Subject: Indian english
Date: Sat, 11 Feb 95 16:05

---------- Forwarded message ----------
Date: Thu, 9 Feb 1995 17:01:14 -0500 (EST)

IT MAY BE ENGLISH, BUT YAR, ONLY THE INDIANS CAN UNDERSTAND IT
	>Source: By Rone Tempest, Los Angeles Times
	>Printed In: Philadelphia Inquirer
	>~Date: Saturday, July 5, 1986
	>Dateline: New Delhi, India
 
That story is told often by H. Y. Sharada Prasad, a senior adviser to
Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi. Like many in the Indian upper class, Prasad
is a student of Indian English or, as he puts it, "the language written or
spoken by Indians in the belief that it is English."
  
For example, where else but India do you take your damaged auto to a
repair shop to be "dented"? Where else do marriageable women advertise in
the newspapers for "boy-looking, handsome husbands," or men for "thin,
wheatish, homely girls?"
 
Surely, there is no other place where two men greet each other:

"How are you I hope?"
 
"O yes."

But India's own version of the language has acquired a peculiarly South
Asian character. Nearly 400 years after English was introduced on the
subcontinent, the language heard on the streets of Bombay and in the
dormitories of Delhi University is not the language heard in London;
Sydney, Australia, or Los Angeles.
 
Consider the following exchange between two young women, students at Delhi
University. The chat was recorded by Peter J. Kwiatek, an American who
over the last five years has studied Indian languages at the Delhi
University linguistics department:
 
"What you did in Delhi?"
 
"Oh, generally we moved around with my auntie. My cousin-sister was out of
station and my cousin-brother was sitting for his exams."
 
"Too boring, yar!"
 
"You went to see some play-shay?"
 
"Come on, yar. Auntie-ji is so much conservative. She won't let me move
alone in buses, and scooties are too expensive."
 
"At least you would have met three-four friends, na? Your unkie could have
reached you to their colonies?"
 
"Ufo! Uncle-ji gets damn hassled when you ask him for ride-shides. You
know he has a hard-hard job and does not like to drive after office."
 
That is understandable to the listener who knows that "cousin-brothers"
and "cousin-sisters" are first cousins, that "out of station" means away
from home, that "yar" is a common Hindi expression that means "friend,"
that "scooties" are the three-wheel taxis found in most Indian cities,
that "na" is a simple interrogative, that "ufo" is like "oh" - an
expression of mild dismay, and that "ji" is an honorific denoting respect
and politeness.
 
The rhyming echo, as in "play-shay," and the repetition, as in "hard-
hard," also sound alien to American and British ears. Those derive from
patterns that occur in Indian languages, and their use lends the language
a sort of singsong quality.
 
At times, the practice approaches a lyrical beauty that reflects the
poetic qualities of the mother tongues, particularly Urdu and Bengali.
From the Indian writer Raja Rao:
 
"Hot, hot tea . . . long, long hair. . . . With these very eyes, with
these very eyes, I have seen the ghosts of more than a hundred young men
and women, all killed by magic, by magic."
 
Indian English sometimes echoes a courtly formality and graciousness that
hark back to the days of emperors and princes. A clerk will ask, "May I
know your good name?" A stranger on a train may ask, "How manyeth son are
you to your father?"
 
In writing, the penchant for politesse sometimes prompts the reader to
wish that the writer would simply get to the point. Letters received by
the prime minister are sometimes couched in language that might be
addressed more fittingly to some potentate of the past. Here is one from a
man lobbying for open-pit mine workers:
 
"We consider it our pious duty for taking humble liberty while putting
forward our suave submission taking away few precious moments of these
times overburdened with various other more important national as well as
international problems being dealt with the highest order of
perspicuousness, a rare evergreen divine gift adorned on His Excellency.
In the past, many a dignitary of our country had been considerate and kind
enough to irrigate encouraging feelings and moods to our hard-working
laborers. . . ."  "
 
"It is a nice repository for words that have become obsolete in modern
English," according to Kwiatek.
 
Archaic words turn up regularly in crime reports in English-language
newspapers. "Miscreants" and "desperadoes" commit "dastardly deeds" and
"abscond with the loot."
 
India has not only accepted English, but has also contributed a long list
of words to the language, among them atoll, avatar, bangle, bungalow,
calico, chintz, cummerbund, dinghy, dungarees, gingham, jodhpurs,
juggernaut, jungle, khaki, loot, mogul, pariah, polo, pundit, pajamas,
shampoo, shawl, thug, toddy and veranda.
 
No matter how much English has been influenced by Indian languages, the
influence of English on the languages of India has probably been stronger.

For example, Indian scholars have tried to find a Hindi word for train,
but the five-word phrase they have come up with (laoh path maminee
vasp-chalika - "steam vehicle that goes on iron road") has never caught
hold among the Indians.
 
Regional languages have made for regional varieties of Indian English -
"108 varieties," the Indian economist Dharma Kumar once said, though her
view is that most foreigners think of Indian English as "Peter Sellers
imitating an Indian."
 
Regional languages keep feeding Indian English, so that in the streets of
the cities, in Parliament, in the popular Bombay movie magazines, the
language is a confounding mix of Indian and English - masala English, they
call it here, "spicy English."
 
The Indian poet Keki Daruwalla said of Indian English, which he referred
to as his "half-caste mistress": "You can make her out the way she speaks;
her consonants bludgeon you. Her argot is rococo, her latest slang is
available in classical dictionaries."

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