Photos: Flying Suitcase

I thought my Hindi was workable.

Hindi isn’t my mother tongue, we didn’t speak it at home, but I followed basic conversation – thanks to Bollywood blockbusters I watched every weekend – and I knew the devnagri script, again learned at weekend classes that my parents insisted I attend. With one foot already in the door, how hard could it be to pick up Hindi?

Why Hindi

My family repatriated to India when I was in the ninth grade. This meant a new school, new friends, a new academic culture, and new subjects – for the first time Hindi was a part of my curriculum.

But that wasn’t all. Ninth grade is a scary time in an Indian school. The tenth grade public exams are among the most competitive, high-pressure exams in the country. A student’s performance determines the course of his future education, and preparations begin a grade earlier.

It wasn’t just formulaic filmy plots, but grammar and literature, breaking down verses and analyzing poetry in a language still alien to me, right before the most important exams of my life: that’s what I was getting into. With much bravado and hardly a clue, I assured my parents I could handle it. They found me multiple tutors, and took to prayer.

In the Classroom

My first Hindi class began with a poem that I didn’t follow. The next lesson it got worse – I was asked to read out a verse.

I couldn’t. I was okay with simple individual words but what was I supposed to do with those half alphabets that merged with complete ones or the dots that crept over or next to a word, changing its pronunciation without warning? And what was I supposed to do when these words followed each other masquerading as a couplet.

I struggled and stammered through the lines. The suppressed giggles around the classroom, little squeaky sounds hurriedly shoved back in, were hard to miss. Worse was the teacher’s glare. Her scrunched eyes and angry brows said we would never be friends.

Photos: Flying Suitcase

I hated it. My anglicized Hindi became a standing joke. My handwriting was as bad as a second grader’s, my spellings were worse. My essays came back more red than blue, my answers ended before they started, and dialogue with the teacher extended to an elaborate Ji Maam and Nahi Maam (Yes Maam and No Maam). I failed the first two Hindi exams that year.

How I Actually Learnt Hindi

My parents found me a fantastic tutor. She found a way through to me.

Unlike the school teacher, she had no contempt for English, the rival language. Instead she used it to clarify concepts and to break down rules. The first few classes she asked me to write paragraphs in English, and then translate those ideas into Hindi.

With each paragraph the content grew a little bit stronger, and I grew a little less uncomfortable. It opened up a lot more space for learning.

We spent the lessons chatting in Hinglish, a Hindi-English mix. Somewhere along the way I also picked up grammar, deciphered what the kavi (poet) actually meant, and learned spellings. It helped me develop much needed conversational skills.

I could now talk to the grocer, the rickshawalas and the old aunty on the first floor without breaking into hives. The accent was still there, it was still funny, but I wasn’t as afraid.

She used pop-culture references as props; Hindi became accessible. I followed more of it on TV, which in turn helped me get used to the language. I watched movies with an ear out for words from my text book.

I followed the context and used them in my answers. I began to understand the poetry behind the Bollywood songs I so loved, and to my surprise enjoyed it.

And she sourced the workbooks for common ground – stories and lessons I’d covered before in English; Hindi became familiar, even fun. With time my grades started picking up. I passed an exam, and eventually cleared the Ninth grade with a respectable 55%.

Making Peace

Photos: Flying Suitcase

The next year was intense, spent entirely at tuitions and in textbooks. The possibility of flunking the year hung over me, a sword with schizophrenic matras and ambushing chandra bindus. On the day of the final tenth grade exam I was a walking heart attack. Before the paper the school teacher said, “Neha, no student of mine has ever failed in the 10th. Don’t be the first.”

I did pretty well in the exams, scoring a neat 76 (one more than I got in Math). I consider it one of my greatest achievements. But the scars ran too deep. It took years to overcome that initial aversion to Hindi (I switched to French in college).

But I did. Today the fear is gone – only the words remain, and of course that damn accent.

Feature Photo: Kash_if Photo: yassirhussain

It’s 3:30 pm, and I am on my way past meticulously tended lawns, villa style fortress-like houses, and shiny SUVs sparkling under the fervent Punjabi sun. Servants leisurely pedal their bicycles or laze around puffing on hooka pipes. Turning left onto Ghazi Road, I notice there is enough room for two lanes so I can easily overtake slower vehicles. For a few seconds, I slacken my grip on the wheel.

Then I hit the speed bump and pass police toting AK-47s by the white barriers. Now my driving requires the full use of all my senses. I am leaving Defence, one of Lahore’s swankiest residential areas, and entering the “other” part of Ghazi Road. Although I’ve driven less than a mile, it’s as if I’ve driven into a different country.

The wide lanes of Defence narrow and tiny shops of all sorts line the streets. Crates of chickens stand waiting for customers as flies buzz around sample specimens proudly hung in shop windows. Boys on too-big bicycles awkwardly pedal alongside me while helmetless motorbikers are constantly whizzing by from every direction.

Photo: Omer Wazir

Motorbikes prove to be versatile contraptions. One carrying an air conditioner squeezes by, almost taking out a hobbling one-legged beggar in the process. I try to avoid a second motorbike transporting ten-foot lengths of metal piping. A third one almost topples over as it tries to pass me. It is carrying an entire family. The husband driving with a toddler at the handlebars, the pre-teenage daughter who’s still allowed to straddle the bike, the mother sitting sidesaddle draped in a burka, and a sleeping newborn on her lap.

Following rules is not what’s important here, making accommodations is. I swerve into the lane for oncoming traffic so as not to hit a large wooden fruit cart in my lane. The fruit vendor was pushing the eight-foot wide cart when he found a customer; he then stopped smack dab in the middle of traffic.

Although I’ve evaded the fruit cart, I’m now stuck behind a colorfully decorated bus. It swerves erratically to the left every few minutes to pick up more passengers, but just before I can pass it pulls back to the middle of road and hogs both lanes. “DO do DO do dO do dO do dO do dA!” The bus toots its funky musical horn and pulls over to pick up more passengers. There’s a crowd of at least ten people cramming in, so I take my opportunity and speed past.

As I near the intersection, I see no less than six donkey carts waiting in the queue to turn right onto Ferozepur Road. A gigantic mound of trash is being pulled along at what seems like less than one mile per hour by a tiny donkey. These carts are called tongas, and their drivers seem as if they’ve been transported via time travel from the fifteenth century. A weathered old man sits nonchalantly on one of the carts. Wrinkles betray the amount of hours he’s spent under the sun’s rays, and a tattered white turban tops his head. As he greets another tonga driver, he smiles a toothless grin.

I adjust my copious dupatta to cover me as I wait at the traffic light. In Defence, the dupatta is merely a fashion statement and can be nonchalantly thrown over the shoulder like a scarf, but in other area of the city it serves to shield me from lecherous eyes. Police man the intersection as loadshedding has shut down the electricity again. A man shoves his stub of an arm up against my window in an attempt to get some change. On the other side, a woman holding a sickly baby raps on the glass. Allah kay dua. Bacche ko dudh de de. I pray you, give the child milk.

Photo: Saffy H

The smartly dressed policeman beckons that it’s our turn to move, but turning a corner along with six donkey carts is no easy feat. Vehicles behind me erupt into a chorus of horn tooting as the tongas block all lanes of traffic.

I get around them, and now I’m on Ferozepur Road, the longest road in Lahore. It used to go straight to Firozpur, in what is now the Indian Punjab. Bright green and blue auto rickshaws dart in and out of the traffic. The back of one rickshaw reads Ma ki dua, mother’s prayer. Thanks to mother’s prayers the man has a rickshaw to make his living. A minivan driver sticks his right hand out the window to let me know he’s going to cut across four lanes of traffic.

Behind me, a Honda City desperately flashes its high beams on and off as if there’s some emergency. The emergency is that I’m in the fast lane and the Honda wants me to get out its way. I look to my left and see the road crowded with motorbikes and rickshaws. “Yes, Mr. Bigshot. Where exactly would you like me to go in order to let Your Majesty pass?”

I’m not in any hurry to risk my life so that the Honda can speed past, so I do what I normally do; I stay in my lane and continue at a normal speed. If that self-centered driver wants to pass, he can dodge the rickshaws and motorbikes himself.

I turn into the service lane that leads to Ali Institute of Education. As usual, the barber is offering his street side shaving service. I turn right into the grounds and I am greeted with smiles from the guards. Water fountains, chirping birds, and rose gardens show me that I’ve left the chaos of the commute and arrived in another island of calm.

The digital clock reads 3:42 pm. It has taken me twelve minutes to get here.

Community Connection

Do you have a story to share about your way to work? Let us know how you get there, who you pass by, what you see and what it makes you think about. Please send submissions to sarah@matadornetwork.com with “On My Way To Work” in the subject line.

Feature Photo: romana klee Photo: tore_urnes

Confusion over the linguistic heritage of Urdu is evident in the comment section of our recent article about the world’s most beautiful languages. While more than one person remarked that the Urdu language is poetic, nobody could agree on where it came from. Matador intern Neha suggested it shared roots with Farsi, while blogger Ameya said that “it’s pretty much the same language” as Hindi. A third person, calling himself or herself the “Indo-Euro language expert” disagreed saying, “Urdu isn’t the same as Hindi…Urdu is in fact almost a mix of Hindi/Farsi.” The Urdu Language website claims, “Urdu vocabulary contains approximately 70% Farsi and the rest being a mix of Arabic and Turkish.”

So who’s right? Where does Urdu come from and what other languages is it related to? Languages cannot be “conglomerations.” When linguists describe language groups, they talk about language trees. Every language has roots. It has sister branches with which it shares common ancestors, and just because it absorbs some vocabulary from another language doesn’t mean that its fundamental structure is changed. For example, our use of Japanese words like “sushi” and “karaoke” doesn’t mean that English is closely related to Japanese.

Hindi script, Photo: tanvi_s19in

Languages and Dialects

Urdu is technically classified as an Indo-European language on the Western Hindi branch of the language tree. It does not only share roots with Hindi, but linguists actually classify Hindi-Urdu as one language with four distinct dialects: Hindi, Urdu, Dakhini (spoken in northern India) and Rekhta (used in Urdu poetry).

Dialects differ from each other in the same way languages do: syntax (structure), phonetics (sounds), phonology (systems of sound changes), morphology (systems of grammatical changes) and semantics (meaning). Two ways of speaking diverge into two different languages due to the degree of difference rather than the types of differences.

Think about American English and British English, or even different dialects of English within your own country. Speakers may use slightly different grammatical structures, sound a bit different, and sometimes use different words to mean certain things, but they can still understand each other most of the time. Two ways of speaking are said to be two dialects of the same language when there is mutual intelligibility, meaning that the two speakers can understand each other.

I’ve crossed the Indo-Pak border multiple times, and as long as I remember to swap Salaam alaikum for Namaste when greeting people and shukriya for dhanyabad when thanking people, nobody in India ever questioned my Hindi. At the intermediate level, I experienced 100% mutual intelligibility. I could understand Hindi speakers, and they could understand me. Most people in India asked me where I had learned Hindi, and when I responded that I had studied Urdu in Pakistan they were surprised.

Languages and Political-Cultural Identity

Hindi and Urdu both originated in Delhi and have roots in Sanskrit. After the Muslim conquest by Central Asian invaders in the 11th and 12th centuries, the new rulers learned the local tongue. These rulers spoke Persian and Turkish and wrote their languages in the Arabic Nastaliq script, so when they started speaking Hindi-Urdu they wrote this new language in the Nastaliq script as well. By the 16th century, it had developed into a dialect of its own termed Urdu with a prominent literary culture revolving around the royal court.

Because it was used by Muslim rulers and became largely used by the Muslim population, a number of Farsi, Turkish and Arabic loan words made their way into Urdu. Hindi, on the other hand, retained its religious and formal vocabulary from Sanskrit and utilized the traditional Devanagari script. Nowadays, a Muslim Urdu-speaking imam and a Hindu priest may have difficulty discussing deep theological topics with one another due to these differences in vocabulary, but for normal conversations they would be able to understand each other just fine.

Pakistani border guard, Photo: tore_urnes

Why are some people so insistent that Urdu and Hindi are different languages? And why have people in Pakistan and INdia been brought up to think that way? Language and culture are so intertwined that people groups often use language to define themselves. In Pakistan, the myth that Urdu comes from Arabic, Farsi and Turkish is prevalent, and bogus claims like Urdu vocabulary being “70% Farsi” are common.

I’ve talked with dozens of Pakistanis about Urdu and Hindi, and many insist that Urdu has more in common with Persian and Arabic than it does with Hindi. When I ask them how they can understand Bollywood films and Indian TV, I’m usually just told that it’s because they “watch it a lot” and hence have “learned Hindi.” Objective analysis seems a casualty to the desire for a strong political, social and cultural identity as a separate, Muslim nation.

From a linguistic standpoint, the idea that Urdu is more closely related to Arabic than Hindi is simply ridiculous. Urdu is more closely related to English, French or even Welsh than it is with Arabic, and Urdu itself is only the native language of about 10% of the Pakistani population. Most families who speak Urdu as their first language emigrated from India during the 1947 partition.

Over 60 languages are spoken throughout Pakistan, and over 400 languages are spoken in India. Many of these languages form what linguists called a dialect continuum, a group of dialects or languages that gradually fade from one to the next across geographic areas. Arabic is also technically a continuum of several languages and sub dialects that differ progressively from each other. While a Jordanian person and a Lebanese person may understand each other just fine, an Egyptian will have much more trouble understanding a Moroccan because these “dialects” of Arabic are not mutually intelligible and are so different from each other they are classified as different languages.

Due to a shared cultural, historical and religious heritage, Arabic is considered as one language by many of its speakers even though they may not be able to understand the several different varieties of Arabic throughout the region. All these “Arabics” do share a common linguistic ancestor, but they have differed so much from each other over the centuries that it’s more the notion of Arab unity that continues to bind these languages than the similarities between them.

Similarly, in South Asia it is more the idea that Urdu and Hindi are different languages that represent different cultures that prevails over their linguistic similarities as sister dialects. We often choose to believe and promote what makes sense in our worldview, and when people come in and question the way we define ourselves or our culture we aren’t very likely to change the way we think about things.

Do you know of any other situations where dialects are considered separate languages or several languages are considered to be dialects of one language? Share in the comments section.

Community Connection

Traveling to India or Pakistan? Find out why you should learn Hindi-Urdu and What Not to Do in Pakistan.

Photo: TKnoxB Feature Photo: meaduva

Boda drivers, the young, tank-topped men who operate Gulu’s hundreds of motorcycle taxis, have eyes like hawks. As they drive, they scan the people walking by the roadside, searching for a pointed finger, a set of raised eyebrows, a nod—anything signaling interest in a ride. Most mornings, from the shoulder of the main road that runs by my house, I start my commute to work with a nod or a wave.

Usually, once they notice your signal, boda drivers will slam on their brakes, pull a dangerous U-turn into oncoming traffic, and race over to you; in a place where streets buzz with the sounds of competing taxis, no fare is guaranteed until a customer is planted on the back of your bike. After exchanging pleasantries, we slip into a stream of motorbikes and bicycles heading to town in the early morning chill.

Photo: meaduva

On my way to work, I pass shop owners downtown. Hunched over, they sweep the verandas in front of their stores with short, wicker brooms. Clouds of orange dust peel away from them and drift down into the wide gutters that line the street. Dust blows into town each night, blanketing the verandas, yet each morning it rises into the air again with the quick jabs of brooms.

On my way to work, I pass packs of students in bright purple uniforms walking to school. Boys and girls alike have shaved heads. Some wear shoes or sandals; others, the ones with plump, hardened feet, walk barefoot. If the younger kids catch a glimpse of me whizzing by, they’ll scream out Muno! or Muzungu!—words in Luo and Swahili respectively that mean ‘white’ and ‘foreigner.’

On my way to work, I pass the main market. Bleary-eyed vendors set up their stalls each morning, arranging a myriad of functional things on their plywood shelves—used shoes, boxes of toothpaste and soap, old radios, electric cords, nails, belts with hologram buckles, wash basins, plastic chairs. Each morning the vacant stalls fill with goods; each night they empty.

On my way to work, I pass cyclists of every variety. One particular man in knee-high rubber gumboots rides with a cavernous wooden box lashed to a rack above his back wheel. The box is filled to the brim with the severed legs of different types of animals—cow, goat, lamb, and pig. The meat is red and sinewy, bright against the white paint of the box. Blood drips from a corner of the box in fat crimson drops, staining the butcher’s route onto the street each morning. Another man stops at the market with a few dozen live chickens tied to his bike. A few dozen. In pairs and with their feet bound, the birds hang upside down from his handlebars in silence, unaware of the fate that awaits them. I pass fathers cycling their children to school, bicycle taxis taking people to work, and soda deliverymen clinking along over the bumpy dirt road with crates of glass soda bottles.

On my way to work, I pass the bicycle repair shops that keep the cyclists moving. Squatting in the middle of a puddle of scattered tools, repairmen with ever-greasy hands replace spokes and fix flats by the roadside.

On my way to work, I pass mothers. Some have babies tied to their backs, a small pair of child’s legs straddling their waists. Some, on their way to the water pump, carry yellow jerry cans in their hands. Others balance a round basket of clothes or a tray of bananas atop their heads: bulky crowns of domesticity.

On my way to work, I pass a noisy reed hut that houses a small generator. Inside, people pay an old man with stringy arms 500 shillings [$0.25 US] to charge their cell phones.

On my way to work, I pass smoking stacks of mud bricks—kilns made of the product they fire—some three or four meters tall. Next to the stacks, invariably, are pits in the ground: holes where the brick makers gathered their mud. Long logs, fuel for the fires that bake the bricks, are fed into ovens at the bases of the stacks. Smoke floats above the kilns like wispy gray hair caught in the wind.

On my way to work, I pass dense mango trees sagging under the weight of their swelling fruit.

When we reach Pece Stadium, the largest outdoor sports field in northern Uganda, I can catch a glimpse of my office at the end of the street. We ride past Save the Children’s office, past some of the old brick houses with metal roofs that were built half a century ago when Uganda was still a British protectorate, and past the woman on her porch who sells chapatti and always waves to me.

At the gate to our office compound, ten minutes after the ride started, I fish out a thousand shilling note [$0.50 US] from my wallet and offer the boda driver the customary end-of-ride farewell: Apwoyo. Thank you.

Community Connection

What happens on your way to work? What do you see? How do you travel? Immerse us in this brief part of your day. Please send submissions to sarah@matadornetwork.com with “On My Way To Work” in the subject line.

Feature Photo: The Real Darren Stone Photo: Wootang01

The British government has long recognized that young adulthood does not come with deep resources, and so many cultural institutions offer discounts for not only students but also the unemployed – and virtually anyone under age 26. Thanks to a recent project by the Arts Council England, this now also includes London’s famous dramatic scene. Below are twelve theatres where, if you are 25 and under, you can see fantastic stage productions for free.

London theatres that offer cheap tickets regardless of age are marked as (26+).

National Theatre, Waterloo

This is where you’ll see the best of the best – from Tom Stoppard to Alec Bennett. Seeing cheap shows at the National Theatre is complicated, but absolutely worth it. Fill out the NT’s Entry Pass form, attach proof of age, and either mail it in or drop it off in person (if you’re smart, you’ll get your friends to sign up at the same time). In 2-3 weeks, you will receive your snazzy membership card by post. Your first ticket is totally free (must be a Mon-Thurs show booked by phone). Every subsequent ticket for any show at the National can be booked online for only 5 pounds!

Donmar Warehouse, Covent Garden

Becoming a member of the Donmar Discovery program is similar to the Entry Pass; you need to drop off the application form at the box office with proof of age. But unlike at the NT, a DD card only entitles you to book a ticket for a special performance of the production – though you will also score a free poster and invitation to a post-show discussion with the cast.

Shakespeare’s Globe, London Bridge (26+)

Far and away the best deal in London: every single production at this faithfully reconstructed theatre has 700 standing tickets available for only 5 pounds. While this means standing for the length of the show, it also guarantees you the best view and the chance to experience Shakespeare as he intended it. Arrive early to grab a good spot at the front, and don’t forget comfortable shoes and a raincoat.

Royal Court Theatre, Sloane Square (26+)

This theatre established in 1870 is known for its modern, hard-hitting productions. Be quick to book, because seats sell out extremely quickly (often before the production even opens) – including their special 10 pound Mondays. To book up to six free tickets, call the box office or e-mail boxoffice@royalcourttheatre.com. Like at many of the other theatres, you may only book free tickets once – so next time, have a friend use their name!

Old Vic, Waterloo (26+)

The Old Vic – currently under the artistic direction of Kevin Spacey – promises one hundred 12 pound seats in every show for those age 25 and under. (They can do this because their theatre, while beautiful and dating back to 1812, seats over 1000 theatre-goers in four vertigo-inducing levels.) One can either call to book Under 26 tickets by phone, or submit a form to get a membership card – but be aware that sometimes you can snag normal balcony tickets online for as little as 10 pounds.

Barbican Centre, Liverpool Street

It’s quick to register online for the Barbican’s freeB scheme, and you can start booking tickets online before your membership card even arrives in the post. FreeB allows you to book up to two tickets at select concerts, theatre productions, film screenings, and art exhibitions.

Battersea Arts Centre, South London (26+)

While the BAC is currently not offering any free tickets, normal tickets for their contemporary productions are usually quite affordable. If you call the box office, you can secure student discounts – and Tuesdays are Pay-What-You-Can nights. On the downside, it’s a bit of a trek to Zone 2.

Lyric Hammersmith, West London

Also in Zone 2 but a little more Tube-accessible, the Lyric is a relatively new and modern theatre with a rooftop garden. To find out which shows they have free tickets for, ring up the box office.

Arcola Theatre, Hackney

Until the new Overground line debuts, this theatre is a 15-minute bus ride from Islington in northern London. Call the box office to book your free tickets and, like at many of the other theatres, don’t forget to arrive early to collect them.

The Royal Shakespeare Company, on tour and in Stratford-upon-Avon

If you decide to visit Shakespeare’s hometown, time it for a Tuesday to get free tickets at the Courtyard Theatre. Stratford-upon-Avon is a two-hour train ride from London, with advance rail tickets starting at 10 pounds. While on tour in London and all over the UK, the Royal Shakespeare Company also offers 5 pound tickets for those under 26.

Twitter Facebook RSS

Flickr Youtube StumbleUpon

View full list of RSS feeds