For Urdu …press 1
Though I am equally at home in both languages, I invariably press the button for English, whether 1 or 2.
Most denizens of the blighted city of Karachi have heard these few terse words at some time or the other, when contacting PTCL, Worldcall, Sui Gas, K-Electric and at least another 30 organisations that have discovered the benefits of employing a telephone answering service. I have been told that around 94.6 per cent of the population of Karachi now speaks a language which used to be known as Urdu, but which, in the fullness of time, has spawned another lingo referred to in certain circles as Engdu (or Urlish) which, after systematic and perpetual use, has now overtaken the original language. So when a caller discovers he has had no electricity for 14 hours, or that his landline is dead and he can’t use the internet, or he hasn’t had any water in the pipeline for a fortnight, he presses 1. In case you belong to the tribe that watches only cricket and football and the Turkish sitcoms on the telly, here is an example of Engdu in a talk show on a local TV channel distinguished for hosting discussions where participants don’t converse but scream and shout at one another … at the same … in the belief they are increasing the ratings of the channel. Moderator: Acha Siddiqui sahib, yeh criticism jo Qureshi Saheb nay farmaya against paragraph four of the recent amendments in the local government ordinance, jo recently launch huwa hai, us key baray main aap kuch kehna chahte hain?
There are, of course, notable exceptions to the finger-pressing exercise. In some organisations, such as the three five-star hospitals, the four five-star hotels, the three gentlemen’s clubs and certain banks and newspapers, English has been kicked upstairs as if it was the Senate. And you are asked to press 1. It doesn’t always stop there because, if you are lucky and don’t get an engaged signal and don’t have to listen to a lot of sales crap about how good they are and how many products that they have to offer, you still have to press three or four more buttons before finally getting through. Though I am equally at home in both languages, I invariably press the button for English, whether 1 or 2. This is because the operator often has a problem understanding my Urdu which somebody once described as the lingo used by the Rampur taxi driver. I don’t know if this was meant as a compliment or was just an observation. What I do know is that I still speak the Urdu I learned as a child in Bhopal from our neighbour who was a settler from Allahabad. I still refer to a door as a darwaza and not as a gate and a gate as a phatak and not as a gate. Sugar will always be shakkar and not chini. And a chapatti will remain a phulka.
All this reminds me of the remark allegedly made by another citizen of Allahabad, albeit a more illustrious one, who had a tryst with destiny. One morning shortly after the Partition, Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru came to Delhi airport, to see off the two sons of his friend Sir Ross Masood, who were flying to Karachi. Addressing the young men he said, “Pakistan to ja rahai ho, magar Urdu mut bhoolna”. (You are traveling to Pakistan, but don’t forget Urdu). Nehru was bilingual and apparently couldn’t converse in Hindi. I wonder what his reaction would have been had he known that one day the stars of the Bombay Talkies would be speaking a new hybrid of the Indo-Aryan group of languages known as Hindlish. Your guess will be as good as mine.
Published in The Express Tribune, June 29th, 2014.
There are, of course, notable exceptions to the finger-pressing exercise. In some organisations, such as the three five-star hospitals, the four five-star hotels, the three gentlemen’s clubs and certain banks and newspapers, English has been kicked upstairs as if it was the Senate. And you are asked to press 1. It doesn’t always stop there because, if you are lucky and don’t get an engaged signal and don’t have to listen to a lot of sales crap about how good they are and how many products that they have to offer, you still have to press three or four more buttons before finally getting through. Though I am equally at home in both languages, I invariably press the button for English, whether 1 or 2. This is because the operator often has a problem understanding my Urdu which somebody once described as the lingo used by the Rampur taxi driver. I don’t know if this was meant as a compliment or was just an observation. What I do know is that I still speak the Urdu I learned as a child in Bhopal from our neighbour who was a settler from Allahabad. I still refer to a door as a darwaza and not as a gate and a gate as a phatak and not as a gate. Sugar will always be shakkar and not chini. And a chapatti will remain a phulka.
All this reminds me of the remark allegedly made by another citizen of Allahabad, albeit a more illustrious one, who had a tryst with destiny. One morning shortly after the Partition, Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru came to Delhi airport, to see off the two sons of his friend Sir Ross Masood, who were flying to Karachi. Addressing the young men he said, “Pakistan to ja rahai ho, magar Urdu mut bhoolna”. (You are traveling to Pakistan, but don’t forget Urdu). Nehru was bilingual and apparently couldn’t converse in Hindi. I wonder what his reaction would have been had he known that one day the stars of the Bombay Talkies would be speaking a new hybrid of the Indo-Aryan group of languages known as Hindlish. Your guess will be as good as mine.
Published in The Express Tribune, June 29th, 2014.