Allow us our addas

Every time I sit down to write an anecdote, or proof-read a page or simply, translate from Hindi all the lectures during my Masters on post-colonialism 8212; the native voice dissolves into a blur.

Every time I sit down to write an anecdote, or proof-read a page or simply, translate from Hindi all the lectures during my Masters on post-colonialism 8212; the native voice dissolves into a blur. Not all the correctness of language or the indignation of nationalism will get me through an important question: why must I italicise roti? Or chai? Or roko comrades, as in rail roko? Or, just yesterday, brun-muska?

You and I made a vocabulary of these words even before we understood them. Our English, be it from non-English medium schools or convents, joined these words like it was a new friend. And these are part of our everyday sentences. Or would you rather, flattened bread and potato-fenugreek for dinner?

The italics make me cringe. The minute you chance upon one in the newspaper or in the book, your eyes cringe even though you read normally. There, you mentally snigger, is the casual outsider, standing but squirmingly since s/he8217;s been thrown into in a proper-English party. Somehow, the italic is supposed to say, this is different from the rest.

I do not understand the politics of words. Every new edition of the Concise Oxford Dictionary legitimises a fresh set of 8220;Indian8221; words. I can finally write chowki without cringing myself or the font but do we just wait for England to understand the curry so we can straighten our language? Or expect everything to strike a spiritual connection globally like our yoga and karma?

Popular usage, they say, is the way to go. My south Indian friend wouldn8217;t, perhaps, recognise a Hindi thrown into English, or she may want to put in her bit of Tamil, Malayalam or Telugu. Some do already. And to good effect. Personally, I would rather read an unfamiliar word and get to its meaning than insist it be skewed.

Maybe it8217;s time for a pidgin dictionary. Or maybe, Macaulay needs to take a backseat so we can sport our illegitimate vernacular accents with pride. Then, we can have a perfectly musical adda over chai and samosa. No italics please.