The Language of Love

Rama Krishna Puram or just RK Puram was the township in Delhi where I grew up from class three in 1972 to the time I got my first job in 1988. This government housing colony was spread over a huge area in South Delhi, had houses big and small. Some were very small, one room tenements and then there were a few which had four bedrooms with servant’s quarter. It all depended upon the level of the government official who ranked anywhere between the LDC or Lower Divisional Clerk to the Deputy and Joint Secretary.  The good part of living in such housing complexes was that it was completely cosmopolitan. In this one huge colony there were about fourteen sectors with people from all over the country coming together…at one time four community Durga Pujas were being celebrated in RK Puram and it was only with the advent of the ‘Bangali Colony’ CR Park that there was a place which could boast of more pandals in Delhi. People of all states and languages lived together in almost perfect harmony. When the riots broke out in Delhi in 1984 after the death of Mrs. Indira Gandhi, our elderly Sikh neighbours took refuge in our house during those ghastly days and I am sure there were many similar stories of brotherhood in every street. The only undercurrent of class divide was felt at a very strange level and it caused the most heart breaks of our times.

The Card

Pradeep Sharma was the goal keeper of our local football team. He was reasonably well built and often made some great saves to keep our team afloat. We called him Kalu for obvious reasons and, in our times, we never knew things that have become so important now…racism and colour of the skin. Not that the others like me had a better complexion but, interestingly, it was not us but Pradeep’s own family who had given him this nick name. So we just continued calling him by the same name and not for once did he ever complain about it. Kalu studied in the Delhi Government School in Sector 7 where many of my friends studied.  Everyone knew that the school was not known for academics and it had another handicap…the students in middle school were being taught English for the first time. Apart from playing football together, like many of the teenagers of his age, falling in love was quite a normal phenomenon. Often boys would discuss the pretty girls in the colony and their escapades and encounters. After many a passing affair, Kalu declared his undying love for Anju.

Anju lived in Sector 12 and studied in Auxilium Convent School in Sector 9 which was about half a kilometer from her house. This was among the better schools in the place and, of course, it was English medium.  Kalu would very often bunk school to make sure he reached the school gates at 1pm when the girl’s school got over. Every day he would put on an ironed shirt and trouser and watch Anju walk out of the school gate and he would silently walk a few paces behind her till she entered the gate of her house. Whether Anju knew about Kalu’s existence and persistence we did not know, but surely every girl, after some time, would always feel a shadow lurking behind if someone followed he  and Kalu would also hang around her place again in the evening when she came out to play with her friends. In doing so, Kalu, often, missed the evening practice sessions with us on the field.

This went on for quite some time but Kalu never mustered enough courage to talk to Anju who he heard speaking in English whenever she was with her friends in the evening. Kalu’s English was at best a one liner, “Hello, myself Pardeep.” Yes Pardeep, that’s how he would pronounce his own name. In some days, Kalu came to know about Anju’s upcoming birthday as he had overheard her speaking to her friends in the evening. Kalu felt that would be his day when he would make his mark before his lady love. He asked me to come with him to a gift shop where he asked me to select a couple of good birthday cards. Yes, he did tell me who it was for, so I picked a few but Kalu rejected them all. He chose a rather large one with roses printed on the cover. He brushed aside all my protests for he knew what he was buying. He then went home while I went for my round of football, post which we friends gathered at Munna’s Dhaba for a round of tea and biscuits. Kalu walked in and you could see happiness in his eyes. He put his hand forward and asked us to take a look at the envelope he held. We took out the card and were completely stunned to see it. On the rosy card, Kalu had nicely cut out a heart shape in the centre and had pasted his picture there….a smiling Kalu had poured all his love into his creation. When the fold was opened, Kalu had written ‘Dearest Anju’ on top and at the bottom he had written…. ‘I love you’….signed Pradeep. While many of the friends were all in praise of Kalu and exclaimed “ab toh ladki ek dum patt jayegi bhai”…I did not have the desire to break the boy’s heart, so just kept quiet and smiled.

Next day, Kalu, dressed in his finest attire, was waiting at the school gate. As Anju came out, along with her school mates, Pradeep stepped forward and handed her the card. She was not surprised as by now she had seen him hanging around many a times. She opened the card and started laughing and then she handed the card to her friends and they, too, started laughing uncontrollably. Pradeep was unnerved and walked away. Next day, Pradeep was again there at the school gate and walked up to the girl who started talking to him in English, not in a gentle tone, but pretty much harshly. Pradeep may have been a novice in English but the facial expressions and the tone of the speaker told him that the girl was not impressed. Pradeep walked away from the scene with his head hanging low. That evening we had an important match and Pradeep let go of a couple of easy goals which he, on any normal day, would have easily stopped. He lost the girl and we the match.

The Wail

He studied in one of Delhi’s finest public school where wearing the green tie everyday was a must. He rubbed shoulders with the children of top bureaucrats and well to do business class homes. In school speaking in English was mandatory even though each one of the children could use the Hindi cuss words with ease when poked and provoked. She studied in a Bangla medium school and regular government servants would send their children there. Needless to mention the school did not have the reputation or the class to be even counted in the same league as the boy’s school. Both the Bong boy and the Bong girl lived in Sector 12 of RK Puram. Her house was on the ground floor and on the fourth floor of the building across the road lived our suitable boy. The days of smart phones and Whastapp were still decades away so they would see each other from their rooms, both trying to study hard but hardly studying. From exchanging glances from their windows, by slightly parting the curtains, to meeting off and on at various places including run-ins at the market place, they met as often as they could but the longest time they would ever get was during the Durga Pujas when the flags of Liberte, Egalite and Fraternite were flown high on every Bengali homes and the season of high romance was everywhere…sitting in the pandal, eating rolls, going for immersion…And so it was with our two young hearts.

When the time for the real test came, the boy told his parents about his intent to marry the girl next door, there was complete unrest at home…seemed the days of French Revolution were back and  the flag of Egalite was brought down. No. No means no. How can you even think of marrying a girl from Bangla medium school? Have you lost your mind? We spent so much money sending you to an English medium school and this is how you wish to throw it away? This is completely unacceptable! More than the parents, it seemed it was the boy’s elder sister who, having studied in best of school and college, English medium of course, had poured water over the plans of the duo.

Partho, our Bong Boy, was a good friend of ours. I would often would go to his house and enjoy some of the finest English music that he played on his wooden Sonodyne music system. …Paul Anka,  John Denver and many more. I knew about his lady love and would also take pleasure in catching a sight of her looking up at Partho’s house.  We had another common friend, Sourav, whose parents had gone to their hometown in Bhagalpur that summer. An empty friend’s house meant party time. Many of our close mates came together and while some of us bought the chicken and the other eatables, others cooked the food. Then there were always a majority for whom a party was a gala time to drink to the brim. And so it was a boisterous evening and went on late into the night with songs being sung out of tune and a bit of rowdy dancing too. Then, one by one, most of them left for home, a few staggering back with great difficulty. Partho and I stayed back in Sourav’s place and planned to spend the night there.

I was rudely woken up by Sourav while it was still dark outside. He said, Partho was high and was blabbering something non-stop in another room while reclining on the sofa. Sourav and I went closer and could now hear clearly what Partho was saying…Jhuma…Jhuma..Jhuma…he initially spoke softly and when he saw us, his voice gathered steam and he started calling the same name over and over again, much louder than before. We knew who Jhuma was and tried consoling Partho but the poor fellow was so heartbroken that he did not care and kept repeating the name in a drunken stupor almost the entire night with Sourav and me watching this drama helplessly. Next morning, after waking up and coming back to his senses, our man did not remember anything of the all the tamasha he had done at night.

Fortunately, Partho’s family finally agreed and we were invited for the wedding. We had great fun at the wedding and after a day when the groom’s side organized the feast, Sourav and I supervised the entire setting from the flowers to the lighting and the placing of the chairs and table. We were excited, after all it was our first ever dost getting married, and we felt we had a hand in bringing the couple together. The two are happily married for over thirty years now and have two fine daughters. I just remembered one of my teachers in college who was against the snobbery of English speaking people and would say, “To such people I want to ask, what language do they speak when they make love?”

The Matchmaker

Meet Sid or Siddharth, the smooth guy. He was studying English Honours at Delhi University and was a cool person who was always in control of all situations and spoke impeccable English. He was quite a hit with all old and young alike in the Puja pandal. Jayanta had been keenly observing a girl for quite some time and now that it was Durga Puja time, once more, and he felt this was the right time to express his undying love for her. Jayanta and I were together almost all the time and he had expressed his fondness for the girl to almost everyone including Sid.  The Bir Bangali, however, could never muster up the courage to face the girl directly or speak to her. We would just be the platonic romantics happily watching the girl, following the girl quietly but never ever speaking to her till one day we were to find out that she has ‘taken’. But this Puja would be different and Sid said he would ensure that he introduced Jayanta to Pronoti, the love of his life, so he proclaimed. Panchami, Shashti, Saptami and Ashtami went by with no action and with just one day to go, Sid took charge. He saw Pronoti walking out of the Puja Pandal  and immediately asked Jayanta to come along with him. The two men increased their pace and soon caught up with the girl. Sid called, “Pronoti”, and she stopped. Now Sid, along with Jayanta, were face to face with the girl. And here is the conversation in pucca English, taught by Christian missionaries and, mind it, the girl was a student in a local Hindi medium government school.

“This is Jayanta. He is a good boy and he wants to be your friend….I just want to say, nothing physical, just friends!”

Jayanta froze and started looking all over the place except the girl. Pronoti looked completely dazed and was saved by another friend of hers who, by now, had come along and they walked away together. 

Moral of the Story: Don’t let others speak for you, especially, when it comes to expressing your love. All Jayanta had to do was forget all his English and Hindi and just speak those lines, immortalized over the ages in all movies, ‘ami tomake bhalobashi ’ and the story might have had a happy ending.

SS