Language

I began thinking about language when I saw the sign for the saloon. Most of us from the west would immediately think of a drinking establishment. Indeed, some of us of a certain age might think back to the Western genre of movies where the cowboy would wander in for a night of poker and whiskey. But not in India.

Here, if you wander into the saloon you will get a hair cut. Other oddities of English in India could be seen in a caption to a photo in the paper showing a truck driving through Pondicherry. The caption read that the truck was going through a zone where the law prohibited such vehicles but “the rule was observed more in the breach.” The newspaper can also engage in unintended puns. The headline read “A notable seizure” when referring to the capture of a large amount of counterfeit currency.

This is of course a pun that only makes sense if you understand English. Language here becomes a bit of a funny business when we end up with groups from around the world who struggle to find ways to communicate with each other through often rudimentary skills or translations from others who are a bit more fluent. Last night, for example, we had French, English, German, Korean, Estonian and English at our table with an Indian dialect and Italian at the other. Two people at our table in particular struggled. The Korean lady has about as many words in English as I do in Tamil. The German lady is better in English but often missed grander bits of the conversation if her husband does not translate. In essence, lack of language skills can be isolating even with well intentioned efforts by those around.

I see to be a constant source of amusement to the Tamil staff here as I try to use my half a dozen words for hello and goodbye exchanges. I can send them into wails of laughter when I mispronounce it. I fear what I might have said instead. One group of boys told me one of their names which I the n tried to pronounce. I did it so badly that they nearly fell on the ground laughing and joking with each other about this wacky guy. We ended up laughing together (or at least I hope together) and they asked me to take their picture.

In music, language takes on a different meaning that transcends verbal comprehension. Two nights ago we were invited to sit in on the final rehearsal of the amateur opera group. They have very solid conducting and many possess quite developed voices. They sang in English, French, Italian, German and Russian. It was a remarkably pleasant evening. One of many such evenings here.

This is also the end of the season for many of the long term guests. More and more we see people who are wandering through for a few nights as part of a journey through India or Indians coming for extended weekends. The guests who have been here for similar lengths as ourselves are drifting home or to other parts in the north such as Nepal, where temperatures are not as intense as they will be here in May. The language of good bye is common now – e-mails get exchanged or you are added to their Facebook. Yet, the chances of again seeing them are low and one wonders what the common ground between us is beyond this joint venture of time in Auroville. Is there are language between us that transcends this common time?

Each week now the temperatures slide up the scale and the sun feels more intense. The humidity also can feel like a blanket at times. It has become the common topic. Umbrellas come out to shield against the burning globe. A mid day nap is almost an essential and even a cold shower feels like magic (a good thing as the hot water supply has been down for several days while they try to tackle rather antiquated and quaint plumbing at the point where we fill our buckets and wander back to our bathing areas).

I am also faced with the language of coming home. Can I come back here? Almost certainly. Can I manage back in Calgary? Less so now. Returning to a city that has for a while felt less interesting feels even more so now. Can I return to the work I have been doing? That too is a question with quite an ambivalent answer. India changes you either by luring you into longer stays (allowing one suspects running away from something) or forcing you to face your own reality and its worth to you. I have met some tourists who wander India rather like going through the zoo. You look around at the characters, take pictures and the go home. But for most of the people I have met here, India has been a changing force.

It is a country in my soul now. It is such an amazing array on contrasts but, as I sit in the taxi, I revel I in the noise, the smells, the apparent chaos that is not. But, this is not my home. Tomorrow we leave for a couple of days in Chennai, formerly known as Madras. Then we begin the long journey home. I don’t head that way with joy as I have in past journeys in various parts of the world. I have in the past developed a point where my language was about being ready to head back. That is not the case now.

As I finish writing this, it is early morning. I am met with a daily language of sorts - that of firecrackers exploding in one of the nearby villages announcing a death and imminent funeral. Nary a day goes by without such an announcement. These are noisy, colourful events. The flowers will be pulled off as the entourage moves towards the cremation site.