The Anna Raj


A fellow passenger is playing a Telugu song. The music is soothing the soul. I can't get the words. But it doesn't matter. I enjoy the melody, soak in the tune and feel absorbed in the song totally. 

That makes me wonder do our words really count if intentions are great? Can language really be a barrier? 

Hmm...not much if one is eager to form a bond. This is my fourth day in a city whose language I don't understand,  a region that does not recognize my 'ye dena' or 'ye  nahi chahiye'. Yet, I'm doing fine with help of my sign language, Google and few translators. 

The first day in Vijaywada was a struggle. At food counters, both the people - me and the seller slapped their tensed foreheads in exasperation. I wanted salt. But my good gracious Anna didn't understand salt, namak or mith. There was nothing in menu card that I could show to him that I wanted to order. The menu card had English and Telugu interpretations. So ordering the food was easy by showing Anna the precise line. But salt, hard luck here.  I looked hopefully at the man who had given me the coupons. He knew English. But he was busy giving out coupons to other hungry and angry customers like me. To get him out of that mess and help me would take eons. Like the Splintstones, my brain fiddled with innovations. An idea sparked. I did a sprinkling action over my food. I dipped a finger, licked it and then nodded my head grimly suggesting it lacked salt. 

EUREKA!! 

My Anna smiled widely with two of his chipped teeth making an appearance. He disappeared in the kitchen and I patted myself for a job well done. Till he procured me my dose of saline, I considered doing a course in monoacting. Prithvi theater could just be my stage. He returned with a small bowl and placed in front of me. Now he was smiling ear to ear, happy to have helped his customer. I returned the gesture with a thumbs up only to give out a thunderous wail. 

HE HAD BROUGHT MASALA!!

My licking and nodding action was interpreted as lack of taste, missing masala. Here, in Andhra people prefer their meals to be on a pungent side. Coming from a coastal area, I prefer it on the saltier side. Looking at the dismay spreading across my face, he squinted his eyes and probed me further. What was I to do now? Eat the salt less food. Only 5mg salt per day. My medical Textbooks did a jog in my convulsed brain. I picked up the plate and with a heavy heart took the first step towards my table. My dear Anna said something as if calling out to me. All I could say to him was, 'Tu Jane na..' sniff sniff. Yet, his determination made me think twice and I did a Simran style palat. 

My Raj was waving out with the mobile in his hand. As I went back to him, he stretched out his hand showed me Google. 

Yuhoooo..

I quickly typed salt on the search and asked it to translate in Telugu. My Anna Raj laughed hard at the what the translation showed him. He went in and returned with two bowls in hand. One had salt and other sugar. Ahaaa...finally I was united with a part of my Mumbai-SALT! But why sugar? Anna placed the masala and sugar bowl side to side and sprinkled a little sugar on the masala. 

INTELLIGENT MAMMAL!

The sugar bowl was a way of correcting his earlier folly of giving me the masala bowl.

Awww...such a sweet gesture!!

I was teary-eyed. Only I wanted to say to him was, 'Telugu Tamil main kya janu re..janu toh janu ke main tujhe apna Anna manu re..'

So, words are just a medium reflecting our intentions. Don't use them as sole tools of communication. Words might fail you, great intentions won't. 

#annaphilosophy

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

In the pursuit of pizza, discovering people.

Image
  I can only tell stories. That doesn’t sound like a great opening to a blog, right? Especially when you are looking at a giant called Happiness. Well, I can’t do much about it because I can only tell stories. Stories to me are happiness.  What kind of stories you will ask? Love stories? Horror stories? Thrilling stories? Adventurous stories? A little bit of everything, I would say. Like the Mumbai bhelpuri, tangy, spicy, sweet, and fulfilling. Again an old comparison. But what to do? That is what I’m made up of. Stories and food. Stories of people around me. I’m no unique individual. I’m a fragment of my mother, my father, my son, my husband, my friends, and even my milkman and house-help. Sometimes, I’m also like the rickshaw driver, in whose vehicle I commute every day to work. You must be finding it very funny. But many times, I’m like my pressure cooker and mixer grinder, too. I start abruptly whistling, when the there is too much pressure inside me. When I find too man...
Read more

Not Before Me- a book raising questions in a quest to find answers on disability.

Image
 Sixteen years ago, fresh out of the medical college, as an enthusiastic doctor, I visited the Bidada Medical Camp in Kutch Gujarat, as a volunteer. Amongst the thousands of patients I saw, this mother, aged between 65-70 years, stayed in my troubling thoughts for a long time. She had come to the camp to meet specialists who were visiting India to treat the ragged and frayed people of Kutch for free.  I remember her as a mother of an adult specially abled child. The father had passed away a few years back. No siblings to follow. ‘What after me?’ was the thought that stung her day in and out as she cared for her son. She had come to the camp in the hope that somewhere there would be a place that would care for her son once the heavens had embraced her. The staff refused to help the mother because her plea did not fall into any surgical or medical category.  Years later, as I read the book Not Before You, authored by Lata Gwalani, this mother knocked on my doors in Jaya’s d...
Read more

KICKED INTO LIGHT

Image
 What a miracle she was!! Waking up at the crack of dawn, before the first ray could find its way flittering through the dense blanket of darkness- she was my Amma. Splashing some cold water on her comely but tired face, she lit the firewood to facilitate a warm bath for both of us. This firewood was a stellar luxury, for the zamindar granted us the comfort only on special occasions. And today was Diwali!  As she washed her long locks, which were tied in a taut bun, Chutki, my elder sister, demanded to be lifted in her arms. Amma quickly winded up the bathing ritual and rushed to comfort Chutki. The first light that dispelled the darkness of the hut scared Chutki. It had become a routine for her to wake up crying, as the demons of the past brought out their ugly heads in her dreams.  "Kuruvi…" Amma's little birdie, that she was, "…we are far, far away from the tormentors. The ghosts of animosity have left for their graveyards."  Amma clemently brushed aside the ...
Read more