In Their Own Words
A comment from Deepa on the Hindi signs blog entry mentioned the fact that many of the signs were actually in English, simply spelled out in Devanagri, the Hindi script. Actually, the practice is not so absurd as it sounds. What’s spoken in Rewalsar by many native residents–especially older, more traditional, folks in the remoter villages– is not “pure” Hindi, but actually a dialect that sometimes bears as much resemblance to formal Hindi as the twang of an Appalachian hillbilly does to the more neutral tones of a Midwestern news broadcaster. Nominally, both people are Americans, speaking English; but, realistically, they’d have a hard time communicating.
Too, Rewalsar’s function as a pilgrimage point means there’s a steady influx of people speaking different languages–Sikhs from the Punjab, Buddhist pilgrims from the Himalayan foothill regions of Kinnaur and Ladakh, saddhus from Rishikesh, contract workers from Bihar. Yeah, officially, all these different folks are Indians who speak Hindi. However, the Punjabis will favor their own language when they can. The Biharis, from way the other side of the country, have their own version of the national language. And the Kinnauris and Ladakhis, who are strongly related to Tibetans, speak a variant of Tibetan rather than Hindi. If the Hindi dialects don’t match up when two people meet, they’re as likely as not going to try English to communicate. And so, the enterprising Rewalsar shopkeeper has his signs painted in Devanigari that phonetically spells English words. Add to this mix sanjoor (refugees) from Tibet, MommyWizards from California, backpackers from Czecho, doctors from France, tourists from China, and you have a polyglot mess that promotes as much confusion as it does world peace.
What this also means is that the Hindi that’s presented in most textbooks and tourist phrase books is useful, but only up to a certain point. For example, I go produce shopping just about every other day. Most days I try to get a few nimbu (limes). The juice makes a tasty drink, and also has a few household uses. According to my Hindi text books, my conversation with the subji wallah is supposed to go something like this:
Me: Namaste. Kya aj nimbu hay?
Wallah: Ji nahi. Aj nimbu nahi hay.
Me: Accha. Namaste.
Me: Hello. Are there any nimbu today?
Wallah: No. There are no nimbu today.
Me: I see. Good-bye.
In actual practice, however, the conversation that takes place is a drastically abbreviated exchange, punctuated by the infamous Indian Head Bobble:
Me: Namaste. Nimbu hay?
Wallah: (head bobble) Nahi, nimbu ni hay.
Me: (head bobble) Thik’.
Me: Hello. Any nimbu?
Wallah: (head bobble) Nope, no nimbu.
Me: (head bobble) ‘Kay.
Multiply this kind of slang-ridden conversation by a factor of three or four–since it also happens with Tibetan, English, and some of the local dialects, and you can see how the town sign painter might have his work cut out for him…
