I don't think any adult could have put it as well as this fifteen-year old did. From the Diary of Anne Frank, dated 13 June, 1944. (Please click on the images to enlarge)
Tuesday, March 8, 2016
Thursday, February 25, 2016
Limited Time
When you know you have limited time-
I am not saying
Your time is limited (which it always is)
But that you have limited time
(which is slightly different)-
You see each day as new...
Suddenly it begins to make sense;
Each full moon-
How many of those will we get to see here?
How many more monsoons?
How many more sunrises and sunsets?
How many more times
would we get to complain
Of the hardships and the struggles?
The conveniences, the comforts
Spring to view, brilliantly.
Today is not the end, but
The countdown has begun.
The ground we had been standing on
The once-firm, rock-still, earth
Is giving way beneath our feet.
Things may never get better
We might as well get used to the "new" normal.
Lest some miracle should happen.
But miracles are shy; they don't
easily come to us.
We must go looking for them,
Dig the ground and drag them out
Scour the skies and dive into the ocean.
Then we call them fruits of labour.
I am not saying
Your time is limited (which it always is)
But that you have limited time
(which is slightly different)-
You see each day as new...
Suddenly it begins to make sense;
Each full moon-
How many of those will we get to see here?
How many more monsoons?
How many more sunrises and sunsets?
How many more times
would we get to complain
Of the hardships and the struggles?
The conveniences, the comforts
Spring to view, brilliantly.
Today is not the end, but
The countdown has begun.
The ground we had been standing on
The once-firm, rock-still, earth
Is giving way beneath our feet.
Things may never get better
We might as well get used to the "new" normal.
Lest some miracle should happen.
But miracles are shy; they don't
easily come to us.
We must go looking for them,
Dig the ground and drag them out
Scour the skies and dive into the ocean.
Then we call them fruits of labour.
Wednesday, February 17, 2016
Badges
There were these three badges when I was in fourth standard (which un/fortunately I never had to wear) - each a different colour, for first rank, second rank and third rank. I suppose one was green, another red and the third orange or yellow. My memory fails me, I just recall that they were colourful and attractive and jealousy-invoking. After every term exam, when the results come out, the badges were given to the first three rank holders, and they got to wear it on their shirt. Proudly.
I remember the first and second rank holders, they were always the same people, just that they kept exchanging their badges every term. But the third rank holder's name or face evades me.
A few days ago, my son came home with a badge, his face brimming with pride (but struggling not to show). It was the badge of the school "Safety Marshal" - the children who were responsible to maintain the "safety" of others at school. Whatever that may be, his badge reminded me how much I had longed for one of those three rank badges, but how I never got any close.
Anyway, during my son's PTM, the teacher did not seem very concerned about his grades and I quickly asked if they were okay, and she said "Yes, Yes, he has good grades for most of the subjects; he is doing well." Funny how the focus has shifted so far away from red, green and yellow. It's good of course, no pressure on the kids, and no pressure on the parents, but then I began to wonder if things would come full circle again and one day the teachers would find out that the students have lost their competitive spirit and it would be good to give them some boost with red or green badges. I must insert here that except for a little envy for those girls wearing badges, no amount of competitive spirit was awakened in me when I was ten.
I do not know what happens in my son's school, what he thinks, what he feels, and he sure has no inkling of how I survived mine. That's the best thing about the generation gap. We don't understand each other and we get to explore everything new. One day someone would come up and say, Look, I think we should give colourful badges (or whatever is the latest fad) to children who perform best in class, so that the others can aspire to be like them. Besides, it is good to encourage the hardworking, talented lot. Now we ignore the performers, say that everyone who participated is a winner, and so those who actually have done outstandingly well will get demotivated and think, "Why should I do it? I am considered the same as that kid who knows nothing." Wow, what an idea. That would so motivate them to perform. Let's bring in the badges.
I remember the first and second rank holders, they were always the same people, just that they kept exchanging their badges every term. But the third rank holder's name or face evades me.
A few days ago, my son came home with a badge, his face brimming with pride (but struggling not to show). It was the badge of the school "Safety Marshal" - the children who were responsible to maintain the "safety" of others at school. Whatever that may be, his badge reminded me how much I had longed for one of those three rank badges, but how I never got any close.
Anyway, during my son's PTM, the teacher did not seem very concerned about his grades and I quickly asked if they were okay, and she said "Yes, Yes, he has good grades for most of the subjects; he is doing well." Funny how the focus has shifted so far away from red, green and yellow. It's good of course, no pressure on the kids, and no pressure on the parents, but then I began to wonder if things would come full circle again and one day the teachers would find out that the students have lost their competitive spirit and it would be good to give them some boost with red or green badges. I must insert here that except for a little envy for those girls wearing badges, no amount of competitive spirit was awakened in me when I was ten.
I do not know what happens in my son's school, what he thinks, what he feels, and he sure has no inkling of how I survived mine. That's the best thing about the generation gap. We don't understand each other and we get to explore everything new. One day someone would come up and say, Look, I think we should give colourful badges (or whatever is the latest fad) to children who perform best in class, so that the others can aspire to be like them. Besides, it is good to encourage the hardworking, talented lot. Now we ignore the performers, say that everyone who participated is a winner, and so those who actually have done outstandingly well will get demotivated and think, "Why should I do it? I am considered the same as that kid who knows nothing." Wow, what an idea. That would so motivate them to perform. Let's bring in the badges.
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
Auto ride
There was no obvious reason why I wanted to go out like that – without bothering to change my dress, without halting a moment to see if I was leaving everything all right behind me, without telling anyone. No looking for the child, no locking the door, nothing.
The auto came, and I just left grabbing the tiny purse. I glanced at my kurta, it was faded and old. It would have bothered me once, but did not today.
I muttered something to the driver. He was an old man with tired eyes, the face I have seen before in the stories I wrote. He had the same towel thrown across his shoulders, and he wiped sweat from his face with it and covered his mouth with it when he coughed. Just as I had written.
My mobile beeped and I noticed that the battery was running low. I wondered how much longer it would beep, how long it had been beeping. Not much longer, I thought. The beep connected the real world with the unreal.
I swayed when the auto turned to the left and went down the slope. The slope from twenty years ago. The old buildings and discoloured walls. But I did not look up from my phone.
When I did, I said good-naturedly, “Oh, this is not where I wanted to go.” Good-naturedly was important because I did not want to upset him. But his reply was grumpy, a snort of complaint that I did not tell him when he made the turn off the road.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I wasn’t looking.” I smiled and spoke in a friendly way, hoping to ease his annoyance. He paid no heed. He was doing a job, he would have to go home and take rest after it was done. A long rest.
He turned the auto around. I glimpsed his face, tired and drawn and haggard, all words that mean pretty much the same but appearing different on the lines of his face. With perhaps a touch of boredom on it as well. It was not as though he loved driving an auto or it had been his ambition in life.
We climbed back up the slope and went on our way. It was not raining at the moment but it had been. Both sides of the road were submerged. We were on a path across the river. There could be no road for all I cared. The mobile continued to beep. Something like a boat appeared in the distance on the water. This monsoon was severe than usual. How could monsoon be severe? Summer is severe, not monsoon. Harsh, perhaps. But the water was real, or as real as in a meaningless dream.
A little ahead, I panicked and wanted to get out of the auto. I wondered what I was doing. I was a mess. I think I bent double and clutched my stomach and retched. There was no one anywhere so I did not try to hold it in. Nothing came out but retching sounds.
I straightened. The confusion had not cleared, but the water was gone. A bus came towards where I was standing. When it came very close, I realised that it had been approaching in reverse. I waited, unmoving, uncaring, wondering if it would reverse far enough to throw me down. It stopped a little away from me and a girl stepped out. She was wearing very colourful clothes as though she had been at a performance. Dance or something. Too colourful though not fluorescent, but loud and full of flowery designs. She swirled and twisted as though she was still dancing.
The auto driver sat there smoking, paying no attention to anything. He was within himself, lost long ago and never revived. He had drowned and survived, he had lived and died, his outside was now inside. As I looked at him, I saw the water of the monsoon behind him.
“Let’s go home,” I said.
The auto came, and I just left grabbing the tiny purse. I glanced at my kurta, it was faded and old. It would have bothered me once, but did not today.
I muttered something to the driver. He was an old man with tired eyes, the face I have seen before in the stories I wrote. He had the same towel thrown across his shoulders, and he wiped sweat from his face with it and covered his mouth with it when he coughed. Just as I had written.
My mobile beeped and I noticed that the battery was running low. I wondered how much longer it would beep, how long it had been beeping. Not much longer, I thought. The beep connected the real world with the unreal.
I swayed when the auto turned to the left and went down the slope. The slope from twenty years ago. The old buildings and discoloured walls. But I did not look up from my phone.
When I did, I said good-naturedly, “Oh, this is not where I wanted to go.” Good-naturedly was important because I did not want to upset him. But his reply was grumpy, a snort of complaint that I did not tell him when he made the turn off the road.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I wasn’t looking.” I smiled and spoke in a friendly way, hoping to ease his annoyance. He paid no heed. He was doing a job, he would have to go home and take rest after it was done. A long rest.
He turned the auto around. I glimpsed his face, tired and drawn and haggard, all words that mean pretty much the same but appearing different on the lines of his face. With perhaps a touch of boredom on it as well. It was not as though he loved driving an auto or it had been his ambition in life.
We climbed back up the slope and went on our way. It was not raining at the moment but it had been. Both sides of the road were submerged. We were on a path across the river. There could be no road for all I cared. The mobile continued to beep. Something like a boat appeared in the distance on the water. This monsoon was severe than usual. How could monsoon be severe? Summer is severe, not monsoon. Harsh, perhaps. But the water was real, or as real as in a meaningless dream.
A little ahead, I panicked and wanted to get out of the auto. I wondered what I was doing. I was a mess. I think I bent double and clutched my stomach and retched. There was no one anywhere so I did not try to hold it in. Nothing came out but retching sounds.
I straightened. The confusion had not cleared, but the water was gone. A bus came towards where I was standing. When it came very close, I realised that it had been approaching in reverse. I waited, unmoving, uncaring, wondering if it would reverse far enough to throw me down. It stopped a little away from me and a girl stepped out. She was wearing very colourful clothes as though she had been at a performance. Dance or something. Too colourful though not fluorescent, but loud and full of flowery designs. She swirled and twisted as though she was still dancing.
The auto driver sat there smoking, paying no attention to anything. He was within himself, lost long ago and never revived. He had drowned and survived, he had lived and died, his outside was now inside. As I looked at him, I saw the water of the monsoon behind him.
“Let’s go home,” I said.
Friday, January 8, 2016
At the Crossroads
Much could have been achieved;
Not much has been done.
The path unwalked was taken
The oath has been forgotten.
Tonight, at the crossroads,
The questions hover above.
The Where, the Why, the What.
The answers, still at large.
Retreat is not a choice, when
Ahead lies destiny...
An oasis or a mirage-
At least, something in sight!
Each step takes me away
From the comfort of my home
The Where, the Why, the What-
The haunting day and night.
Not much has been done.
The path unwalked was taken
The oath has been forgotten.
Tonight, at the crossroads,
The questions hover above.
The Where, the Why, the What.
The answers, still at large.
Retreat is not a choice, when
Ahead lies destiny...
An oasis or a mirage-
At least, something in sight!
Each step takes me away
From the comfort of my home
The Where, the Why, the What-
The haunting day and night.
Monday, December 21, 2015
December panic
I don't know if I am the only person in the world with this weird illness. But so it appears. I call it the December panic - scientific name: Year End panic - and when it hits me, I begin panicking about everything as though time is running out. Well, time is indeed running out (and how), but there is no clear evidence it is running faster than it usually is, so I myself don't know what is the cause for the agitation.
As you can see, I can be very reasonable and logical about things, but as you can also see, it does no good.
This thing - this illness - makes its appearance around the 15th of December and you find me at the corner of my room waving my hands up and down in sheer terror.
Of What, you ask. Of the End of the year, I say.
This happens every December. (I had analysed it a few years ago. Read Caught Unawares Again.)
I don't know whence it came and wherefore it exists, but so it is. It progresses quickly. There is no sign or symptom when December is born and the rest of the world prepares for "the holidays".
(Read here about another weird illness of mine: ATM Phobia. Yes, I am a sick, old woman.)
This year also it started around the 15th - but I had been too terrified to actually blog about it.
It is as though the deadline (for whatever) is on the 31st December. I suppose after a lifetime of facing deadlines - from homework to exams to bedtimes to playtime to dinner time to reading time to TV time to life-and-death matters like software delivery - this is to be expected.
The strange thing is that (and I assume it is very 'human') when I have more work to do, the more I am interested in doing something else, so that I can panic and panic to my heart's content. (If I finish all the work, the panic will go, right? I love to panic. It's complicated.)
For instance, right now I have about ten emails with red-stars waiting for me (oh, I flag them with red stars just to make sure I begin the day with a panic attack) and instead of attending to them, here I am adding finishing touches to this blog. Now if you will please excuse me, I need to go to my corner of the room and panic in peace.
As you can see, I can be very reasonable and logical about things, but as you can also see, it does no good.
This thing - this illness - makes its appearance around the 15th of December and you find me at the corner of my room waving my hands up and down in sheer terror.
Of What, you ask. Of the End of the year, I say.
This happens every December. (I had analysed it a few years ago. Read Caught Unawares Again.)
I don't know whence it came and wherefore it exists, but so it is. It progresses quickly. There is no sign or symptom when December is born and the rest of the world prepares for "the holidays".
(Read here about another weird illness of mine: ATM Phobia. Yes, I am a sick, old woman.)
This year also it started around the 15th - but I had been too terrified to actually blog about it.
It is as though the deadline (for whatever) is on the 31st December. I suppose after a lifetime of facing deadlines - from homework to exams to bedtimes to playtime to dinner time to reading time to TV time to life-and-death matters like software delivery - this is to be expected.
The strange thing is that (and I assume it is very 'human') when I have more work to do, the more I am interested in doing something else, so that I can panic and panic to my heart's content. (If I finish all the work, the panic will go, right? I love to panic. It's complicated.)
For instance, right now I have about ten emails with red-stars waiting for me (oh, I flag them with red stars just to make sure I begin the day with a panic attack) and instead of attending to them, here I am adding finishing touches to this blog. Now if you will please excuse me, I need to go to my corner of the room and panic in peace.
Thursday, December 17, 2015
Life, as it sometimes is.
Stuck in the cogwheel
That's forgotten to spin.
"Without" a life,
That's why I'm upset.
Everyone just whooshes past.
I'm filled with dread
About the time that's flying by
The minutes and hours
The days and weeks
That are lost to me
While I am just...here, waiting.
Waiting for what?
That's the strangest thing.
Change.
But I tremble
At the possibilities...
I tremble, lest my desires
Bring forth a deluge.
And why should I fear?
For desires never harmed anyone,
Ever. Only actions do.
And actions are as alien to me
As is now life itself.
That's forgotten to spin.
"Without" a life,
That's why I'm upset.
Everyone just whooshes past.
I'm filled with dread
About the time that's flying by
The minutes and hours
The days and weeks
That are lost to me
While I am just...here, waiting.
Waiting for what?
That's the strangest thing.
Change.
But I tremble
At the possibilities...
I tremble, lest my desires
Bring forth a deluge.
And why should I fear?
For desires never harmed anyone,
Ever. Only actions do.
And actions are as alien to me
As is now life itself.
Friday, December 4, 2015
നിങ്ങളെന്നെ മലയാളിയാക്കി
സ്കൂളില് പഠിക്കുന്ന കാലത്ത് കേരളമെന്നു കേട്ടാല് അഭിമാനം കൊണ്ടു ഞെളിപിരി കൊള്ളുകയോ മലയാളമെന്നു കേട്ടാല് രക്തം തിളച്ചുമറിയുകയോ ഒന്നും ചെയ്തിട്ടുള്ളതായി ഓര്ക്കുന്നില്ല. മലയാളം പഠിക്കുന്നതും കേള്ക്കുന്നതും വായിക്കുന്നതും പറയുന്നതും ഒരു വശത്തു കൂടി കടന്നു പോയി എന്നേയുള്ളൂ.
കേരളത്തില് നിന്നു പുറത്തു വന്നില്ലായിരുന്നെങ്കില് അങ്ങനെ ഒരു വികാരവും എനിക്കുണ്ടാവാന് സാധ്യതയുണ്ടെന്നും തോന്നുന്നില്ല. കേരളത്തില് എന്റെ കൂടെ പഠിച്ചിരുന്ന വടക്കേ ഇന്ത്യക്കാര് മര്യാദയ്ക്ക് മലയാളം വാക്കുകള് രണ്ടു-മൂന്നെണ്ണം പഠിച്ചു സന്തോഷമായി ജീവിച്ചു. അല്ലാതെ ഞങ്ങളെ ചൊറിയാനൊന്നും വന്നിട്ടില്ല.
ആദ്യമായി "മല്ലു" കഥകള് കേള്ക്കുന്നത് ജോലിക്കു കയറിയതിനു ശേഷമാണെന്നു തോന്നുന്നു. ഒരു കൂട്ടുകാരി തന്റെ കൂടെയുള്ള വടക്കന്റെ കഥ പറഞ്ഞു. മലയാളികളെ കളിയാക്കാനുള്ള തന്ത്രവുമായി ഇറങ്ങിയതാണത്രേ ആ ചേട്ടന്. മലയാളത്തില് 'z' ശബ്ദം ഇല്ലാത്തതു കൊണ്ട് മലയാളികള് 'zoo'-നു 'soo' എന്നാണ് പറയുന്നത് എന്നായിരുന്നു അദ്ദേഹത്തിന്റെ കണ്ടുപിടുത്തം. അതു തെളിയിക്കാന് ഒരു മലയാളിയോട് ആ വാക്ക് പറയാന് അദ്ദേഹം പറഞ്ഞു. മിടുക്കിയായ ആ മലയാളി 'ജൂ' എന്നു പറഞ്ഞു. ഹിന്ദിക്കാര് sabzi-ക്കു സബ്ജി, zindagi യ്ക്കു ജിന്ദഗി എന്നൊക്കെ പറയുന്ന കാര്യം നമുക്കറിയാമല്ലോ. വടക്കന് ചൂളിപ്പോയി എന്നാണ് കഥ.
ബാംഗ്ലൂറില് വച്ച്, ഒരിക്കല് എന്റെ കൂടെ ജോലി ചെയ്തിരുന്ന ഒരു വടക്കേ ഇന്ത്യന് മലയാളി (എന്നു വച്ചാല് നോര്ത്തില് ജനിച്ചു വളര്ന്ന മലയാളി) യുടെ മുന്നില് വച്ച് ഞാന് ഹിന്ദി പറയാനിടയായി. ഏതോ മറുഭാഷക്കാരനോടായിരുന്നു സംഭാഷണം. ലാലേട്ടന്റെ ഹൂം ഹൈ ഹോ പ്രശ്നങ്ങള് എന്നെയും സ്ഥിരമായി അലട്ടാറുണ്ട്. മലയാളികള് ഹിന്ദി പറയുമ്പോള് സൗത്ത് ഇന്ത്യന് ആക്സന്റ് ആണെന്ന് ആ മലയാളി സഹപ്രവര്ത്തകന് അല്പം പുച്ഛത്തോടെ പ്രസ്താവിച്ചു. മലയാളിയായ എന്റെ ഹിന്ദിക്ക് അല്പം ആക്സന്റ് ആയതു സ്വാഭാവികം, മലയാളിയായ നിന്റെ മലയാളത്തിന് എന്തിനാണ് ഇത്രയും ഹിന്ദി ആക്സന്റ് എന്നു ഞാന് തിരിച്ചു ചോദിച്ചു.
വടക്കേ ഇന്ത്യക്കാരെക്കാളും മലയാളികള് തന്നെയാണ് നമ്മുടെ ആക്സന്റും മറ്റു കാര്യങ്ങളും കളിയാക്കാന് വരാറ് എന്നു പിന്നീട് മനസ്സിലായി. അത്യാവശ്യം കാര്യം മനസ്സിലാക്കാനും ജീവിച്ചു പോകാനും മാത്രമല്ലേ പൊതുവേ അന്യഭാഷയുടെ ആവശ്യം. ഓരോ പ്രാവശ്യവും 'മല്ലു ആക്സന്റ്' എന്നു മലയാളികള് തന്നെ കളിയാക്കുമ്പോള്, "അതിപ്പോ ഞാന് മലയാളിയല്ലേ, എനിക്കു ഹിന്ദിക്കാരന്റെ ആക്സന്റ് വരുമോ? ഹിന്ദിക്കാരന് മലയാളം മലയാളിയെപ്പോലെ പറയാന് പറ്റുമോ? പോട്ടെ, മലയാളിയായ നിങ്ങളെന്താ മലയാളം ഹിന്ദിയില് പറയുന്നത്?" എന്നൊക്കെ തിരിച്ചു ചോദിക്കാനാണ് സന്തോഷം.
അങ്ങനെ, സുഹൃത്തുക്കളെ, നിങ്ങളെന്നെ മലയാളി എന്നു വിളിച്ചു കളിയാക്കുകയും "അപമാനി"ക്കുകയും ചെയ്തില്ലായിരുന്നെങ്കില് ഞാനിന്ന് ഒരു യഥാര്ത്ഥ മലയാളി ആകുകയില്ലായിരുന്നു.
(Disclaimer: ലോകത്തില് പലതരം മലയാളികളും ഹിന്ദിക്കാരും മറ്റു ഭാഷക്കാരും ഉണ്ടെന്നും ഇതവരുടെയെല്ലാം കാര്യം അല്ലെന്നും എന്റെയും ഞാന് കണ്ടിട്ടുള്ള ചിലരുടെയും മാത്രം കാര്യമാണെന്നും ഈയവസരത്തില് വ്യക്തമാക്കാന് ആഗ്രഹിക്കുന്നു. )
(Disclaimer 2: ബാംഗ്ലൂരില് വളര്ന്നു വരുന്ന എന്റെ പുത്രന് അത്യാവശ്യം ആക്സെന്റോടെയാണ് മലയാളം പറയുന്നതെന്നും, കുറച്ചു നാള് കഴിഞ്ഞ് ആരും കാണാതെ ഈ ബ്ലോഗ് ഡിലീറ്റ് ചെയ്യേണ്ടി വരുമെന്നും ഞാന് മനസ്സിലാക്കുന്നു.)
കേരളത്തില് നിന്നു പുറത്തു വന്നില്ലായിരുന്നെങ്കില് അങ്ങനെ ഒരു വികാരവും എനിക്കുണ്ടാവാന് സാധ്യതയുണ്ടെന്നും തോന്നുന്നില്ല. കേരളത്തില് എന്റെ കൂടെ പഠിച്ചിരുന്ന വടക്കേ ഇന്ത്യക്കാര് മര്യാദയ്ക്ക് മലയാളം വാക്കുകള് രണ്ടു-മൂന്നെണ്ണം പഠിച്ചു സന്തോഷമായി ജീവിച്ചു. അല്ലാതെ ഞങ്ങളെ ചൊറിയാനൊന്നും വന്നിട്ടില്ല.
ആദ്യമായി "മല്ലു" കഥകള് കേള്ക്കുന്നത് ജോലിക്കു കയറിയതിനു ശേഷമാണെന്നു തോന്നുന്നു. ഒരു കൂട്ടുകാരി തന്റെ കൂടെയുള്ള വടക്കന്റെ കഥ പറഞ്ഞു. മലയാളികളെ കളിയാക്കാനുള്ള തന്ത്രവുമായി ഇറങ്ങിയതാണത്രേ ആ ചേട്ടന്. മലയാളത്തില് 'z' ശബ്ദം ഇല്ലാത്തതു കൊണ്ട് മലയാളികള് 'zoo'-നു 'soo' എന്നാണ് പറയുന്നത് എന്നായിരുന്നു അദ്ദേഹത്തിന്റെ കണ്ടുപിടുത്തം. അതു തെളിയിക്കാന് ഒരു മലയാളിയോട് ആ വാക്ക് പറയാന് അദ്ദേഹം പറഞ്ഞു. മിടുക്കിയായ ആ മലയാളി 'ജൂ' എന്നു പറഞ്ഞു. ഹിന്ദിക്കാര് sabzi-ക്കു സബ്ജി, zindagi യ്ക്കു ജിന്ദഗി എന്നൊക്കെ പറയുന്ന കാര്യം നമുക്കറിയാമല്ലോ. വടക്കന് ചൂളിപ്പോയി എന്നാണ് കഥ.
ബാംഗ്ലൂറില് വച്ച്, ഒരിക്കല് എന്റെ കൂടെ ജോലി ചെയ്തിരുന്ന ഒരു വടക്കേ ഇന്ത്യന് മലയാളി (എന്നു വച്ചാല് നോര്ത്തില് ജനിച്ചു വളര്ന്ന മലയാളി) യുടെ മുന്നില് വച്ച് ഞാന് ഹിന്ദി പറയാനിടയായി. ഏതോ മറുഭാഷക്കാരനോടായിരുന്നു സംഭാഷണം. ലാലേട്ടന്റെ ഹൂം ഹൈ ഹോ പ്രശ്നങ്ങള് എന്നെയും സ്ഥിരമായി അലട്ടാറുണ്ട്. മലയാളികള് ഹിന്ദി പറയുമ്പോള് സൗത്ത് ഇന്ത്യന് ആക്സന്റ് ആണെന്ന് ആ മലയാളി സഹപ്രവര്ത്തകന് അല്പം പുച്ഛത്തോടെ പ്രസ്താവിച്ചു. മലയാളിയായ എന്റെ ഹിന്ദിക്ക് അല്പം ആക്സന്റ് ആയതു സ്വാഭാവികം, മലയാളിയായ നിന്റെ മലയാളത്തിന് എന്തിനാണ് ഇത്രയും ഹിന്ദി ആക്സന്റ് എന്നു ഞാന് തിരിച്ചു ചോദിച്ചു.
വടക്കേ ഇന്ത്യക്കാരെക്കാളും മലയാളികള് തന്നെയാണ് നമ്മുടെ ആക്സന്റും മറ്റു കാര്യങ്ങളും കളിയാക്കാന് വരാറ് എന്നു പിന്നീട് മനസ്സിലായി. അത്യാവശ്യം കാര്യം മനസ്സിലാക്കാനും ജീവിച്ചു പോകാനും മാത്രമല്ലേ പൊതുവേ അന്യഭാഷയുടെ ആവശ്യം. ഓരോ പ്രാവശ്യവും 'മല്ലു ആക്സന്റ്' എന്നു മലയാളികള് തന്നെ കളിയാക്കുമ്പോള്, "അതിപ്പോ ഞാന് മലയാളിയല്ലേ, എനിക്കു ഹിന്ദിക്കാരന്റെ ആക്സന്റ് വരുമോ? ഹിന്ദിക്കാരന് മലയാളം മലയാളിയെപ്പോലെ പറയാന് പറ്റുമോ? പോട്ടെ, മലയാളിയായ നിങ്ങളെന്താ മലയാളം ഹിന്ദിയില് പറയുന്നത്?" എന്നൊക്കെ തിരിച്ചു ചോദിക്കാനാണ് സന്തോഷം.
അങ്ങനെ, സുഹൃത്തുക്കളെ, നിങ്ങളെന്നെ മലയാളി എന്നു വിളിച്ചു കളിയാക്കുകയും "അപമാനി"ക്കുകയും ചെയ്തില്ലായിരുന്നെങ്കില് ഞാനിന്ന് ഒരു യഥാര്ത്ഥ മലയാളി ആകുകയില്ലായിരുന്നു.
(Disclaimer: ലോകത്തില് പലതരം മലയാളികളും ഹിന്ദിക്കാരും മറ്റു ഭാഷക്കാരും ഉണ്ടെന്നും ഇതവരുടെയെല്ലാം കാര്യം അല്ലെന്നും എന്റെയും ഞാന് കണ്ടിട്ടുള്ള ചിലരുടെയും മാത്രം കാര്യമാണെന്നും ഈയവസരത്തില് വ്യക്തമാക്കാന് ആഗ്രഹിക്കുന്നു. )
(Disclaimer 2: ബാംഗ്ലൂരില് വളര്ന്നു വരുന്ന എന്റെ പുത്രന് അത്യാവശ്യം ആക്സെന്റോടെയാണ് മലയാളം പറയുന്നതെന്നും, കുറച്ചു നാള് കഴിഞ്ഞ് ആരും കാണാതെ ഈ ബ്ലോഗ് ഡിലീറ്റ് ചെയ്യേണ്ടി വരുമെന്നും ഞാന് മനസ്സിലാക്കുന്നു.)
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