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Having undergone another transplant operation from India to Saudi Arabia, I have spent the better part of the last two weeks admiring the country and the changes it has undergone since the last time I was here. Which was a long, long time ago. Now I’m back to hating it.
Man, the last time I was here, dialup was just taking hold. Now I have an extremely aggravating so-called DSL connection that works when it wants to and doesn’t when I want it to. When I was last here, most locals didn’t know much English and I only knew enough Arabic to infuriate or, at best, confuse someone. At least there’s more people speaking English now; about my Arabic, on the other hand, the less said the better. When I left this place, I was convinced I would never return. Now, I’m not sure I’ll ever leave.
And its surprising, lots of schoolmates are here, too. Working. Making a living. Living life. And my parents have been living happily here since forever. And that makes me think: maybe its not so bad. Then I remember that there’s no beer anywhere near, and I realise: its going to be hell. There’s no way to see, much less meet, a female of my species [Editor's note: oh yeah, like there was lots of that going on before]: yes, its going to be hell. So in that suitably cranky spirit, let the ranting begin.
1. There’s nothing more depressing than job-hunting. Unless its job-hunting while being unemployed. Having spent a good part of the last two-odd weeks attending interviews, I have gathered enough odd interview stories to fill up some more of WordPress’ server space in a forthcoming post. Anyway, I don’t expect any real results anytime soon. That’s not how this country rolls. So now I wait.
2. The election results are out. I know that this is not current news by any stretch, but I am really very confused at the state of politics (and the politics of state) in India. In the US, understanding politics is easy: almost everyone neatly fits into one or the other insane extreme. In India, I find most parties and candidates interchangeable (both in character and ideology), except for the fringe (and not so fringe) loonies; you know who you are. While coalition politics and jockeying for power ensures that we see a lot more politics than policy, I am satisfied with the result. Why, I really don’t know. I also don’t know what right I have to be satisfied or dissatisfied with the result, given that I never voted in the first place, but I can’t help but feel a bit like Yossarian:
It was a sturdy and complex monument to his powers of determination…It was truly a splendid structure, and Yossarian throbbed with a mighty sense of accomplishment each time he glazed at it and reflected that none of the work that had gone into it was his.
- Joseph Heller, Catch 22
3. The Iranian “election” “results” are “out”. Hardliner “wins”. Leading contender cries foul, claims victory, and is now nowhere to be seen. Anyone shocked?
4. It’s hot here. Not oh-I-could-use-a-lemonade hot. More like bodily-fluid-sucking, amino-acid-frying, skullcap-fricasseeing hot. The other day it was 37 Celsius at 6 in the freaking AM. I dare not check what the afternoon temperatures are. And the summer here’s just getting started. There’s talk about closing schools early for the summer break on account of expected record temperatures. Oh what I wouldn’t give to be back in Long Island now. Sitting on the grass with friends and a couple of cold ones.
5. Having periods of sporadic internet connectivity (DSL? hahaha), and to tide over the boredom of sitting at home most of the day (refer 4), I have finally started reading the ‘Chronicles of Narnia’ omnibus that has been taking up space in my suitcase for a while now. I like. Very much I like. Now I must search for the movies too.
6. I am back to fooling around on my guitar. Some new ideas have surfaced, and I’m hoping I can turn them into more than scrap. High Hopes? I hope not.
Speaking of which, I think I have finally reconciled myself to the fact that I will probably never bridge the gap between my musical aspirations and ablilities. And I think I’m happy with where that leaves me. Thank heavens I never decided to junk everything and sit down in the NYC subways with my guitar and vocals. You’d probably read about me in Chapter 1 of the book ‘Bad Career Choices: 101 Ways To Starve to Death’.
7. I think that’s enough, isn’t it?
Yeah, that’s enough for now. I suppose since I have nothing to do now, I should put more stuff up here. I suppose. Anyway, till next time, keep it cool and don’t let the heat get to you. And to help you keep it cool, here’s a classic from Bill Withers and what seems to be the most laid-back backing band in the world. And the most pimp-tastic drummer I’ve ever seen.
And if you like weird, check out this endearing story of a man and his best friend; that is, a man who is going to need emergency reconstructive surgery very soon and his pet that is going to end up shot and stuffed shortly thereafter. It takes all types, I tell you.
Pitch and Pay has temporarily (or is it?) shifted its headquarters to the land with the self-assumed handle of God’s Own Country. While the move was not been a happy one – leaving friends never is – it had to happen. On a happier note, the withdrawl symptoms of the severely reduced internet access I now enjoy has saved people from having to read senti posts about it. Having now been in the land of communism, beef fry and Bevco for over two weeks now, I think it would be a better idea to put down my observations, feelings and other stuff that occurs to me in digest form, which I am sure will be more digestible (sad pun, I know) to the reader. So, on to it.
1. It’s hot in here. HOT. AS. HELL. While Kerala has always been hot and humid, it sure seems like the global warming offices are headquartered somewhere here. Taking a walk around here is an adventure on par with a ‘Man vs Wild’ episode. Make sure you have lots of fluids (alcoholic or otherwise), and always have a few choice insults handy for when the power goes. I wonder why solar power hasn’t really caught on in Kerala. We have all the ingredients. In plenty.
2. Kerala is home to the some of the hottest chicks in the world. And by hottest I mean the hottest, sweatiest, most sunburnt. By chicks, I mean women (the poultry are just fine, thank you). And to think, I left the US just as spring was starting and the cold was wearing off, taking layers of clothing with it. Sniff.
3. Emirates rocks. Though, if there is one suggestion I must make, it is that flights to and from Kerala should carry even more alcohol. There is really nothing more morbidly entertaining than watching soused adult (and middle aged aged) Malayali males pestering the Brit flight stewardesses with “Plees aanty, wone more. Wonly wone more. Plees” and passing comments about them in loud Malayalam while the women sitting around squirm and the men travelling with families cast envious glances at them while taking breaks from their looks of righteous indignation. Oh, and if I could make two suggestions, it would be to arm the cabin crew with stun guns.
4. I shouldn’t ever do ads for Kerala Tourism, should I? “Enjoy the magic of the monsoons. While recovering from malaria”. Zing!
5. I’ve landed in India in the middle of election fever. Internet inaccessibility and my laziness to pick up a newspaper are good excuses to be ignorant of what’s happening, I have managed to keep up a little bit. Although I have been unable to wrangle a guest column out of our old friend Bull O’Really this time, I think I can entice him to grace us with his presence once again by the time the results are out. Anyway, its election day in Kerala has just passed and since I am unaware of the whereabouts of my voter ID card, and far away from my registered voting booth, democracy has been deprived of my participation. Yet again. Oh, well, maybe next time.
6. Television in Kerala has made leaps and bounds since I was last here. There are now about twice as many channels to entice the viewers with any of three things:
a. neverending glycerine-soaked coma-inducing serials with banal, interchangeable scripts and starring planks of wood with tear glands and/or moustaches. Comfortably Dumb, so to speak.
b. Singing Competitions ala Idol. We Malayalees do not just love music. We love it to the death. And sometimes, when it refuses to die, we have to kill it. Slowly and painfully.
c. Non-stop news. ‘Nuff said.
7. Wait, I take that back. Not ’nuff said. I just switched channels in a misguided effort to get some interesting election coverage, and I found a channel owned by a certain hug-happy spiritual leader that promises, among other things “Unimaginable Election News and Coverage”. I don’t know if they plan to pull a Fox News on us by ignoring the results and declaring their own winner, or if the Onion News Network is expanding, but either way, this is going to be awesome (probably not).
I expect there will be updates to my present position soon. They will turn up here as they happen, I suppose, unless apathy strikes again, in digest form or otherwise. Darn, I miss Stony Brook.
PS: Don’t get me wrong. I love Kerala, but that don’t mean I have to love everything about it.
PPS: Note 4 gives me an evil idea. Time to fire me up some Photoshop.
So Jambu and I were at the local mall over the weekend. Shopping, ostensibly. He is going to India this week and looking for gifts for his folks, while I was looking for a decent pair of flip-flops to replace my well worn and well torn pair of Rs 250 Lottos that I shall grieve over for some time to come. Deciding to get his lot done with first before exploring the exotic feasts and tastes of a nearby Cheesecake Factory and then finding me some footwear, we strolled into a nearby JC Penney.
Some Background. Jambu is my roommate, or rather flat-mate, who believes that the old adage of ‘Everything is bigger in Texas’ is also applicable to everything from New Delhi (mostly himself). He also fits the description applied to Mohanlal’s character in Narasimham: ‘Induchoodan innu oru vyakthi alla, oru prasthanam aanu’. Poor translation: Induchoodan is today not just a man, but an insitution (Don’t quote me on that, though). Similarly, Jambu is an institution among all of us, and many of us have come close to being institutionalized after encountering at close range his mastery of everything from language to logic to technology to conversation itself. He is also a fellow with no malice towards anyone and a good friend but, well, no one ever really talks about those things, do they?
Anyway, this story is not about Jambu or his many antics. There will be plenty of that to come, for sure. So, we shuffle into a JC Penney and our hero decides to buy watches for his parents. Touching, yes. Thoughtful, yes. Interesting for the onlooker, no. So Jambu spends half an hour chatting up the sales guy, while I amble back and forth between the women’s jeans section and the watch section. Jambu narrows his choices down to some four or five models and calls me in to help make his final selection. Having paid little attention to the banter between the two so far, I am now drawn into the conversation in which both are going into great detail discussing their respective parents’ exercise regimens and the price of gold in India. How, I’ll never know.
The salesman asks me which of the watches I prefer. I try to weasel out of parting with my two cents, but he insists and I tell him. Jambu is still looking deeply at the models on display, perhaps in order to find one of those hidden images among the array of similar looking watches. I wander off again towards a wonderful pair of women’s jeans, but not before I hear this snippet of conversation that makes me freeze in my tracks:
‘So you got any other relatives you’re planning to buy watches for?’
‘Yeah, maybe for my brother also.’
‘How about for the big guy over there?’
‘Hehe, no. He’s looking for, uh [forgetting the name of the precise item I had come in for], some other items.’
‘Oh, okay, okay. Sure.’
Oh Jambu, why can’t you choose your words more carefully, at least in this country? My penchant for trotting off towards the women’s wear section (look, the entire floor was a ladies wear floor; I just wandered off randomly. Honest) coupled with the fact that we were two men looking at nothing but watches (considered jewellery in this country, I think) for an hour was apparently enough to put the idea in the salesman’s head that we were, how you say it, barking up each other’s trees. And then Jambu tops it off with his unintentional innuendo. We were entering a world of pain. At least, I was. Jambu, oblivious to the implications of the salesman’s comments and my mortification, continued to pick out a watch for his brother as well.
Once again, I am asked for my comments. I keep my words to a minimum, wondering whether I should drop a joke that would clear the misconceptions that filled the air. ‘Heh, even shopping with MY GIRLFRIEND doesn’t take this long’ or something of the sort. I am desperate. But, as is his wont, Jambu continues to steer the conversation, which by now is listing in the duration of Jambu’s vacation and the time and cost to fly there (nonstop and hopover flights).
As Jambu finally pays for the merchandise and we leave, we thank the salesman who replies with a knowing smile and a, ‘Have a nice trip, though I don’t think he’s happy you’re going.’ One last shot sneaked into the net in the dying seconds of injury time. I skulk off the field to the restaurant with a blissfully unaware Jambu, wallowing not in the ignominy that he thought we were gay, but he thought we were gay. (Any who know either Jambu or myself or, worst of all, both will now be saying, ’Ick’. I couldn’t agree more.) And together. I kept my distance for the rest of the day. I think I shall continue to do so.
And I didn’t get my flip-flops either. The horror, the horror.
PS: Jambuism of the week: probablable
Edit: I realise, to my great chagrin, that I initially published this post without a title. My bad. Fixed.
In the proud journalistic tradition of most TV news channels today, Pitch and Pay presents to you this hard-hitting, nail-biting, and all round ass-kicking in-depth (and completely pointless) look at a matter of relative unimportance, but one that must be covered anyway because great journalism, in the end, is all about bringing awareness to a hitherto undiscussed issue, about bringing new facts to light, about encouraging discussion and creating controversy where earlier there was none and other euphemisms for making a mountain out of a molehill during a dry news day. So without further ado and interference from unnecessarily long and meandering sentences, let us examine the Great Accent Normalization Drama.
The Great Accent Normalization Drama (or GA… err, maybe lets not) is something that affects many upwardly mobile English speaking Indians. While not directly related to – and the subject of many less PhD linguistics theses than – the topic of Grammar in Indian English, our subject is beginning to grow as globalization and the cultural invasion of the west spread throughout our land. It is the dilemma of the change in our dear, treasured Indian accents with the influence of Hollywood and the growth in people travelling abroad, especially on all manner of B, F, H, L and Schengen visas. [We may safely ignore the children of Indian immigrants born and/or brought up in western countries. ABCDs and Londonstanis and other such peoples do not count toward this particular study.]
The disclaimer first: All in good fun. I am all for people going abroad. I am all for Indians speaking English. I am all for foreign accents. I am all for the Indian accent. I am absolutely all for people mixing the last two, often to hilarious effect. In fact, my interest in and love of all of the above is exactly what this article is all about.
Now, some history. Before we got the colonial hangover, we had the colonial party, which was replete with many acts of merriment for the gatecrashing colonist guests (the Brits) getting all drunk and having all sorts of fun with the terrified sober colonialised hosts (us). Some of those fun and games actually gave the poor sober sods in the room the courage to demand a peg or two for themselves. And in the end, we demanded control of our house and wound up kicking the unruly uninvited guests out just before midnight (something about a tryst with destiny). And we got stuck with a nasty hangover that hasn’t left us for sixty-odd years.
Anyway, one of those nice little drinking games was insisting that we learn their language. So we went on to learn the Queen’s tongue and twist it for her in our own ways. And thus Indian English was born, and eventually, so were its equally amusing love children Hinglish, Kinglish, Telgish, Tanglish, Minglish, Bonglish, among others (oh, Wikipedia, I bow to thee).
So, in endeavouring to study Received Pronunciation and other such endearing colonial artifacts, Indians have ended up perfecting what are arguably among the most colourful usages of the language in the world today. And I must admit, I love hearing Indian English. The various usages and accents that vary along the length and breadth of the country according to local language, economy and education level are quite fascinating.
And now we are at the next logical stage in the evolution of the language. We are going global. Or rather, we have been for some time now, much to the confusion and amusement of many a paleskin, with reactions varying from funny to benign to annoying; from caricatures such as The Simpsons’ Apu Nahasapeemapetilon to being the receiving end of call-center jokes to the kind of racial paranoia the west has perfected over the centuries. But any which way you look at it, the global Indian accent is here.
Most Indians have their first encounter with it when they meet a colleague or family member back from a trip overseas, especially one from the softweyar industry. The formerly hair-oil, Bata sandal and buttoned-long-sleeved-shirt and terrycotton-pants-from-Sapna-tailors wearing Arvind Kalyanasundaram now shows up in the office with Nikes and Wranglers and introduces himself with, ‘Hi, I’m Arrr-vind. Call me Vinny.’ with an accent that simultaneously recalls the last Brad Pitt movie he saw, and his IIIrd standard Social Studies teacher from Little Flower LP school. Vinny’s friends are impressed, and can’t wait to go abroad themselves to take their obligatory Statue of Liberty/Big Ben photos and get hammered on foreign daru and amalgamate their own accent with that of the local populace.
So here’s how it might happen. Giriprasad Sharma graduates, with distinction of course, from MIT (Mirzapur Institute of Technology). And like the many boys and girls who take the cicuituous route to a H1B, the F1, he writes his GRE/GMAT/TOEFL and lands in Hinterland University, Amreeka. In his first steps in the strange land, he finds that the people around him understand his language but say it differently. And in his day-to-day interactions with the ‘foreigners’, he notices their manner of speaking and tries (many times subconsciously) to imitate them. There are many pusposes this serves:
1. Makes himself more understandable to those around him.
2. Makes himself appear ‘cool’ to (hopefully) the locals and (definitely) himself.
3. He now sounds like the rest of the desis who are speaking the same way.
But the change is hard, and our friend Gary (he has settled on this moniker after testing G-Pras and GPS. Apparently generic rapper names and electronic navigation equipment are not his thing) now is in a place between the comforting, lilting tones of his original accent and the brash, cool sounds of his intended accent; a place we call ‘the Zone’. Gary will often not even notice himself slipping into the Zone in the presence of one who is of a different accent. This subconscious switch turns on the Pseudo-Random Accent Generator (PRAG) in his head and enhances his ability to have a conversation that is usually less comprehensible than his usual accent, especially while taking his first steps. Over time Gary learns more and more of the nuances of his adopted accent and learns to communicate fluently enough, but is left with vestiges of his original accent that pop up often.
As any self-respecting Gary or Vinny, such as myself, can tell you, ‘We do not do it on purpose or to be cool. We do it to make sure the person across the counter at the Dunkin Donuts knows we are ordering a bagel with cream cheese and not calling his mother fat. And we do not use it on other Indians.’ A very pragmatic lot, are we not? But the accented ‘one chicken wrape with diet cock, please’ can usually also sound very out of place sometimes. By which I mean anytime another human is within earshot.
When you consider the effects our homegrown grammar can have when added to this already deliricious mix, the results can be downright howlarious. Like our spiritual leader Jambu who loudly attempted to admonish a friend while simultaneously trying to catch the ear of some white girls nearby with ‘What the problem is with you?’ Or Pendejo who believes himself to be India’s latin lover and turns on his PRAG whenever a different skin colour is detected within 5 yards of him, often leaving both Indians and non-Indians totally in the dust of incomprehensibility with his AmeLatIndian English and his supercharged ‘daymm’. Or Golu who makes full use of his TA (Timepass Assistant) position to explain to a nice gori in his class that ‘Ekchwally, your prroject is not giving the proper rrresult’. And many others like them, too many to remember yet too precious to go totally unmentioned, who are doing their best to improve cultural ties between India and the world. Starting with mangling the world’s accents.
We must not be afraid or ashamed of changing in such a way. As the world becomes a smaller and smaller place, I believe we of the overseas public have a duty to be India’s ambassadors to the world. We must ingratiate ourselves with their cultures while introducing them to ours. We pick up a bit of their accent and language. They pick up some of ours (yes, it has happened, and its going to happen even more). We all learn from and appreciate each other. And together in peace and harmony, we will all order a nice refreshing ’diet cock’.
PS: My history may be a bit off. I vaguely remember paying attention in history class back in school, but I don’t really remember the specifics. Also, all characters, places and incidents are purely fictional. Including me. Plus, for some real fun, look here.
I’ve been watching Akkarakazhchakal and I am hooked. I haven’t seen all of it, just ten episodes or so. I think its been a really good move by the producers or whomever to make it available online for the benefit of those who do not get Kairali TV, eg. me. I first heard about it a few weeks back in conversation with a friend, but only got around to seeing it yesterday. And what a rollicking ride it has been so far.
Now, I’ll admit, even though I say I like cerebral humour and all that, I don’t mind a bit of lowbrow thamasha every once in a while. In fact, I love slapstick when its well done. But that’s just the point. I like it when its done in a way that doesn’t insult the understanding of the audience. And so far, the makers of Akkarakazhchakal (hereinafter referred to as AK because I don’t want to have to type it again) have refrained from stooping to the level that makes most of the Malayalam comedy we see nowadays unpalatable, unsahikkable and unwatchable.
The tale of a Keralite Christian family living in New Jersey (I think. Isn’t that where Bergen County is?) and the various shenanigans and schemes of the slightly clueless, slightly dimwitted head of the family, Georgekutty, and his interaction with people (mostly Malayali, sometimes otherwise) around him make for quite entertaining watching. Even though I do not relate to the exact situation, I am sure pretty much every Malayali can sympathise/empathise with the depictions of having to bring up kids in an environment that is not yet familiar to the parents themselves (Kerala is changing too), the small ego conflicts between family members, the desire to acheive more in life (ie, earn more) and the paths taken to realize that desire, the petty politics-laden social interactions that Malayalis seem to indulge in wherever they go, alongwith the simultaneous feeling of society that is offered by the Malayali community overseas to newcomers (I have been blessed to have experienced this myself) in what would otherwise be a strange and unfamiliar place.
Anyway, the script isn’t anything spectacular, and the editing and camerawork aren’t top grade either, even for Malayalam television. But where AK succeeds is in evoking that feeling of happiness when someone in a foreign land hears people talk in their native tongue, and in offering up situational comedy that one can watch and say, ‘hey, that could happen to me’. Many of the punchlines are genuinely funny and fit the situation perfectly, as opposed to fitting random gags into the story. They even weasel in some subtle humour in between. The satire on Malayali life and culture abroad has been largely warm and good-natured so far. In Georgekutty, his wife Rinci, his americanized kids, his assistant Gregory, and Babykuttan and Mahesh, the two male nurses fresh from Kerala, viewers are offered a chance to laugh at themselves through the foibles, idiosyncrasies and humanity of the characters on the screen (CRT, LCD, HD, Plasma or otherwise).
If there are two things Malayalam television, particularly Malayalam comedy television is especially good at, they are:
1. Rollicking humour, stinging satire and social commentary, and
2. Jumping the shark.
Now, I am judging based only on what I have seen so far*, but from what I have heard (from friends of similar taste), AK has given us all enough of the former to keep our bellies full with laughter. I suppose it is inevitable that the latter will happen sometime, though I hope this time it will happen later rather than sooner. Till then, ‘Satisfaction Guaranteed. Deafntely’.
Also, on an unrelated note, a gold medal for India. Yippee. I guess that should keep us happy till 2012. Seriously, congratulations Abhinav Bindra.
* I am only blogging, not reporting. So I am allowed to do that. Its just my honest, unbiased, unread-by-anyone opinion. Hyaah.
Edit: I see this post gets me to the bottom of page 4 of the google search results for ‘akkarakazhchakal’. Ah, one step closer to fame and fortune.
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