Linguistic Chaos

As experienced and written by – Trilok Rangan

Inspiration to pen this and title suggested by –  My brother Ashwin

Corrected by – Jens Joseph

Thanks to my friends who read the manuscript and gave their valuable inputs.



I was early at the station, a full 30 minutes before my train arrived. It was early winter and people were heading to their hometowns. It was Diwali the next day and the cantonment railways station resembled a village festival. People in all shapes and sizes ran around frantically with bags that screeched, rolled, lumbered along with them. Children were in a playful mood, some of them running, some of them chasing the stray dog that found it is way to the ‘passenger’ platform but a very few crying like factory sirens. I bought an English magazine, found an empty bench, and started browsing the pages, tuned to the FM, peacefully. Travelling is something I love and hate at the same time. I love the people I meet, the experiences and the memories it gives but I hate the discomfort some journeys ‘gift’. That particular night had enough in store to thrill me. At 10.00 p.m., the Bangalore – Kanyakumari Express dragged its way to Platform 2. I have always admired Indian Railways – they manage the extensive network of railway through the length and breadth of a country like India, catering to a huge population while pricing their sleeper class economically. I often wonder how they can run this millipede on such low charges. For all I know, they must be subsidizing it out of my tax money. I hardly minded my coach being overly crowded – I expected it, the next day being Diwali. People reserved real estate on the dirty floor with two sheets of newspaper; spread it wherever they could rest their tired bodies. They gave the beggars and tea vendors a tough time. My seat number was 68, close to the not so fragrant bathroom.



My coupe was already full- three students, probably nurses, a woman and her husband, two middle aged men – one of them an engineer with a reputed IT company in Bangalore (his laptop bag advertised this fact) and an old woman who seemed somehow related to the other middle-aged man. My coupe was too full for the six seats it legally allowed. I crosschecked my reservation and sat down. Half an ass of mine hung as if I was on a crowded share-auto, paying half the rate and waiting to jump out the moment my stop comes. With much difficulty, I managed to squeeze my other cheek of my ass into the seat. Shortly, the T.T.E. (Ticket Examiner) showed up. I got my tickets validated and spoke to him in broken Kannada and English. Thus, kick-started the chain of events that would climax the next day with blank looks and embarrassed faces.



Having completed the formalities, we eased on to our respective seats. For some reason I wanted to avoid a conversation that day. I pulled out the magazine and started reading it. I was immersed into the magazine when the old woman made a bold statement in Malayalam to the younger man on her right. “I think he is not a Malayali. Look at his hair color, his overall looks and the way he speaks English. He doesn’t seem like one and it doesn’t look like he understands us too!” Everyone in the coupe heard her. I was smiling to myself, I understood exactly what she said and the pun intended in her tone. I am a Tamil Iyer from Kerala, so-called Palakkad Iyer, settled in a town called Chalakudy near Thrissur. We speak Tamil at home. Having done my basic education in Kerala I know Malayalam far better than my mother tongue. I graduated in Electrical Engineering from a prestigious college in North India. Therefore, I divorced the typical Malayali accent from my English long back and added decently fluent Hindi to my vocabulary. Besides, I lacked the typical Malayali moustache and had a copper tinge to my hair, which was just because I oiled my hair less those days. I understood everything and decided I would remain quiet. Therefore, I did not raise my head from the book and kept flipping the pages. I wanted to see where this conversation would head.



It was then my mobile phone buzzed. It was my Dad. I always speak to him in Tamil. While speaking I managed a steal a look at the face of the old woman. She had an air of confirmation, an elated feeling like a 10-year kid winning a guess the crook competition. She turned and smiled deviously nodding like an oversized Halloween pumpkin at the man whom she had been talking all this while. She probably was his paternal aunt since the man spoke less and restricted to wordless conversation techniques like nodding in all directions and simply smiling.  To my surprise, I managed to attract the attention of even the nursing students, all girls from some college in Bangalore. They were going to the southern part of Kerala, which was evident from their Malayalam accent with the typical Kottayam slang. They too started assuming that I was from Mars and Malayalam was alien to me. They liked my smile. The pretty and smart one giggled, “He must be a corporate guy on business travel to Cochin. Cochin has become so cosmopolitan. People from throughout India have settled there and travelling home to Cochin these days. I think I will like to settle down in Cochin rather than the Gulf” She was trying to sound genuine. The girl with smaller head agreed, “Right. Anyways he looks cute. Must be less than 25. Just that he is a little fat around the edges.” The third one was either intelligent or dumb. She just smiled. The difference between being fat and getting fit is replacing that round ‘a’ and with a thin ‘i’, easier said than done. One of my ears was glued to the phone and my other one picking up the conversations as a misplaced radio receiver. I said bye, ended the call and picked up the book pretending to be reading. By now, I had begun to enjoy the conversation and the confusion about my origin.



To add to the curiosity that my linguistic chaos was causing, I received a call from my colleague Abhishek. We often converse in Hindi. He had some questions on the client delivery on the software module that I was working on. Well, I was so involved in the conversation that my voice got a bit loud and I failed to notice the myriads of changing expressions that painted the faces of my coupe-mates. Only when I finished the call did I notice that almost all the eyes were on my face, fixed, as if E.T. were real and they saw one alive there. Well, I do not like people staring at me for whatever reason it is, be it admiration or condemnation. The middle-aged software engineer gave me inquiring looks. I think the words ‘client delivery’ inspired him and looked eager to add to the technical jargon. I thought he wanted to initiate a conversation with me and was probably fumbling for the right words.  These days, I hear software engineers are better off communicating through a portal where eye contact would not be there. May be being in the hi-tech industry he might have got used to that medium than real-time communication! I guess I should have given him my Facebook ID or start a Wave thread!



I had the day’s Economic Times that I stole from my office lobby, stuffed on one side of my small backpack. The young couple had a probing glance at the paper and then me. They were having the privilege of reading the paper upside down kept on my lap. I have often noticed a strange human behavior – if you buy a newspaper, you do not read it fully. However, if your fellow passenger has a paper and he is sitting next to you then you crane your neck and manage to read it much to the owner’s displeasure, at times requesting the center page or the sports page from him. Well, I have only one suggestion to the people with this psychiatric problem – buy your own paper and give it the person sitting next to you. Then start reading the paper when he or she is reading it. That way you would not displease him and satisfy your mental condition!



I opened my Subway parcel, pulled out a bottle of Coke from my backpack and kept both on top of the yellow business newspaper when my boss called me. I had a heated conversation, in English this time. The call extended for 10 minutes. It was getting late. I gobbled my food, washed my hands and face, and immediately asked the crowd to disperse, as I wanted to sleep in my designated middle berth.



The young couple spoke for the first time. The man of the house implored me in Indian English to exchange my berth with one two coaches away so that his wife can sleep in the same coupe. I politely refused the offer. I am a person with a beating heart; I was just making a master plan for tomorrow. Therefore, I decided to stay in the same coach. He swore in Malayalam assuming that I would not know the meaning. It did not cross him when a man learns a new language or goes to a new place that speaks a different language; the first words he acquaints himself with are the verbal abuses. I managed to look away and ignore the words.



After the lights were out the lower berth folks started talking about how I lacked manners and was not ready to adjust. She (the elderly) thought that I was a spoilt brat. “Money and life in Bangalore affected the kids the most”, she declared. Everyone seemed share the same opinion. A hymn of acceptance echoed from other souls. “When I was young…” Was she ever young? sThat question crossed my mind. She started the story of her childhood days and youth when her angelic qualities were unmatched. She was polite, caring and helping everyone. Then she became a devoted mother and taught her kids how not to be like me. She was not hearing the loud snores of men.



The three girls slept on the upper berths. The third one travelling on a waiting list ticket managed to share the berth with the thinner girl. Someone murmured, “Did you really like that guy?” The other replied, “Yes”. “She must be kidding”. I recognized that voice. It was the prettier one of the lot. “Didn’t you notice his ears? They are like elephant’s ears, awkward and projected out. His eyes are squinted esp. when he looks to the right. His must be overweight by at least 15 kilos.””Forget all of that, how did you end up having a crush or like or love or whatever it may be, on him when you hardly have spoken to him?” Forget all that. She can but how can I? Every word of her hit me like arrows. I am overweight but not obese. Do my eyes cheat when I look to the right and come on my ears are normal! My well-wisher interrupted, “Quiet, he will hear you”. I thought to myself, “Damage has already been made what more could you do?””He doesn’t know Malayalam”. She sounded confident.



I slept, far removed from the English word -”peacefully”. My coach rocked like a cradle to the lullaby of the noise from the railway tracks outside. The next day, I woke up to the rumble of my empty stomach. The train was running late by a full hour. After brushing my teeth and emptying a major portion of sanitizer on my palms, I had my breakfast and morning tea. Train seemed reluctant to move from Palghat station. I noticed that the software engineer had got down somewhere in between and office goers had filled his seat. Three white pressed dhotis fitted the place where one pants once sat. The rest of the gang was now impatiently waiting for the train to move. It looked like they had a tiresome and long journey ahead. I had an hour more of travel left provided the driver and the invisible Gods of Railways permitted motion.



Finally, the train tiptoed at the pace of a bullock cart on a muddy road. Children on cycles screamed elatedly as they overtook my coach. I took my camera out, started zooming in on them, and took some snaps. Bharatapuzha came soon. It is the largest river in Kerala but with the least amount of water except during monsoons may be. Thanks to the slow pace of the train, I managed to take a few more good pictures. That was when they tried to make the first contact. They spoke to me.



They could not speak Martian so English was preferred. The gray haired middle-aged man accompanying his aunt spoke, “Are you a professional photographer?” With a Canon point-and-shoot camera, I can hardly claim to be a semi-professional. I corrected him “I am just an amateur enthusiast, learning.” Now, others found words. They too quizzed me, “Are you going for a trip to tour Kerala – God’s own country?” This time it was the woman – one-half of the couple from yesterday. “No, I am going back home visiting my family for Diwali”, I was happy to correct them. They looked surprised. The girls giggled. May be they wanted me to take a picture of theirs. I did not do that. They all asked a few more questions and kept me occupied. The topics of discussion ranged from globalization and liberalization to allotting another train from Bangalore to Trivandrum. They also touched upon topics like how Kerala would benefit if it opens up trade like Tamil Nadu and Karnataka. I felt like sitting inside barbershop or a tea-stall in Kerala where the topics of discussion varies from the depression in American Economy to the health of Fidel Castro.



Time went flying by and before I realized my destination came. I packed my stuff and got ready to get off the train. People were surprised that I was getting off at a small town. The girls spoke for the first time to me, ’Hey mister, are you sure this is your stop?’ I reassured them that my Dad would be waiting. outside. I gave the woman and the pretty girl a chit of paper each folded into four. They opened the chit. In loud and intentional words, I told the crowd near the door in fluent Malayalam – “Please move. I need to get off here.” Chits were opened. The woman’s note read in Malayalam, “My parents also brought me up well and I know how to respect elders.” The Girl read out in Malayalam, “I am fat, squint-eyed, elephant-eared and taken.”



I turned back to have a look at the coupe. The blank looks and embarrassed faces of five fellow travelers thinking about the night before on the train painted a sorry picture. I walked away with a victorious smile on my face and a wicked glow in my eyes talking aloud in Malayalam.



~Trilok~