Language

Have you ever thought about the divisive nature of language? The more Marathi I learn, the more I’m beginning to realize how much language has to do with class (and caste) here. Most of the lower class/caste people I’ve associated with, ie. rickshaw drivers, vegetable wallas, street sweepers, maids, drivers, servants, some shopkeepers etc. speak only Marathi. Poorer students attend Marathi-medium schools. NGOs working in the slums, villages and tribal areas function in Marathi. 

As you move up the social strata, English proficiency also increases. Police know enough to get by, the shopkeepers who deal in pharmaceuticals know a bit more, affluent students attend English-medium schools, college students at the more reputable universities in Pune are forced to learn it if they didn’t know it before, and professors are fluent. A handful of the wealthiest people I’ve encountered communicate only in English. They cannot write confidently in the devanagari script and their children aren’t comfortable having a conversation in their mother tongue. The sad truth: English has become the language of “advancement,” of the elite. 

Yesterday I attended a banquet for 75 Malhotra Weikfield Foundation scholarship recipients. The scholarship makes it possible for talented students from disadvantaged backgrounds to attend universities in and around Pune. I was shocked when the friend I went with, a professor of law and mentor to three of the recipients, explained that very few of the professors who serve as mentors speak fluent Marathi. Some come from outside Maharashtra, while others mostly communicate in English, the common language of the educated elite, and over time have lost their fluency. This presents a challenge for many of the students who come from rural backgrounds armed only with the English they’ve learned through sub-standard second-language classes. 

After the scholarships awards were distributed and each student recognized, I got the chance to talk with two of Marzia’s students and their parents. Raju has been using the Foundation’s funds to study organic chemistry for the past three years. He speaks English fluently and carries himself with the cocky confidence of someone who has overcome a great deal to jostle his way onto the fast-track to becoming part of an upper-strata of society. He’s going into pharmaceuticals to create new drugs and cure untreatable diseases he proclaimed happily. Later, using Marzia as an interpreter, a conversation with his father gave me a little more insight into just what he’s faced to get to where he is. Confined to their small village, Raju’s father spent many nights of his childhood lying awake wondering when and where his next meal would come from. When his son was born he determined that, no matter what sacrifices the family had to make, he would be educated and attend university. Though they might have gone without meals or new clothes, Raju went to school. Twenty-one years later, his father had tears in his eyes as he watched his son joke and shove the friends gathered around him. 

Ramdel has yet to acquire Raju’s confidence or linguistic abilities. He was charmingly timid, and seemed overwhelmed by his newfound “fortune” of educational opportunities. I was instantly drawn to his humble nature and could easily identify with the position he was in, completely awestruck by the miracle of scholarships that will allow him to continue higher education. I’ve been there too. I smiled and gently encouraged him as he hung his head and lowered his gaze from mine when he couldn’t find the English words to describe his ambitions. A few fragments of broken Marathi on my part broke the ice. I think he realized that I too was struggling with a strange and complicated language, and he hesitantly began to open up a bit more. Eventually, between talking to him and his father, I discovered that they had both made a five-hour journey from their village to accept his first Malhotra scholarship. He is also hoping to study organic chemistry at a university somewhere outside Pune. They were delighted to learn that I am particularly interested in visiting villages and experiencing rural Indian life, both to better understand Indian culture (and what’s being lost in the rush to globalize) and to spread HIV awareness. Before biding him farewell I managed to get his email. I can’t wait to see where he goes over the next few years. 

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A few other things... I’ve been struggling with my assumptions about rickshaw drivers. So many of them try to take advantage of me, the strange foreigner with little knowledge of the city and even less of the local language. A few have even proved dangerous, whether it be with verbal harassment or pushing the line on physical/sexual assault. All of these experiences have caused me to expect bad experiences each time I step into a rickshaw, but every now and then my assumptions get proven very, very wrong. The other night I had to come home at 9:30 - prime time for sketchy experiences. To my surprise, not only did my driver know English, Marathi, Hindi, and five other Indian languages, he’d also traveled out of the country on multiple occasions and taught computer engineering at one of the colleges in Pune. I was astounded and, both grateful for the safe and uneventful ride home and the incredible conversation I’d had, tried to tip him a few extra rupees. “Nai!” he exclaimed adamantly, shoving the change into my hand along with his business card. Never had I had someone refuse money, here or in the US. It was also my first time being invited into the life of a “common” person on the street - he wanted me to visit his class. What an eye opener.

Today I had a few unpleasant rides and was not looking forward to trying to get from Aund to Kothrud in Ganesh Festival traffic. When I finally managed to flag down a rickshaw, the driver was equally (un)thrilled with the prospect of fighting his way across town and demanded I pay extra. I was in a hurry and surprised to find someone willing to travel the distance, so I eventually agreed. Once we were off he said a few fragmented phrases in English, which prompted me to ask, “English bol?” He chuckled. “Me English 40%. You Marathi 100%?”
“Nai nai!” I responded with a laugh. “Me Marathi 10%!” We continued conversing like that, he in broken English and me in far worse Marathi, for a good part of the 45-minute ride. And yet again, my expectations were turned upside down. All the more reason for me to work harder to fight the fast developing assumptions that take over each time I step out to flag down a ride...


*** All the names of the students have been changed since I never got their permission to write about them. :)