It is wise to avoid speaking a different language, learnt in a half-baked manner. This was the lesson I learnt during a routine visit to Kolkata from Delhi by the Rajdhani Express. A turbanned Sikh was the driver of the cab I had hired at Howrah station. Just to get a little friendly, I addressed the driver with a jaunty, “Sardarji ki hal hai?” (how are you?).I was startled by his instant reply. In chaste Bengali he observed, “You must be coming from Delhi.” The answer set me thinking. Was it my Punjabi accent, combined with a “Bengali” undertone that had exposed me thus, or was it the fact that I had arrived on a train originating from Delhi? I had to say, though, that I was impressed by his intelligence in correctly homing in on the fact that I was a Bengali.After recovering my composure I decided to continue all further conversation in Bengali. If it was my mother tongue I discovered that my taxi driver spoke it as fluently as if it were his, as well!I wondered how he had got so facile in this language. So I casually asked him whether he found the time to visit his home town. With his hands firmly planted on the steering wheel and his eyes fixed on the crowded road, he described his background and how his family has been living in Kolkata for three generations. Now his children were studying in Bengali-medium schools. He also explained that given his busy schedule, he found it difficult to visit the family village in Punjab more often than once in five years.This conversation was followed by another interesting encounter that occurred shortly afterwards. He had summoned a taxi one morning to take him to his office. Since I had to visit a friend en route, my uncle offered to give me a lift.Coincidentally, the driver was again a Sikh gentleman. I made bold to occupy the seat besides the driver, determined to speak better Punjabi this time. It worked! Mistaking me for a non-Bengali, the driver responded to my Punjabi with an open heart. We spoke mostly about the misdeeds of the Kolkata Corporation. Reaching my destination, I thanked my uncle for the lift and noticed that the driver was observing me very keenly. I gathered from friends and relatives that Sikh drivers normally avoid such frank discussions with local people, worried about their connections no doubt.My uncle later told me that the taxi driver had wanted to know who I was and was completely perplexed when he was informed that I was his nephew — he was just not convinced about this because I had spoken Punjabi. It gave me a thrill. My Punjabi had passed the test!
