My Hindi and me

Most people of my generation in South India were probably first exposed to Hindi with the advent of television. Roads used to wear a deserted look on the days serials like Mahabharat and Ramayan were telecast. Since not every house had a TV set, it also became a kind of neighbourhood social gathering.

So, our beginnings with Hindi — certainly not colloquial Hindi — started with hearing people addressed as “Mahoday”, “Shrimaan”, and such lofty terms!

My Early Days with Hindi

My formal introduction to Hindi began in high school, where it was one of the optional subjects — perhaps what was then called the “third language”. Sri G.T. Narasimhachar (GTN) was entrusted with the unenviable task of teaching a bunch of thoroughly disinterested students.

My mother, however, was well-versed in Hindi and had read classics like Godaan. Her attempts to teach me Hindi mostly resulted in my understanding the story in the textbook without actually understanding the language!

I still remember one exam question:

“Seth ne Sethani ko kya kahaa?”

In what I considered a display of intelligence, I wrote:

“Seth ne Sethani ko kahaa…”

… and then continued the rest in Kannada, since I knew the story!

GTN promptly called me over to castigate me for my lack of Hindi knowledge, while simultaneously appreciating my ingenuity in partially answering the question in Hindi. 😂

I eventually did not appear for the Hindi exam in my SSLC because it might have brought down my overall percentage. This was advised by our teachers and headmaster — much to my mother’s dismay. She initially refused to believe me and actually came to school to verify it!

The RSS Days

Joining the Sangh as a swayamsevak exposed me to more Hindi, and I slowly began to understand it better. Coupled with television serials, I started appreciating the beauty of “Shuddh Hindi”, especially as spoken by people like Atal Bihari Vajpayee.

Phrases like:

“Hamein avichal vishwas hai; hamara yeh daayitva banta hai…”

were listened to with open-mouthed amazement — more in admiration of the language than comprehension!

The Grammar Problem

However, Hindi grammar — especially the genders associated with words — completely escaped me then, and frankly, still does.

For me, “banta hai” and “banti hai” are practically the same thing!

Early Working Days

Right after engineering, I joined Damodar Ropeways & Infra Limited (then DRCC) and was deputed to the Kali River dam project site near the Karnataka–Goa border.

It was there that my shortcomings in Hindi were exposed rather brutally — much to the amusement of everyone around me.

Though the site was in Karnataka, the labour force was a fascinating mix of Biharis (with Bhojpuri accents and vocabulary), Maharashtrians (liberally inserting Marathi words), and Kannadigas speaking a hybrid “camp Hindi”.

I was introduced to this reality rather rudely.

After getting off the bus from Londa to Jagalbet, I approached someone and asked:

“DRCC yelli?”

He replied:

“Arre Saab, Hindi mein boliye. Kannada samajh mein nahin aata.”

Gathering courage, I uttered my first Hindi sentence:

“DRCC kahaan? Main engineer Bangalore se…”

Phew!

My vocabulary was painfully limited, and I was visibly struggling. Sometimes my own imaginative interpretations of words became a source of endless laughter for my foremen and workers.

We also used many technical terms incorrectly. For example, a “D Shackle” was universally referred to as a “D Cycle”.

One day, I visited the sand loading station at a place called Burbusa. One particular union troublemaker, Pandey ji, worked there, and I always kept an eye on him.

On arriving, I didn’t see him, so in an attempt to assert my “authority”, I asked the foreman, Mr. Pathak:

“Pandey ji kahaan hain?”

He replied:

“Saabji, woh sandaas ko gaye hain.”

Now, I had absolutely no idea what sandaas meant. I assumed it was some technical equipment — perhaps something like a D Shackle!

A little later, I asked again and got the same reply. Irritated, I burst out:

“Arre, Pandey ji ko sandaas chahiye tha toh phone pe humko batana tha! Hum office se le aate! Woh kyun gaya sandaas lene ke liye?”

I need not describe the reaction around me.

One sympathetic Kannadiga finally asked:

“Saahebre, sandaas andre yenu anta gotha?”
(“Sir, do you know what ‘sandaas’ means?”)

I admitted I did not.

He explained.

And then I joined everyone else in laughter.

Later, when Pandey returned — from the sandaas and not with the sandaas — I narrated the whole episode to him too!

There were many such anecdotes during my short stint there. Along with the embarrassment came a fair bit of language learning.

The Zenith of My Hindi Usage

Over the years, I listened to more Hindi news, political speeches, television serials like Buniyaad, Hum Log, and Nukkad, and watched movies like Arth, Saaransh, and Sholay. Gradually, my understanding of Hindi improved.

In 2002, I was posted in North India as MD of Climate Systems India Ltd..

Though I would tell people I lived in Delhi, I actually stayed in Gurugram (Gurgaon then) and worked in Bhiwadi.

Hindi became my everyday language — at work and in society.

My team would often listen to my Hindi with bemused expressions because I apparently spoke in “written Hindi”. As they would put it:

“Aapki Hindi thodi alag hai, Saab — aap shuddh Hindi mein baat karte ho!”

During this period, Anita and I planned a Rajasthan road trip and eventually reached Jaisalmer.

After the usual tourist activities — camel rides, sunset on the dunes, and a cultural program organised by Rajasthan Tourism — we settled down to watch folk singers and dancers perform under the moonlit desert sky.

Towards the end, the compère walked up to me and requested that I say a few words.

Despite my protests, he announced:

“Hamara yeh saubhagya hai ki aaj yahan varishth adhikari Shri Mohan ji upasthit hain, aur hum unse vinanti karenge ki woh do shabd kahen.”

By some strange twist of fate (another long story), I had apparently been mistaken for a government officer!

I looked around for another Mohan who might fit that description. But no — every eye was fixed on me.

With no escape route available, I stood up and began speaking in what surprised even me — reasonably chaste Hindi.

Carefully choosing words and inserting strategic pauses for thinking time, I began:

“Hum toh sunte aaye hain Tansen ki sumadhur, meethi awaaz ke baare mein. Humne yeh bhi suna hai ki Parvati Devi ji ke atyadbhut nritya ke baare mein. Aaj hum sabko is chandni raat mein, registan ki ret par baithkar woh madhur awaaz sunne aur yeh adbhut nritya dekhne ka mauka mila hai. Aisa lagta hai jaise Indra Lok dharti par utar aaya ho…”

And I continued.

Meanwhile, Anita stared at me as though I had arrived from Mars.

Since Then…

Since then, I have always tried to speak Hindi whenever I am in North India — just as I try to speak Tamil when I am in Tamil Nadu.

Whether with colleagues, customers, dealers, distributors, or the general public, I believe making an effort to speak the local language is a matter of courtesy and respect.

That is why I feel disappointed when people do not reciprocate the same spirit. In Karnataka, many still assume all Kannadigas can speak Hindi (or Tamil) and make no attempt to learn or speak Kannada — even after living in Bengaluru for many years.

My Hindi may still not be grammatically perfect.

But I can proudly say:

“My Hindi is better than their Kannada.”