Spice of Life: The M word in delicate dance between language, meaning

Transitioning from Tamil Nadu to Haryana was like swapping a dosa for a roti — definitely not easy. The real challenge, however, was navigating the language barrier, which led to more than a few comical and occasionally embarrassing situations.

There’s an incident I’ve often repeated among friends and family, one that even made the rounds at the academy in Mussoorie during training. I retell it now, trusting that my friends won’t hold it against me — or assume I’ve had no better experiences since. It’s a tale that reliably earns a laugh — or at least a chuckle — and it serves as proof that even in the usually dull corridors of government offices, we civil servants can dish out wit and humour, even if it’s unintentional.

Never one to shy away from a challenge, I agreed on the spot despite not having even a vague idea of what a “mushaira” actually meant. Little did I know, this word had nothing but embarrassment in store for me. (HT File)

Transitioning from Tamil Nadu to Haryana was like swapping a dosa for a roti — definitely not easy. It wasn’t just about learning to bundle up in thick woollens for the first time after living in Tamil Nadu’s perpetual summer or figuring out that “driver side” and “conductor side” meant right and left. The real challenge, however, was navigating the language barrier, which led to more than a few comical and occasionally embarrassing situations. Despite my working knowledge of Hindi, one incident made it painfully clear that I was still just a rookie in this linguistic game.

As an IAS officer under training in Gurugram, I was raring to go, especially when the deputy commissioner entrusted me with my first independent assignment. The task? Overseeing the SARAS Mela, a grand fair celebrating the talents of rural artisans. Determined to make it a resounding success, I threw myself into organising nightly cultural programmes to draw in the crowds and meticulously coordinated daily guest invitations. When the Gurugram commissioner, known for his love of the arts, attended one of our programmes, I was thrilled by his praise. But then he casually suggested we host a “mushaira,” an Urdu poetry recital. Never one to shy away from a challenge, I agreed on the spot despite not having even a vague idea of what a “mushaira” actually meant. Little did I know, this word had nothing but embarrassment in store for me.

Silence ensued as if the phone line itself was stunned. In Hindi-speaking circles, my blunder was painfully clear: “Mujra”, a suggestive dance form, was light years away from the refined poetry of a “mushaira”. The seasoned personal secretary, undoubtedly bewildered, gently responded, “Janaab aapne kuch galat suna hai (Sir, maybe you have misheard something).”

Reflecting on this incident, I ponder whether it was a simple linguistic mix-up or a Freudian slip of subconscious desires. Either way, it taught me a valuable lesson: Even the most well-intentioned words can take on unintended meanings in a land of diverse languages.

Indeed, linguistic misadventures had become an inadvertent hallmark of my tenure in Haryana. From awkward encounters with politicians to bemusing exchanges with locals, each misstep served as a reminder of the delicate dance between language and meaning.

Yet, amid the chaos and confusion, a sly strategy emerged — one that I shamelessly employed to evade inconvenient calls from politicians. Feigning ignorance, I would be the clueless outsider, pleading linguistic incompetence to shield myself from unwanted demands. While this ploy may have yielded humorous results in the past, it was not without consequences. Slowly but surely, my antics were deciphered, and my linguistic charades no longer fool anyone. letterschd@hindustantimes.com

The writer is an IAS officer in Haryana