station quite early in the evening.  We roamed around for some time and then went to the refreshment room for our dinner.  The waiters were quick to figure out who was the boss and it showed in the deferential treatment meted out by them to Ishwari while nearly ignoring me.  Even though Ishwari was paying for the dinner, I felt bad about it.  I expected them to be just as prompt and courteous in serving me as they were towards Ishwari.  My expectations were belied and this left a bad taste in my mouth: I hardly enjoyed my dinner.  Ishwari paid the bill and left a tip of half of a rupee.  It occurred to me that the waiters must be earning more in tips than the whole salary of my father.  Yet, their attitude towards me kept bothering me.

As we were leaving for boarding the train, the waiters saluted Ishwari and bid him goodbye paying scant attention to me.

Ishwari observed, "Look at these fellows:  How well mannered and cultured they are!  This is very unlike our servants back home."

I said dryly, "Perhaps they too would be just as well mannered if you gave them a tip of half a rupee every day."

Ishwari said, "I do not think it is just a matter of earning tips."

I responded sarcastically, "Of course not, it must in their DNA!!"

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The train, a mail train, left Prayag station.  It next stopped at Pratapgarh.  A passenger opened the door of our coach.  I immediately shouted, "This is second class; not the general compartment."  The passenger entered the coach, cast a strange look at me and said, "Yes, sir! I know that much."  He sat down on the berth opposite ours. I felt very embarrassed at my behavior.  I didn't know what had come upon me.

We reached Moradabad early in the morning.  There was a whole team at the platform waiting to welcome us.  It comprised of two gentlemen and five servants.  The servants picked up our luggage.  The two gentlemen were in tow behind us.  As I learnt later, one of them was a Muslim, Riyasat Ali, and the other was a Brahmin, Ramharakh.  They were munshis or supervisors.  They looked at me in a manner that seemed to underscore my inferior status.

Riyasat Ali asked Ishwari, "Is this young gentleman your classmate?"

Ishwari replied, "Yes, my classmate and my roommate too.  It is because of him that I am staying on at Allahabad.  But for him I would have returned to Lucknow long time ago.  This time I managed to persuade him to accompany me home.  There were several telegrams from his own home asking him to spend the vacations with his family, but to no avail.  The last telegram was an urgent one costing a quarter of a rupee per word!  He said no to even that."

The two gentlemen tried their best to look suitably impressed.  Riyasat Ali again spoke in an uncertain tone, "For a person of his stature, he dresses too simply!"

Ishwari said, hoping to put all his doubts at rest, "He is a follower of Mahatma Gandhi.  He will wear nothing but khadi.  He made a bonfire of all his fancy clothes.  He is a true aristocrat and has an annual income of two and a half lakhs from his estate.  And yet he looks like an inmate who has just walked out of an orphanage!"

Ramharakh said, "You are right.  One could hardly guess his stature by looking at him.  There are few gentlemen who could match his simplicity."

Riyasat Ali corroborated, "He reminds me of the nawab of Changli.  He always wore a mere khadi jacket and a pair of the cheapest variety of shoes.  Once, as he was roaming around on his own, the authorities mistook him for a labor and dragged him to work on a college building.  The story has it that he donated ten lakh rupees for construction of the college."

Though I was embarrassed, I did nothing to counter the white lies that Ishwari had spun about me and and that were being corroborated by the two gentlemen.  Perhaps I was persuaded into believing in those lies myself.

When we emerged from the station, there were two well groomed horses with elegant saddles on them waiting for us.  Though I had mounted mules a couple of times as a child, I had not experience of horse riding whatsoever.  I was terrified as I mounted the horse.  I tried my best not to let the fear show.  Ishwari was ahead of me and he made his horse go really slow.  Perhaps he had sensed the fear in me.

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Ishwari's house was almost like a fort!  The main gate at the entrance was huge.  It was as big as the one I had seen at the Imambara.  There was a guard at the gate, and an elephant just beyond it.  Inside the house there was a whole army of servants.  Ishwari introduced me to his father, uncles and cousins.  He spun the same yarn before them as he had done before the two gentlemen at the station.  And he did it so convincingly that it left no doubts in anyone's mind.  Everybody in the house and the servants became extremely deferential towards me.  In their eyes I was a baron with my income running into lakhs of rupees, and yet I had no airs about me.  I was considerate to everyone.  Many of them started addressing me as Sir.

A couple of hours later when Ishwari and I were all by ourselves, I said to Ishwari, "Please stop this mischief.  You are embarrassing me no ends."

Ishwari smiled and said, "But for this mischief the idiots around here would not condescend to accept you as my friend and my equal."

After a short while a servant entered the room.  He was there to massage our legs as per the custom.  After all we had undertaken an arduous journey to reach home. As he moved towards Ishwari, Ishwari motioned towards me, "Sir first."

I was lying in the bed.  No one had ever massaged my legs, never.  I always termed this practice as inhumane, idiotic and a mark of a decadent life of excessive money and no sense of shame.  And now I was indulging in it myself and enjoying it to the hilt!

It was ten o'clock now.  Another servant appeared with a message that lunch was ready.  Both of us went for a bath.  I used to wash my own dhoti and undergarments after bath.  But today I left them behind, like Ishwari, to be washed by a servant.  Somehow it felt awkward to wash my own clothes.

In the villages it is customary to wash your feet before you get down to lunch.  A servant was waiting at the entrance with a pot of water.  Ishwari stepped in front of him and the servant washed his feet.  I imitated Ishwari.  All my ideals of equality of human beings and the like failed to deter me.

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All my plans to study hard with Ishwari got a short shrift.  I was having the time of my life.  Ishwari and I would go for walks, boating, fishing and hunting.  Sometimes we would watch wrestling matches or play chess.  Ishwari used to have omelettes for snacks and I loved it too.  We were literally surrounded by servants all the time.  There was one to give me a bath, another to wash my clothes, and yet another to fan me as I relaxed.  I was known and respected as the prince disciple of Gandhi.  Everyone was extra careful with me.  My breakfast and snacks were always ready at the right time, my bed must be made for me well before it was time for me to retire.  Even Ishwari could wait or make his own bed, but not me - the simple minded prince!  It would be an insult to the prince.

One day Ishwari stayed back in his mother's room talking to her.  It was past ten in the night.  I was feeling very sleepy.  But no one had made my bed!  Making my own bed was just out of the question.  It was half past eleven when one of the servants turned up.  He apologized for the delay and said that he was very busy in the kitchen and elsewhere.  He cringed as I started shouting at him.  Ishwari must have heard me shouting.  He entered the room and took stock of the situation.  He then said, "Good that you gave him a piece of your mind.  These lazybones deserve it."

A few days later I was sitting alone in my room.  Ishwari had gone to attend some ceremony in the village.  Dusk had fallen but there was nobody around to light the lamp.  The lamp was sitting on the table with a matchbox next to it.  But then how could I, the prince, light it myself?  Ishwari didn't ever do that.  I wanted to read the newspaper but it was too dark for that.  I could feel the anger simmering within me.  As luck would have it, Riyasat Ali happened to pass by my room.  I called him in and gave him a sharp rebuke.  I shouted, "It is dark and nobody cares to light the lamp in my room.  Not even you.  If you were working for me you would have got the boot within an hour.  I wonder how Ishwari puts up with useless fellows like you."  Riyasat Ali was taken aback.  He lit the lamp with trembling hands and silently walked away.

A thakur (one belonging to the Kshatriya caste) from the village used to visit me often.  He didn't look like a very responsible person but considered himself to be a disciple of Gandhiji.  One day he walked into my room as I was sitting alone.  He paid his respects and asked with folded hands, "Sir, you are a disciple of Gandhiji, aren't you?  People say when he gets us independence there will be no landlords around."

I said with pride in my voice, "And why do people need landlords?  They are merely parasites who exploit the poor."

Thakur pressed on, "Sir, then, will the government confiscate all the land held by the landlords?"

I responded, "I am sure that most of the landlords will voluntarily surrender their holdings.  Those who don't will suffer confiscation.  Personally, I am in full readiness to transfer my land to my tenants soon after independence."

Thakur sat down on the floor and started massaging my legs.  He said, "Sir, not all landlords are like you.  Some are real tyrants.  I would forever be obliged to you if you could give me a piece of your land.  I will be happy to serve you as long as I live."

I said, "I am still a student and don't have much say in property matters.  But soon I will.  And then I wouldn't forget to send for you.  I will teach you driving and appoint you my driver."

I came to know later that on that day the thakur got high on several glasses of 'bhaang,' gave his wife a good thrashing and challenged the village moneylender to a fight.

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The vacation finally came to an end.  Many people accompanied us to the station to see us off.  I played my role of the simple minded and kindhearted gentleman to the hilt and was rewarded with awed expressions on the face of the villagers.  I wanted to tip all the servants heavily but then didn't have the money for it.  Thakur even came to the platform and kept close to me all the time.

When the train arrived it was overflowing with passengers.  It was difficult even to gain an entry in the second class.  Inter class was even worse.  With great difficulty we could enter a third class compartment.  There was no other option.  The vacations were over and this was the last train of the day.  People instinctively made room for us and we got to squeeze in on a berth.  But it was very cramped and uncomfortable.  We could hardly move.

Some of the passengers were literate and quite knowledgeable.  They were talking about wonderful governance by and the justice system of the British rulers.  One of them said, "This is really unheard of - the equality before law.  And the system of justice does really treat the mighty and the meek equally.  Even if the king does a wrong, he cannot escape justice."

Another person said in agreement, "Yes I have heard of decrees against the king himself."

I was sitting close to the door of the compartment.  A passenger was carrying a huge bundle on his back and was on his way to Kolkata.  There was no place where he could keep the bundle.  The weight of the bundle made him restless and he kept coming back to the door.  He will stand there with his back to me and the bundle will rub into my face.  I was feeling suffocated.  Suddenly I lost all control and I slapped the man several times and pushed him away."

The man glared at me and said, "How dare you hit me?  I too have a valid ticket for the journey."

I countered by slapping him a few more times.

Suddenly all the passengers in the compartment turned against me.  Some called me names.  Someone said, "If you are so delicate, you should travel first class!"  Another person added, "Never mind if he is a moneyed person.  Had he done this to me, I would have paid him back with interest."

Yet another person said, "And what exactly was the poor fellow's fault?  The compartment is packed like a tin of sardines.  One can hardly breathe.  He moved to the door to get some fresh air.  Isn't he too a human being?  Must a rich man be so inconsiderate towards a fellow human being, rich or poor?"

"Is this the justice in the British reign that you were talking about?"

A villager said with scorn, "He may be playing haughty here, but I am sure he will not be able to set foot inside a British Officers' office."

Ishwari mumbled to me in English, "What an idiot you are, Sir!"

It felt like my intoxication with my assumed personality was finally wearing off.

The Miller Woman's Well - A Tale by Munshi Premchand

Chaudhary Vinayak Singh was visiting Gomati, the miller woman, who was lying in her deathbed.  Gomati said, "Chaudhary, this is the only wish I have nurtured in my life."

Chaudhary replied in a somber manner, "Have no worries, Kaki.  Your wish will certainly be fulfilled.  I will put workers on the job right away.  God willing, you will get to drink the water from your well.  By the way, did you count how much you have been able to save for this noble task of constructing a well for public use?"

Gomati closed her eyes and strained her memory hard.  Finally she opened her eyes and said, "Dear, I have but little idea of how much I have.  Here, take this pot: It is all that I have.  I do hope that this will suffice and you will not have to go around seeking contributions."

Chaudhary weighed the pot in both his hands and said, "Yes, Kaki, we will make do with whatever we have.  People here are such misers!  They won't give a pinch of food to a hungry man, let alone contribute to a charitable cause.  You indeed are an exception.  You are donating your lifetime savings to this most noble task."

Gomati said with just a hint of pride in her voice, "My dear, you were only a kid when my husband passed away.  All his savings were spent on his treatment.  God must have loved him much for nothing could keep your Kaka from meeting his Maker at that early age.  I took to working on my flour mill for a living.  In those days I could mill half a quintal of grains every night with these very hands.  People wondered how could I do it.  What propelled me was this desire to construct a well in the name of my deceased husband.  People crave for sons and daughters so they may be remembered by and through them.  The well will immortalize your Kaka in the public memory."

Having entrusted Chaudhary Vinayak Singh with the task and her lifetime savings, Gomati passed away that night.  Her last words to Chaudhary were, "For God's sake, don't delay the construction of the well."  During her life, Gomati used to hide her money like a woman would hide a scar on her face. Chaudhary found two thousand rupees in the pot.  He could hardly believe that the old woman had saved a small fortune for the task.  She had carefully chosen Chaudhary for the task because was head of the village and known for his integrity.

To be continued ....