Dilli Ke Baad – Part I

When a Tamilian ( a Palakkad Tamilian, if I may) shifts to North India, a few sizeable repercussions are bound to take place. Especially if a pure Chennai bred Palakkad Tamilian moves to New Delhi.

This blog is definitely not for the purpose of whining about how moving to Delhi has catastrophically changed my life and destroyed my Tamizh roots or anything to that effect. I love Delhi. My parents love Delhi. I have never really regretted moving there. Nor have I complained about anything in Delhi. True, there have been a few changes, but these have just accounted for more eventful days, more things to look forward to, and more occasions to enjoy. In this blog (which will be released in 3 parts) I am trying to describe how moving to Delhi has added a “Hindi”ness to our household, in addition to our “Tamizh”ness. Note: In addition to our “Tamizh”ness and not at the cost of. And the mix of the 2 is… well, you’ll see:

History: Both my parents have lived in Delhi in the 80’s and so the place and the language is not entirely new to them. Even though I was born and brought up in Singara Chennai, Hindi was my second language in school (plus I’ve had an overdose of old Hindi movies at home); hence the language isn’t totally alien to me either. When I was in my 9^th standard my dad got relocated to Delhi, but my mom and I stayed back in good old Chennai. As soon as I came to Singapore, my mom too packed her bags happily and bid farewell to our hometown.

Article 1.a.: Hybridization in Speech

Enter a new territory, and your tongue immediately adopts the language of the place! But when you have not lost your native accent, the resulting hybrid lingo is just beyond words. Literally.

Excerpts from phone conversations with my mother:

Ma: Hello. Enna panre?

Me: Hi. Nothing much. Room le movie pathundruken.

Ma: Accha. Adhane, iniki Saturday le. Saturday unaku kaam illiye.

Me: Illai. Nee enna paninka?

Ma: Naa market po poren. Saturday market le subji lam romba sastha inga. Athai also coming. Apram raat ko dinner ku vella porom.

Me: Enge Haldirams a?

Ma: Haan, wahin. Sidhu vandhurkan Mumbai se. So avan anga dhan ponam nu yen peeccheye nikkaran.

Of course when you only possess the proficiency of a primary school kid (and that too after numerous Prathmic exams et al) in the language, the transition can be harsher.

(At a shop nearby)

Shop boy: Aapko kya chahiye madam ji?

Ma: (looking arnd) : Aap ke paas besan ka aata nahin hai?

<Besan is kadlai maavu and aata is aata>

Shop boy: Aap ko besan chahiye ki aata?

Ma: Kya?

Shop boy: (Holds up the respective packets) . Besan yeh hai aur aata yeh hai.

Ma: Oho. Yeh waala do,pa. Meine socha besan kadalai hai aur aata maavu hai. Hehe .

Shop boy: You are from madras madamji?

Ma: Haan ji. Aapne correct guess kaise kiya?

Till date that shop dude talks to my mother and anyone remotely related to her only in English.

Article 1.b.: New Festivals

We have never been big on festivals like Holi while living in Chennai. It was always an event that was talked about but never taken part in. That year was different. I was talking to my father the day before Holi, and he joyfully informed me that he was on his way to buy those pipelike thingys with which people spurt out coloured water on each other on Holi, and hurriedly passed the phone to my mother who was prolifically making jangiris for the supposed Holi party the next day. Since when did we start celebrating holi and organizing parties for it ? :O And since when did people start making Jangiris for Holi?

Delhi lifestyle touched upon Diwali too.The familiar agal vilakkus were replaced by bright coloured serial bulbs running all around the compound wall. Navarathri in Delhi marked the absence of the customary hassle of buying Vethlai Paaku and Moonu Pathruba articles in Pondy Bazaar to present to the never ending horde of mamis who unfailingly came to witness the golu and in some cases, even sang. (Singing mamis got one extra blouse piece, which was carefully selected by my mother , after making sure that she did not, does not and will not own a sari in that shade or anything close to it in the past, present, near or far future.) Delhi helped save my mother a number of blouse pieces and she is rather pleased about that. Even the quantity of Sundal was boiled down from a decent sized casserole to a minuscule bowl, since there were apparently not many people to eat it. Dishes like Aloo chat started materializing in the kitchen as these attracted Delhi Aunties more, and soon the compliments showered on my mother shifted form ‘Janagi oda Sundal besh-a iruke’ to ‘Janki’s aloo chaat ekdam first class yaar.’ (my mother’s name is Janaki). She doesn’t care as long as she gets the compliments.

Article 1.c.: @ The Theatre

When I went back to Delhi for the summer holidays I committed the grave mistake of going for a tamizh movie there. Against my dad’s repeated pleas for watching a tamizh movie at home, I went and booked tickets for Shivaji at PVR cinemas. It was a Saturday night, 9.00 pm primetime and the theatre was full. I was excited. Our seats were good, and I was all set to enjoy the evening and scream the crap out, as I am a very enthused movie buff and I scream and cheer in the theatre, even for a tenuously promising movie. After like a lifetime, the title appeared. Reflexively I woo-hoo ed away to glory and began applauding animatedly. Only when my claps echoed through the theatre did I realize that I was the only one displaying such bouts of questionable dynamism, whereas the rest of the crowd was dead silent, and all eyes were actually fixed on me, instead of the screen on which Rajini had materialized. :O. I gave up and sank low in my chair.In fact I would not be exaggerating (beyond the allowed exaggeration limit) when I say that I died a little inside. What followed were the quietest quietest quietest three hours of my life.