Priyamita tells us a story about a Punjabi boy in a Bengali milieu. The miscommunications between Bengali and Punjabi languages create a comedy of errors – an exclusive for Different Truths.
Every year on Rabindra Jayanti (the birthday of Rabindranath Tagore), our college would host a programme where Tagore’s songs and plays would be performed. My best friend and batchmate, Anwesha, was dating Anuj, a regular Punjabi guy (our batchmate). Many of you may have read my earlier story about Anuj’s failed attempt at impressing Anwesha’s parents.
On the day of Rabindra Jayanti, Anwesha’s parents decided to attend our college programme as their darling daughter would perform in one of Tagore’s famous plays. Anwesha was adamant that Anuj must try his best to win over her parents that day and had made me grudgingly participate in this massive endeavour. If you had followed my last memoir properly, you would agree that this was a seemingly impossible enterprise. Anyway, I couldn’t let Anwesha, my best friend, down (she also gave me her notes before every exam).
On the day of Rabindra Jayanti, it dawned bright and clear with an azure sky.
On the day of Rabindra Jayanti, it dawned bright and clear with an azure sky. We were all seated in our sprawling sports ground, and our Professors were on stage. The program started with the quintessential ‘Welcome note’ followed by a speech on Tagore’s early life.
Anwesha sat between her parents, whereas I sat next to her father, and Anuj sat next to me.
Our plan was simple, Anuj should speak intelligently to his uncle (Anwesha’s father) and try to get into his good books. We had tutored him about Tagore’s works; all he had to do was sing praises about the bearded bard, which was sure to soften Anwesha’s parents, given that they were both ardent fans of Tagore. We couldn’t think of a better plan for how Anuj could impress them. Anuj’s hobbies included laughing hard at his jokes and sleeping in the class – not exactly the type of stuff her parents would approve of.
We sat silently for a few minutes- uncle and aunty followed the program with rapt attention.
I whispered to Anuj, “Say something to uncle, na…”
Anuj: “I don’t want to be too pushy, yaar,” he whispered, “you start talking first…”
Me: “Arrey Anuj. Why play so hard to get when you’re already so hard to like?”
Anuj: “What?”
Me: “Nothing, forget it…”
When I described Anuj earlier as a regular guy, I may have been exaggerating slightly – he was a bit slow on the uptake.
I began some small talk with my uncle, and he started reminiscing about his school days…
I began some small talk with my uncle, and he started reminiscing about his school days when he would play all the lead roles in his school plays. He also told me that he had dabbled in theatre and shared the stage with a Tollywood actress, which I had missed because I was in the cradle then. Aunty had also performed in a few plays – wowing the audience with her espièglerie and dialogue delivery! He had gotten to the point where he told me that their reputation as talented actors had been established amongst the cognoscenti when suddenly Anuj butted in, “Uncle, I also have a small role in the next play. I am going to be a beggar….”
Uncle murmured something under his breath, which I couldn’t hear exactly, but it sounded a lot like, “If you didn’t have a rich dad, you would have been a beggar much earlier….”
Anuj: “Sorry, Uncle, I didn’t catch what you said…”
Uncle shrugged nonchalantly: “Oh, nothing…”
I looked at Uncle – ‘grouchy’ was the word that came to mind. If I had to cast him in a role right then, I would prefer a Russian drama where he would announce soberly that grandpa had hanged himself in the backyard. That was how grouchy he had sounded.
I felt sorry for Anuj. I wanted to tell him that nothing in life is more brutally honest than children, tight-fitted clothes and the parents of the girl you like, but it seemed an inopportune moment to do so.
Suddenly, the anchor on stage yelled into the mic… “For the first time, we have here on stage a Punjabi student who will sing a Rabindrasangeet. Please welcome on stage, Anuj Vermaaaa…”
Anuj got up from his seat and sauntered confidently onto the stage. I looked at Anwesha, shell-shocked. This was not part of the plan.
Anuj had decided to surprise (shock) us. I remembered the fiasco last time Anuj chose to sing a Bengali song during Durga Pujo. I murmured under my breath – ‘dear déjà vu, I don’t want to go through that again….’
I recalled our last picnic when Anuj was drunk.
I recalled our last picnic when Anuj was drunk. He had hollered at the top of his voice, ‘Ho gayi tere balle balle, ho jayegi balle balle…’ throughout the bus journey back home. We had all requested him to stop singing with folded hands, but he kept shouting something that sounded like, “ha-hak-chiki-nak-chikinak chikinak…” until our ears rang. To make matters worse, he had also decided to perform bhangra in the moving bus and had urged everyone to dance, but nobody had volunteered to join in his merry mélange. However, he continued dancing like an untamed, unfettered monkey until the last bus stop.
However, it looked like Anuj didn’t need alcohol to make bad decisions this time. I looked at Anwesha; she was staring at him, aghast and quivering like a Blanc mange! Generally, the things you are scared about the most in your imagination are not as scary in real life. However, this was not the case with Anuj’s singing that day…
He croaked into the mic, “Jodi tor daak shune keu naa ashey… tobe ekla cholo re….” I don’t mind admitting that I winced. I was wrong in thinking that Anuj was a bad decision-maker…he was not. He was just fundamentally unsound.
After the first few seconds, many people got up from their seats, preferring to leave him ‘ekla’ (alone), no doubt. However, the scarce audience couldn’t discourage Anuj, who, always a glutton for punishment, continued yelling tunelessly and nodding his head rhythmically at intervals. He started singing even more loudly, and his vocal cords showed signs of cracking under strain. I later found out that his symptoms were attributed to a condition called ‘clergyman’s throat’, which resulted because he had been practising his beastly singing over the past few days and doing grave injustice to his larynx. He continued the frog-like rendition of the song, and his joie-de-vivre was slightly dampened when Anwesha’s parents got up from their seats and left. Look at it from whatever angle you like-his performance was a total washout. The only bit of blue amidst the clouds was that he only sang for 1.5 minutes, as he couldn’t remember the entire song.
People clapped fervently when Anuj stopped singing…
People clapped fervently when Anuj stopped singing (probably because he had stopped). I took a long hard look at Anuj when he was getting off the stage- looking smug and waving at everyone. His life seemed to be running according to Murphy’s law- ‘If anything can go wrong, it will..’ (Okay, I’m not 100% sure which law it is.)
Anuj whispered to me, “Was it good?”
By ‘it’, he meant the cacophony of sounds, which he thought was a song. The words that best describe ‘it’ accurately were ‘perfectly foul’. However, I exercised tact and muttered under my breath-“Let’s put it this way- you were the human equivalent of a participation award.”
Anuj: “What’s that?”
Me: “Nothing….” Even a sloth would be faster than him at comprehending stuff. I looked at him and tried to figure out why Anwesha liked him in the first place. He was one of those guys one could never fall in love with at first sight, and the chances of loving him after a long acquaintance also seemed pretty negligible.
While I was thus musing and shaking my head in pity about Anuj slipping over life’s banana skins, he started talking again, “Accha. I have a plan….”
Me: “Listen, Anuj, I completely grasp that you are the king of bad decisions. You don’t have to try so hard to prove it…”
Anuj: “Come on, yaa…”
Anuj was cut short by his uncle and aunty, who had just returned to their seats with cold drinks and chips. Aunty opened a big tiffin box filled with onion pakodas (piyajis) that she had cooked and brought from home and offered to us.
Anwesha had told Anuj several times that her mother loved it whenever someone praised her culinary skills…
Now, Anwesha had told Anuj several times that her mother loved it whenever someone praised her culinary skills, so Anuj grabbed this opportunity without hesitation. However, he could have been more original with the praise that he showered on aunty; it looked like he had watched one too many episodes of MasterChef Australia.
After taking a bite of one piyaji, Anuj chirped: “Oh, the pakodas are simply delightful, aunty… They’re so crisp on the outside and soft on the inside – the tangy flavours of the rich Indian spices are just oozing into my mouth. They’ve got such a lovely rustic aftertaste. It’s like an explosion…an explo-o-osion of rich flavours and delicate textures… it’s like a symphony in my mouth…a symphony of….”
I had to stop him. I elbowed him hard on his ribs, and he nearly choked.
Uncle whispered to me, “Is he on drugs?”
I whispered, “Come on, uncle, you and I both know that medical colleges don’t pay enough stipend for any of us to have a drug problem…”
Uncle glared at me, but I paid no heed to him and continued munching on the piyajis, which passed over my pharynx with a goodish deal of vim and je-ne-sais-quoi. I golfed with around seven of them before Anuj interrupted me again.
“Hey, how did you like me praising Aunty? My English was good, na?”
Me- “Yes, you have not been yourself lately; we have all noticed the improvement.”
Anuj: “I think I will inspire many…”
I wanted to tell him that he was, indeed, inspiring my inner serial killer.
I looked up at the sky and asked God, “Dear God, when I asked you earlier…could the day get any worse- it was merely a hypothetical question and not a challenge…”
I looked at my uncle. He seemed least interested in Anuj and had immersed his whole being into the piyajis – only to re-surface every five-min or so for a longish and irritatingly audible slurp of tea. When I had asked Anwesha about her father, she had assured me, “Oh, he is a lamb. So amicable and lovable…”. However, on close scrutiny, I found no lamb-like qualities in him; even our college Principal seemed more amicable than him.
I started talking to him, “How was your journey, uncle? Hope you had no problem coming here?”
He sipped another ounce of the Oolong and looked up at me slowly.
Uncle: “Arrey, you know what happened? A student on a bike nearly collided with my car. These college kids drive so recklessly, I tell you…”
Anuj: “Yes, uncle…I agree. Accidents are usually artificial. I’m sure accidents cause 90% of all people…”
I choked on the piyajis.
Me: “You mean… people cause 90% of all accidents?”
Anuj: “Ah yes, yes. That’s what I meant…”
Anuj looked mortified. He had blushed crimson…
Anuj looked mortified. He had blushed crimson – with his red earlobes and cheeks, he looked like an explosion of tomato ketchup over a sky at sunrise.
I didn’t know what to say- the ambience was sombre. Aunty looked at Uncle with a goodish deal of solemnity while he slurped gravely at his cup of tea. It was one of those moments which authors describe as time standing still. I felt terrible for Anuj and thanked God that it was him, not me, who would have these two as future in-laws! Anyone would shrink from the prospect of being decanted into a household of such silent and moody tea-sippers.
After a minute, uncle looked into his teacup and said, hesitantly- “Yeh chaa mein ek chul hain…” (There’s a strand of hair in my tea)
Anuj asked me: “Kya boley woh? Chai peeke woh chull hai?” (What did he say? He is ‘high’ after drinking tea?)
Uncle: “Kudi takar chaa…Tar moddhey abar chul…” (The tea is worth Rs.20, but even then, there’s a hair in it!)
Anuj hissed at me: “Kya bol raha hai uncle! Kaunsi kudi chull hai? Samajh mein nahi aa raha hai…” (What is uncle saying? Which girl is ‘high’? can’t understand anything)
Uncle: “Arrey Anuj beta…woh chai-wala dada ko bulao…” (Arrey Anuj, call that tea-seller)
Anuj: “Arrey Paaji…Aap usko’ dada’ kyon bol rahe ho? Itna young sa toh banda hai…” (Why are you calling him grandfather; he is such a young guy)
Uncle visibly cringed at being called ‘paaji’ – “Uff kotha bola tao chaap…Ki chaap re baba…” (It is so difficult to talk to him)
Anuj heaved a sigh of relief and said: “Oh, Chaap chahiye aapko? Chaap idhar milta hai uncle. Chicken aur mutton chaap..dono hi milta hai… Lekin abhi canteen khula nahi hai…” (Both chicken and mutton chaap are available here)
Aunty suddenly sprang up from her seat and cried out, “Arrey, ek bolta hai mere chair ke neeche hai… Ota ke tarao, tarao…” (there’s a wasp under my chair, please get rid of it)
Anuj- “Aapka chair bolta hain?!” (Your chair speaks?). Then, turning to me, he whispered- “Aunty kya bol rahi hai yaar?”
I pitied poor Anuj.
I pitied poor Anuj. It was like his life was a series of embarrassing moments punctuated by some poor translation. I looked at him; his eyes were downcast, and he looked like a castaway who had abandoned all hope. His voice, when he spoke, was like a voice from the grave.
“Do something, na…” he urged me.
I mused a bit and wondered when I was so rattled the last time. Then I had a eureka moment. I whispered my plan to Anuj.
Me: “You have to do this, Anuj…”
Anuj: “You’re pulling my leg…”
Me: “Nothing would induce me to pull your ghastly leg….”
Anuj: “Okay, then…”
After giving me a weak smile – the kind soldiers provide before going to fight in the border area, he got up from his seat and went on stage. Snatching the mic from the anchor, he bellowed:
“Friends, we have all paid our tribute to the great Tagore, but we have here amidst us two of the greatest fans of Tagore. Both love Rabindrasangeet, and I request them to come up on stage and sing a duet for us before we conclude today’s program.
Ladies and gentlemen, please give it up for… Mr Joy Bhattacharya and Mrs Rima Bhattacharya… Proud parents of Anwesha….”
Anwesha and I stood up, clapping hard while aunty blushed…
Anwesha and I stood up, clapping hard while aunty blushed and looked at me. Uncle looked too pleased for words. I knew he was thrilled as he never missed an opportunity to unleash the harmonium on us and regale us with Rabindrasangeet every time we visited Anwesha.
They went up to the stage gingerly and sang a duet. Their performance was received with much applause, cheering and hooting (we had urged all our friends to continue clapping for at least two minutes flat).
Aunty returned to her seat and, adjusting her silk saree, exclaimed– “ei Anuj ta na…sotti baba…amar eto lojja korchilo…” (This Anuj is too much; I felt so shy…)
However, she was grinning from ear to ear. Uncle seemed elated, “Arrey, beta. You could’ve told us earlier; we would’ve rehearsed and come na….”
Anuj chirped, “Uncle, it was fatafati…” He knew only three words in Bangla – one of these was ‘fatafati’, and the other two cannot be reproduced here.
Uncle, “Heh heh… Come here, beta…”
Anuj: “Who? Me?” He seemed startled. Probably, the poor fellow was not accustomed to such a gluttonous appetite for his own company.
Uncle: “Music is in our souls, beta. By the way, where are you from?”
Anuj: “I am from Chandigarh, the uncle…”
Uncle: “Oh, that’s too far…”
I whispered: “Relax, uncle, he’s not inviting you home…”
Uncle: “What?”
Me: “Nothing…”
Anwesha glared at me and chided me for my persiflage while Anuj was glowing. I just hoped he wouldn’t break out in bhangra soon.
I looked at them both and smiled. My good deed for the day was done.
I looked at them both and smiled. My good deed for the day was done. I staggered away from this family reunion in search of some solitude, repose, or preferably, both. I made my way to my hostel room where a girl, without encumbrances in the form of uncles and aunts, might be able to spend a restful day or two.
Picture design by Anumita Roy
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