At the age of 12, I made an astounding discovery. I realised that my father could neither read nor write Hindi. As part of a Hindu family that spoke Hindi at home, I had always assumed that my mother tongue was also his.In the late sixties, the government had decided that all its non-Hindi speaking employees had to pass a Hindi departmental exam. Father needed my help for this. He explained to me that his medium of instruction in school had been Urdu and though he understood Hindi moderately, the tougher words were beyond him. Urdu, he said, was not confined to any particular religion. It was the language used by educated people all over north India in the old days and had been the language of court records.Until that day, I only knew Urdu as the language in which my grandfather wrote a monthly postcard to my father. Father would just glance at the postcard hurriedly and stuff it in his pocket. He was embarrassed that Baba persisted with postcards, instead of inland letters. But Baba saw no point in wasting money. Urdu now sounded like a royal language. I then recalled the times when father would quote Ghalib or sing Iqbal in a resonant voice.While father struggled with Hindi, I got myself an Urdu primer and started educating myself in the language. Of course, at the age of 12, such bursts of enthusiasm were often short-lived. Over the next decade, I sporadically kept at it and finally thought myself capable of recognising the alphabets and reading simple words. Practice came mainly from signposts, shop names and stray advertisements, which I treated as puzzles to solve.Father showed no interest in my efforts, except for stray comments on the pronunciation of some Urdu words. At college, some of my friends knew a bit of Urdu like me. We promptly designated Urdu as the language for passing chits in class. It took us all a lot of effort, both to write and to read, and was therefore a good way of passing time during tedious lectures.After college, my off-and-on interest in Urdu continued — I bought an Urdu dictionary and once spent hours deciphering a mediocre story in Shamma, an Urdu magazine. I enjoyed the rich feel of the language but never graduated to reading Urdu books.Father now spoke fairly pure Hindi and could read it satisfactorily, if not fluently. However, he seemed to unwind best when he was with friends with whom he could lapse into undiluted Urdu. I understood his need better when, after shifting to Bombay, I found myself looking forward to meeting persons who spoke proper Hindi and not the Bombaiya version.One day, shortly before his death, my father spoke to me at length in pure Urdu, treating me as an equal, and even quoting couplets. Though I understood only a part of what he said, I was deeply touched.He passed away five years ago. An Urdu book by Qurratulain Haider, bought in a fit of enthusiasm, remained unread. Maybe I’ll read it after I retire!
