Of "Accent" and more..

Disclaimer: The following is a fictional piece of work and any resemblance to anyone, living or dead, is purely coincidental and the exaggerations in the story, if the respected reader finds any, may be attributed to the writers artistic liberty!



Valiyakavil Raman Nair had a problem. Now before you think we are talking about an ageing old man in his 60’s, let me clarify. He was 12 years old. So in respect of his age and in the interest of an easy narration for this author, let us call the protagonist as rama. Interestingly this name had gotten stuck up on him throughout his educational life and he had come to absolutely detest it. but, we are getting ahead of ourselves.

Let us go chronologically!

Rama, as he was called by his primary school teacher and school mates, had an “accent” problem. Rama was a student of one of the top schools of Bombay, which was “graced” by the progenies of some of the most elite crowd of the financial capital. Rama was from a middle class family and his father worked with the Bombay electricity department and rode a lamby to office every day. His father owned exactly 4 pants and 6 shirts, each pant worn twice before being washed and each shirt for each day of the working week. The annual dress purchase happened only on the occasion of Diwali and Onam which the Nair family celebrated with fervor and for which they would save money up to spend lavishly for once and feel good about it.
In the words of the more cultured of rama’s classmates, he had a “regional acent” and in the words of some of the lesser polite of his classmates, he had a “madrasi accent”. What the hell, both meant the same.

Unlike his classmates, who were tutored by the best of English teachers outside of their normal school hours and who were used to butlers and servants who communicated in English, rama had been brought up in a “regional language medium school” someplace down south of the country – the place doesn’t have much relevance because everything south of Goa is more or less the same for them you see!! Indeed, rama was amused that 90% of his 40 strong class did not know on which side of the Indian map Trivandrum featured and there were 2 other “mallus” other than rama in his class. He was even more amused when he found out that, the girl who knew about Trivandrum, but was not a madrasi, knew it because her minister dad owned a couple of resorts out there.

Again, we are digressing.

So regional language medium schools, like one would expect them to be, conduct the classes in the regional language. Brilliant observation, isn’t it? So it happened that, other than the elementary English class each year, till his 6th standard, rama never got to converse in English. There simply was no reason to, you see. If fate had not intervened, rama would have continued in the same school, would have gone to some arts college, dabbled in a little politics, would have joined the SFI (students federation of India – that organization which creates a sense of power even in the most frail looking guy – but more on this in another post), would have spend most of his college days arranging or taking part in strikes, would have spend a good amount of nights enjoying the temple festivals and toddy bars, would have come under the football craze quite like thousands of his state mates and finally would have got into a government job through PSC, gotten married and led the blissful life of a malayalee – simbly reading newspaper, drinking tea and tying and untying his lungi. Of course, would have managed to save enough money to buy an elephant, rama was from an aristocratic family, you see!!

If fate had not intervened, that is.

But intervene it did and rama found himself in a surrounding which was the extreme opposite of what he had got used to till his last class. His father had got a good job in Mumbai. Now his elite classmates didn’t understand that not all schools in india had English as the medium of teaching. Of course, it should be English or maximum hindi, shouldn’t it be? After all, the first one was the language of the class and the second one, well, do you need a reason for that? Well, at least English was there and rama would, some time in the future, reflect back and would thank his neighboring state’s wisdom for that. What they didn’t know was that a big percentage of the country’s population had a different mother tongue. But rama did not have any issues with his classmates ignorance. But of their vile remarks on his “accent”, he had.
So when rama recited ogden nash, his classmates would giggle and his teacher would sigh.

It never stopped plaguing rama. This dreaded language disorder. He would practice in front of the mirror, would read the newspaper trying to imitate the newsreader on the DD channel, but every time when he said “every time” , it still came out as “yeverytime”. (Note the “y” in the beginning).

So this saga continue when he got into college too.
“I wanted to talk to you”. This was Rama, with a rose in his one hand and a card in the other, his palms sweating with nervousness of approaching his crush for the first time, to profess his love for her. Perfect, except that “wanted” came out as 3 syllables – “wan-ted-duh” when he stammered thinking what to say.
“duh”…said the girl too.

So when rama proposed to a girl for the first time, she squirmed at his “impropah queens language” and walked away.

The story continued in the engineering college too. Well, not very surprising is it?
So when rama finished his final year seminar presentation on “chaos theory”, a group of snooty backbenchers started off a impromptu presentation on “cow’s theory”, for reasons which would be quite evident to the reader now.

Rama, for all his limitations, was an ambitious student. So he found himself at the doors of the country’s most prestigious economics school some years later. Now, we had said that his high school was an extreme situation for him, but the economics school was even more extreme. Rama found out that there were many occasions when he had to submit himself to the mockery of those high-handed individuals (one thing to be noted though is that these people are always a minority, but with their vile nature, they spread more negativity than the combined good of the rest of the students), that he was ever accustomed to. Ogden nash now appeared to have been nothing short of a cake walk.

So when rama presented a paper on the economy, a couple of hands shot up and all of them had questions, which had the word “yeconomy” (Note the “y” in the beginning)

And so, life presented rama with numerous occasions when he was mandated to talk, and talk he did, but the audience never listened. When they listened, they giggled, smirked, dozed off or asked questions exaggerating his enunciations. This went on and rama built up on his ambitions, taking more degrees, building more knowledge, until he found himself in the corridors of power of his country, with the responsibility for the defense of the country.

But fate plays a unique game. It chooses on its whims and fancies, to whom to be cruel at different points of times. Rama was now going to be rewarded for all those years of agony.

And so, 20 years later, rama found himself addressing, not his peers, but the esteemed dignitaries of the United Assembly of the World Bodies (UAWB), representing his country, criticizing the super power and supporting and defending his country's stand on the hottest topic of the time. He talked for a record 6 hours continuously and how!

Rama talked and talked for hours and the world simply kept quiet and listened.
Yes, even his classmates from the ogden nash times.
Yes, even his first crush.
Yes, even his “cow’s theory” classmates.
Yes, even his “constant-smirk-on-the-face” classmates from the economics school.

Everybody just sat and listened. And rama talked, in the same way he always had, but you see, when he finished, the auditorium erupted in a thunderous applause and thus on that day, the world gave its due to rama.

Memories..Painful.

It happened 6 years back.
I studied at REC Calicut which was about 4 hours from my house and being a residential college, I used to stay at the hostel. REC's generally have 50% of the students from the domicile state and the rest from the rest of the country. Since my house was only about 4 hours away, I used to go home most of the weekends and the train journey from Calicut to Thrissur used to be one of my favorite trips.
There used to be a specific part of the journey that I always used to look forward to and that was when the train used to reach a place called kadalundi. There was a long bridge immediately after the train had crossed the kadalundi railway station and from the train, from the top of the bridge, you could see the backwaters stretch out and join the Arabian sea in the distant past. Often, this sight would be presented to your eyes with the setting sun in the back ground and the wind in your hair when you looked out of the train compartment, coupled with this wonderful scenery used to make the moment seem special.
4 years of college. A job at the end of it from the campus. Friends from all over the country. Going back home after 4 years, parents waiting with anticipation and joy at their son coming home, making them proud. What more can make you happy at the age of 21?Only God just wasn't in a mood to agree.
Kadalundi. The same Kadalundi, the beautiful place where the waves grew from infancy to adulthood and embraced the ocean with fierceness, the same kadalundi where the winds used to whistle in the months of november as they flew between the narrow backwaters into the lap of the ocean, the same kadalundi acted to the whims of the creator and took away lives, which were precious, and which were the joy and happiness of their loved ones.
They were in my batch. I didnt know them both. But it pains me even now.The bridge gave away and the water swallowed the moving train and took with it some lives, among them, my nameless batchmates, my friends. I still feel awful when I think about it.

I hate Kadalundi now.