As Easy as Onedu, Yaradu, Muru

In learning a language, when from mere words we reach the laws of words, we
have gained a great deal. But if we stop at that point, and only concern
ourselves with the marvels of the formation of a language, seeking the hidden
reason of all its caprices, we do not reach the end—for grammar is not
literature, prosody is not a poem.

Rabindranath Tagore, Sadhaha

India has thousands of languages when one considers the panoply of dialects, and yet in the United States, we frequently believe that the principally-spoken language of India is Hindi. Only around 24 of these countless languages are spoken by over a million people each. If one recalls that this is a nation of over one billion, then obviously there are an extraordinarily larger number of languages for which one must account. Here in the province of Karnataka, the local language is Kannada, which is a prominent Dravidian language. Spoken by approximately 50 million, it is one of the most ancient of Indian languages next to Sanskrit, Prakrit, and Tamil, and dates back at least by evidence to an early inscription discovered c 450 CE. Bear in mind, however, that Kannada also has an array of dialects.

The language of Kannada appears in many forms and in many places—from writings on temples to ancient coins to ancient literature, both poetry and prose. A seventh century eulogy of Kappe Arabhatta, a hero remembered as Kaliyuga Vipartitan honors him in this way. Even this simple phrase’s rendering in English is vastly deep, rich, and lovely.

Good to the good, sweet to the sweet,

This exceptional man of Kaliyuga

Is a veritable Madhava himself (to the distressed).

Madhava is one of the thousand names of Vishnu or Krishna, preserver of the universe, and one of the principal gods in Hinduism. It may mean one who is the consort of Ma, the mother of the universe or the lord of Ma, the lord of knowledge.

This most inconsequential budding of my knowledge is indescribably humbling. I cannot even grasp the import of one translated phrase of Kannada—never mind the array of other languages—and yet I must form relationships with leaders in this nation. My command of Hindi is nil, and my command of Kannada is presently limited to namaskara (hello), tata, (goodbye), diavit-too (please), danyawada (thank you), how-du (yes), and i-la (no). I’m working on Nana yesaru Elizabeth, which is, with hope, self-explanatory.

As a consequence of my lack of language, the principal manner in which I communicate with others is through English, which is widely spoken. I must, however, filter the English I hear through the accent the individual brings to it, and this can become extraordinarily daunting, particularly in a research setting, where I am recording conversations for later transcription. The rules of active listening have become ever more essential as I have found myself in an unending dance of paraphrasing and clarifying what people say to me. The challenges abound.

Can I understand what words the person said? Indians learn British English, and if one is unfamiliar with it, even a phrase such as “tick the box” becomes confusing. Did he mean, “kick the box,” “pick up the box,” “check the box,” or something entirely different? In my case, my background in British literature (with my humble thanks to Doctors Cox and Knighton, amongst several of my undergraduate professors), along with the good lot of time I have spent in England has helped me immensely.

Are there cultural layers that inhibit my understanding? For example, Indians do not like to say no. I had read this before I arrived in India, but what did it really mean? Rajani Kanth Katragadda of Infosys explained that he is hardwired to not refuse in a direct manner what someone wants. He said that clearly this comes with liabilities, particularly in a business setting where many cultures expect your yes to mean yes and your no to mean no. “Imagine,” he said, “that your client wants the product earlier than you can deliver. How do you go to the client and tell him, ‘No, we will have to stay to the original date.’” He expressed that deep in the Indian psyche is this difficulty with being the bearer of bad news and of the inability to meet another’s needs.

I add to this the notion of agreement and disagreement. Indians relish debate and discussion, but deeply embedded in culture is a respect for authority and a respect for the guest, who is seen as God. If someone agrees with me, is she doing so because she actually believes it? Does she intend to change her actions based on her verbal assent? Or is she demonstrating respect to me only by her agreement?

Other questions I ponder are Can I grasp the meaning of his or her words? And, Is the individual understanding what I say? Thankfully, it is time for a nice cup of Assam tea, which will permit me to escape the prosody of these enigmas and to reflect on the poetry of the moment, for, as Tagore says, “the best part of the song is missed when the tune is absent; for thereby its movement and its colour are lost, and it becomes like a butterfly whose wings have been plucked.”