Swalpa Adjust Madi : Living in Bangalore as an Outsider: The Struggle to Learn Kannada

We are in the middle of a language crisis, let there be no doubt about it. Or should I say a languages crisis (what in the world is the plural for crisis? Crises?). The plural form helps represent the situation at hand. Everything is plural—multiple types of people love and hate more than one language in many states. It is now an impossible task to keep track of this madness. Which state, which language and bloody why? The head spins.

The love for one’s own language has transformed into spite for others. Street fights break out, arguments fester endlessly, and the much-vaunted—and in my opinion, often overrated—unity in diversity story goes up in smoke. We, as a society, are cursed, striving to create hell when the choice of building a heaven beckons. A populace bogged down by trivial pursuits and misplaced loyalties.

It looks like the biblical story from Genesis is playing out—the one where the gods, worried by the Kingdom of Shinar’s attempt to reach them by building a tower (the Tower of Babel) to heaven, thwart the effort by teaching them different languages. The confusion in languages ensured that the Tower of Babel was never completed.

We in all our wisdom or lack of it are almost there.

Let me now tell you what I initially set out to dish out.

I have lived in different states across India and have managed to pick up a few language skills. Maharashtra gave me Marathi and Hindi, Tamil Nadu—Tamil, and I know Malayalam, as it is my mother tongue, as they strangely put it.

Now I am in Bangalore, and this time, it is different. The city is nothing like the ones I lived in. The usual suspects—those who teach you the local language—are missing.

The neighbors, often a reliable source for learning the local language, are themselves from different states, just like me. It wouldn’t matter, anyway as very few in this city even speak to a neighbor—such is the curse of this city and its self-centered, self-indulgent society.

The office is a mix of people speaking various languages, with only a handful who can converse fluently in Kannada and possibly teach it. The local shopkeeper, once a vital part of community interactions, is an extinct class. And who needs to speak at a supermarket? You walk in, pick up your stuff, and walk out—of course, after payment.

So, after some head-scratching, I decided to try my old, effective trick: listening to songs and performances in the local language. It had worked in Maharashtra—Pula Deshpande with his humour and Arun Date’s melodious Bhavgeet could not only teach but also enrich and awaken one’s love for Marathi.

In Tamil Nadu, many greats, like SP Balasubramaniam and TM Soundararajan, played that role. Ilaiyaraaja and Rahman, with their tunes, and Vaali and Vairamuthu, with their lyrics, could enliven even a corpse.

This approach had helped me learn languages before, so I was certain I could do the same in this soulless city. Songs were to be my savior once again.

When I asked for suggestions on where to start , my brother recommended a bhajan—one of the greatest compositions by the legendary Purandara Dasa, the most revered 15th-century composer, singer, and philosopher.

The rendition I chose was sung by the great Puttur Narasimha Nayak. The first line of the bhajan summed up my frustration with society’s insistence on trivial matters in a life that constantly recedes. The lines went:

Nanena Madidenu Rangayya Ranga Niyenna Kayabeku.

(What have I done, you make me wait… or rather, in my case make me do!)

The effort to learn the language continues. It may be my age, the diminishing stock of grey cells, or simply a lack of effort, but I am struggling with this one. It does seem to be a long haul, but I am committed to it.

Until then, as they say—

Swalpa adjust madi… (For those who know less than I know..it means please adjust a bit)

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