<p>I had just sat down in the aircraft, buckling up, returning from the pollution capital where they keep assuring you that the AQI is under 200 and your lungs scream that it is more towards 500 when the captain began throwing numbers at us. Altitude, cruise speed, before coming to the information we were all interested in, the likely arrival time. And since we’re up in the air and not on the roads of Namma Bengaluru, the time indicated should indeed be the arrival time.</p>.<p>The cabin supervisor (this is so much better, don’t you think, than the very sexist air hostess; have you ever heard the male steward being called ‘airhost’?) introduced herself and her all-ladies’ crew. We were told that the crew knew English, Hindi, Bengali, Tamil, Punjabi, Marathi and Manipuri. Gabbar Singh style, I mulled over this bit of information – crew four and languages, seven – and I had no Kalia with me to ask.</p>.<p>My reading material had been checked in with the luggage; I thought I would use my flying time linking a crew member to their language. I left out English, Macaulay’s blessing or curse, and Hindi, both almost our lingua francas. That left five languages. As the crew members went past, I tried looking closely at the name badge but gave it up. I thought it would be rude or, worse, invite a reprimand. In any case modern names have become very bland.</p>.Sole mates on swapped feet.<p>I started looking at other giveaways. The complexion and features, perhaps, but was foxed as to how a typical Marathi looks. Plus, I thought that was being racist. I mused further. My mind strayed to the beauty of our country, the sheer range of cultures and languages, each with their rich history, so layered, so wonderful, and the fact that almost everybody knows more than one language.</p>.<p>The food service began. I thought their pronunciations should be a giveaway – the Tamilians with their distinct intonation, the Punjabis with their ‘isstanding’, and the Bengalis with their sweet tongue sweetened further as if with rasgullas on either cheek. I gave up that too. All seemed uniformly undistinctive, convent schooling having taken away the sweetness of their mother tongues. Two hours had lapsed and I had made no headway. I thought I should ask but gave up that idea too. I did not want to make it appear as if I were making a pass. We were heading for touchdown, and I was none the wiser. Next time you fly, try this. It keeps you occupied; and if you are not the shy but avuncular type, you could ask to either know or confirm.</p>.<p>I got off the flight, not knowing how the time had passed, to be greeted by my regular taxi driver. Namaskara, Sir, the flight late tha, Sir?</p>.<p>What language was this – Kannada, English or Hindi?</p>.<p>(Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.)</p>
<p>I had just sat down in the aircraft, buckling up, returning from the pollution capital where they keep assuring you that the AQI is under 200 and your lungs scream that it is more towards 500 when the captain began throwing numbers at us. Altitude, cruise speed, before coming to the information we were all interested in, the likely arrival time. And since we’re up in the air and not on the roads of Namma Bengaluru, the time indicated should indeed be the arrival time.</p>.<p>The cabin supervisor (this is so much better, don’t you think, than the very sexist air hostess; have you ever heard the male steward being called ‘airhost’?) introduced herself and her all-ladies’ crew. We were told that the crew knew English, Hindi, Bengali, Tamil, Punjabi, Marathi and Manipuri. Gabbar Singh style, I mulled over this bit of information – crew four and languages, seven – and I had no Kalia with me to ask.</p>.<p>My reading material had been checked in with the luggage; I thought I would use my flying time linking a crew member to their language. I left out English, Macaulay’s blessing or curse, and Hindi, both almost our lingua francas. That left five languages. As the crew members went past, I tried looking closely at the name badge but gave it up. I thought it would be rude or, worse, invite a reprimand. In any case modern names have become very bland.</p>.Sole mates on swapped feet.<p>I started looking at other giveaways. The complexion and features, perhaps, but was foxed as to how a typical Marathi looks. Plus, I thought that was being racist. I mused further. My mind strayed to the beauty of our country, the sheer range of cultures and languages, each with their rich history, so layered, so wonderful, and the fact that almost everybody knows more than one language.</p>.<p>The food service began. I thought their pronunciations should be a giveaway – the Tamilians with their distinct intonation, the Punjabis with their ‘isstanding’, and the Bengalis with their sweet tongue sweetened further as if with rasgullas on either cheek. I gave up that too. All seemed uniformly undistinctive, convent schooling having taken away the sweetness of their mother tongues. Two hours had lapsed and I had made no headway. I thought I should ask but gave up that idea too. I did not want to make it appear as if I were making a pass. We were heading for touchdown, and I was none the wiser. Next time you fly, try this. It keeps you occupied; and if you are not the shy but avuncular type, you could ask to either know or confirm.</p>.<p>I got off the flight, not knowing how the time had passed, to be greeted by my regular taxi driver. Namaskara, Sir, the flight late tha, Sir?</p>.<p>What language was this – Kannada, English or Hindi?</p>.<p>(Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.)</p>
