More Salt Than Pepper

by Karan Thapar

  ‘But that’s not what I meant?’

  ‘Then what did you mean?’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I exclaimed, somewhat exhausted by the prospect of putting matters right. ‘I wish I knew.’

  It wasn’t a serious comment. In fact it was said more to myself than to her. But she pounced upon it with a journalistic ferocity that ordinarily I would have admired.

  ‘Are you saying you don’t know what you mean?’

  ‘You could say you don’t know what I mean,’ I answered combatively. But she failed to grasp the twist in my reply.

  ‘In other words you don’t know what you’re talking about?’

  Perhaps she was right but I was stunned. In fact, quite speechless. The conversation had taken a bizarre turn.

  ‘Yes, I suppose that’s what it must look like.’ My voice sounded defeated. In fact, clean bowled. ‘But I did forewarn you, didn’t I?’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry I rang. I seem to have made a terrible mistake. Goodbye.’

  I must have held on to the phone for a while – long after the line disconnected and a loud engaged tone started to emanate from the receiver – because when Aru walked into my office he thought I was in trouble.

  ‘A problem?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘I just spoke the truth about cricket.’

  24 February 2003

  It’s the Little Things that Always Matter

  Have you ever done something silly and then worked yourself into a frightful tizzy about it? I do it all the time although that’s no excuse or explanation. In fact it happened again last Tuesday.

  I have this habit of washing my spectacles in hot running water each morning. I call it ‘boiling-the-dirt’ off them, although the procedure is neither as dramatic nor as effective as that would suggest. I simply hold them under a tap and then gingerly dry them off with soft tissue.

  Now on Tuesday as I was repeating this daily exercise the little plastic nose-grips (Is that what they are called? That’s certainly what they are.) fell off. Don’t ask me how and please don’t question why. I simply don’t know. But it depressed and upset me no end.

  If you look at a pair of spectacles – as opposed to wear them – the nose-grips are possibly the most irrelevant bit. Once the specs are on your face you can’t even see them. But they are the little balancing devices that grip the bridge of your nose and prevent your glasses from falling off. So irrelevant though they may appear their function is vital.

  The other thing is that my spectacles are new. I only bought them in January and I’m fond of them. They suit me, or so I believe and so I’ve been told. To have done an injury to their vital little bits just three months into their existence made the pain hurt all the more.

  All morning I was restless. No matter what the task I was attending to, or who I was speaking to on the phone, the spectacles with the missing little bits stayed at the front of my attention. I just could not stop thinking about them.

  At lunch, too disturbed to continue, I walked out of the office to find an optician. I first tried Greater Kailash. It’s just nearby. But being Tuesday it was shut. I then tried Vasant Vihar. But the only shop I know was closed.

  By now my agitation was mounting, my glasses were slipping off my nose and my mood was glum. Sensing my desperation my driver suggested I try South Extension. I don’t know any optician there but I readily agreed.

  We stopped outside a shop called Gem Opticians. With my heart beating furiously I stepped in. What would I do if the glasses could not be repaired? The morning’s little accident had by now blown itself into a major tragedy.

  I explained my problem to the shop attendant. He looked knowingly at the spectacles and then he looked quizzically at me.

  ‘Did you try and adjust these yourself?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But these little bits are made to last. They don’t break or fall off unless you’ve done something to them.’

  ‘Honestly I haven’t. Not a thing.’ I pleaded. ‘But can you fix them?’

  ‘I’ll try, Sir.’

  For the next five minutes I paced the shop anxiously. I tried to look at the display shelves. Designer spectacles of all varieties lay there. Would I have to choose one of these as my new pair? The thought frightened me. No doubt the alternatives were far nicer, more expensive and infinitely more durable than my own but I like my glasses and I felt right in them. If spectacles maketh the face then mine was framed by the pair now under repair. I prayed all would be well.

  ‘There you are, Sir,’ the attendant’s voice announced as he broke into my reverie. ‘Unless you do something silly they should not break again.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I stammered and stuttered. I was incoherent with happiness and relief. ‘How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Nothing, Sir. We never charge for repairs.’

  ‘But these weren’t bought from you!’

  ‘Well, Sir,’ the man smiled, ‘in that case let’s hope that you buy the next pair from us.’

  There are two morals to be drawn from this story and I trust you haven’t missed either of them. Don’t let little things get the better of you and, secondly, there are definitely a few good people in this world. In fact, some of them are true gems.

  Oh yes, and if you break your spectacles or need a new pair, can I recommend Gem Opticians in South Extension, Part I?

  26 April 1999

  Yes, Sir or No, Sirree!

  I’m beginning to fear I may have lost my name. These days when I walk into an office only a few people shout out ‘Hello, Karan’. Instead, what the majority says is ‘Good morning, Sir’ or, if they’re being friendly and informal, ‘Hi, Sir’. What’s even worse is the look of polite deference on their faces. It clearly establishes that ‘Hi, Sir’ is not ‘Hi, Yaar.’

  The problem is I don’t think of myself as ‘Sir’. In my mind I remain ‘Karan’. But that’s not all. I also still think of myself as youthful, cheeky, unpredictable and a little irrepressible. However, the term ‘Sir’ appears to contradict all of that. It sounds more like a response to my all-too-visible white hair rather than my self- assumed effervescence. It ages me and, worse, sets me apart. ‘Sir’ is never one of us. ‘Sir’ is inevitably and irresistibly one of them. ‘Sir’ is an alien.

  However, compared to what happens outside the office, to be called ‘Sir’ is only mildly off-putting. Far more galling is the term of address strangers use. When I stop the car and ask for directions, or walk into a shop, or even pause to buy a paan, they call me ‘Uncle’. Now it’s one thing when little toddlers use the word and quite another when it trips off the tongue of a strapping lad of twenty-five who looms over you. Of course, he means to be polite. Of that I have no doubt. But it leaves me feeling aged and sometimes a little decrepit.

  Alas, my misery is not about to end. Indeed the saddest part is the realization that things can only get worse. Soon – far too soon, in fact – the day will come when the awesome suffix ‘ji’ will be added to the already far too deferential ‘Sir’ and ‘Uncle’. I dread the moment I become ‘Sirji’ or ‘Uncleji’.

  I recall the first time it happened to my sister Premila. She had been shopping in Hauz Khas and returned a little shaken. At the time she was probably no more than fifty. That, by the way, is my age today.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. I was just about twenty-five.

  ‘They’ve started calling me Mataji!’

  ‘So?’ I questioned, unable or unwilling to understand what she meant. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Everything. For a start, I don’t look like a “Mataji” and, secondly, I never want to look like one. So when strangers call me “Mataji” I wonder what’s gone wrong!’

  I think I smiled. Or maybe I stayed straight-faced. But what I do recall is that I dismissed her complaint with an airy and rather unsympathetic wave of my hand. I simply couldn’t imagine that one day I might face a similar predicament. Today time has caught up with me – and how!

  The other da
y my nephew Udayan dropped by with his son Arzaan. Normally he’s an ebullient and outgoing child. He’s five and full of fun. But on seeing me Arzaan instantly transformed into a shy and tongue-tied lamb. The more I called out to him the tighter he seemed to cling to his father.

  ‘Come on, Arzaan,’ Udayan broke in, trying hard to help me. ‘Go to Nanoo.’

  ‘Nanoo!’ I spluttered.

  ‘Yes, Karan Mamu. That’s what you are. You’re his Nanoo.’

  I’m not sure if my face fell but I do know that my desire to dangle the child on my knee disappeared almost immediately. Arzaan, oblivious of the angst he had caused his great uncle, continued to cling to his father.

  It’s only in India that deference and politeness are taken so far they end up feeling like victimization. In London if you aren’t up to calling your boss by his or her first name you might end up saying ‘Mr This’ or ‘Mrs That’. But no one would say ‘Sir’. And certainly not ‘Madam’. Such terms of address stop with school.

  Now I concede Americans call everyone ‘Sir’ but there’s neither deference nor any hint of age associated with the way they do. Their tone takes care of that. If not, their accent certainly does!

  In India, however, you just can’t win. A week ago I made a determined effort to put a stop to being called ‘Sir’.

  ‘Listen,’ I said to someone who had been dropping the word like confetti. ‘Won’t you call me Karan instead?’

  ‘Of course, Karan Sir,’ came the reply. Then, after a pause, he added, ‘Or would you prefer Thapar Sir instead?’

  14 September 2006

  Chapter 7

  Getting Your Knickers in a Twist

  ‘Her Royal Highness the Duchess of Cornwall has asked me to invite you to a Dinner Party.’

  What Should I Call You?

  English is a fascinating language. That its spellings are not phonetic and its pronunciation idiosyncratic is well known. But what is less familiar is that the meaning of a word sometimes depends on the tone with which it’s spoken. Even more surprising is the fact that how you address someone reflects more than just your respect for them. It can also convey your recognition of their marital status or the longevity of their husband. This is why the English language has very specific terms of address. Sadly, few people today understand them.

  To start with, terms of address, like those of endearment, can be misleading. For instance, not every use of the word ‘dear’ is endearing. Depending on the tone, the phrase ‘dear boy’ can be weighed down with sarcasm or even grounded in disgust. You have to listen to the voice to make out what is meant. That’s also true of the way someone chooses to address you.

  I was eighteen when I discovered this. As a young freshman at Pembroke, the Cambridge tradition of addressing undergraduates as ‘Sir’ was both pleasing and perplexing. No one had ever called me ‘Sir’ before; nor was I aware that the word can be used without deference.

  So imagine my surprise when I was caught walking across the college lawns and hollered at from the Porter’s Lodge. I knew such trespass was forbidden but I did not anticipate the response it would elicit.

  ‘Get off the fucking grass, Sir!’ the porter shouted. Usually he was a kindly old man in a bowler and bow-tie. Such language would have seemed impossible of him. But the sight of a student on the grass was more than he could bear. His use of the term ‘Sir’ may have been obligatory but it wasn’t respectful!

  On the other hand, we, in India, are guilty of unnecessary respect. When Benazir Bhutto was here last December the press – and almost everyone who met her – insisted on calling her ‘Mrs’ Bhutto. No doubt the fact that she is a Bhutto justified the surname but the assumption that she is ‘Mrs’ because she is married was mistaken. ‘Mrs Bhutto’ could be her mother or grandmother or either of her brothers’ widows. But not Benazir. She’s either Miss Bhutto or Mrs Zardari.

  I realize that the conundrum lies in the question of how you address a married woman who prefers to be known by her maiden name. It’s one we face in India as well. For example, how do you address Priyanka Vadra when she is using her maiden name? The English language – or do I mean English convention, although I would argue they amount to the same thing? – has the answer. It’s as simple as it’s straightforward.

  If a woman uses her maiden name she must always be addressed as ‘Miss’ but if she uses her husband’s surname she becomes ‘Mrs’. So my wife was both Miss Meneses and Mrs Thapar. But Nisha could never have been Mrs Meneses or Miss Thapar. The former might be her mother, the latter could have been her daughter, but neither could ever have been Nisha herself.

  The only catch is that this terminology reflects marital status and is thought to be sexist. Why, critics argue, should the way you address a woman turn on whether she’s married when this doesn’t apply to a man? It was to get around this that the term ‘Ms’ was devised.

  Unfortunately, it’s not an entirely successful creation. Nisha, to use her example, could have been Miss Meneses but what would have been the point of trying to be Ms Thapar? The term ‘Ms’ only works if you’re not married or you’re using your husband’s name.

  Of course, the delightful differentiations made possible by the English language go further. How you address a woman can reflect whether she’s divorced or widowed. Again it’s an ingenious little distinction.

  Mrs Husband’s-name Surname is a married woman whose husband is well and kicking, regardless of whether that pleases her or not. But Mrs Christian-name Surname is either a widow or a divorcee. So whilst Daddy was alive Mummy would have been correctly addressed as Mrs Pran Nath Thapar but after his death the accurate form is Mrs Bimla Thapar. To use the wrong one is misleading to those who know what it implies.

  Today we no longer care about such conventions and that’s a shame. Perhaps on occasion it’s sexist or revolves around the husband and the marriage, but it’s also informative and it does prevent little embarrassments. For example, no matter how often she hears it, to Benazir the words ‘Mrs Bhutto’ would always suggest her mother. If you think about it, that’s probably true of most women as well. And, if you know better, you would never dream of asking Mrs Bimla Thapar how her husband is.

  Modern language may be politically correct but it’s often careless and can lead to avoidable errors. But do we care?

  16 January 2004

  The English We Speak

  Do you know what makes the English we speak so different to that spoken by the British? It’s not simply our accent and pronunciation, nor our vocabulary, or even our grammar, including the absence of it. No doubt those are some of the distinctions but they don’t get to the heart of the matter. The ‘core’ difference lies elsewhere.

  It’s the way we express ourselves. The British use the language idiomatically. We speak far more literally. We describe what we have to say, we search out specific adjectives that convey our meaning and perhaps this is why in the process we use too many and usually all of the superlative sort. The British, on the other hand, prefer to express themselves with metaphor and aphorism. Consequently their language is rich with idiom. Ours is almost devoid of them.

  Here’s an example of some British idioms that we may be aware of but rarely, if ever, use ourselves. Their charm lies in the colourful – if at times bizarre – images they evoke. They add to the fun of the spoken language but also occasionally to its melody and beauty.

  First, an idiom from an earlier generation: ‘Don’t teach your grandmother how to suck eggs’. Quite simply, it’s a way of stopping someone from teaching you what you already know. But it also conveys a certain ‘superiority’ of age or, at least, of rank. The person being addressed is placed in the grandchild category. He or she is admonished for presumptuousness. The magic, however, lies in the picture the phrase paints – an elderly white-haired lady, perhaps her hair in a bonnet, devouring a collection of eggs by labial extraction.

  Equally powerful is the image evoked by the more modern idiom ‘Don’t get your knickers in a t
wist’. This phrase was a favourite in the ’70s and ’80s, particularly with young women. It’s a way of telling someone not to work themselves into an uncalled for rage. But it also goes further. It mocks the wrath, rather than treat it seriously or sensitively. Just as the picture of a person wringing his or her undies in anger would be ludicrous so, too, is the display of misplaced, if not misbegotten, emotion this idiom targets.

  In fact, colloquial British English has several similar idioms. ‘Don’t get into a stew’, ‘Stop frothing’ and ‘He’s all knotted up’ may have slightly or significantly different meanings but they convey the same image of a person who has allowed himself to get entangled, a prisoner of his or her own anger and frustration.

  One of my favourite idioms is the expression ‘You look like death warmed up’. This phrase speaks at two levels. The obvious is that it’s a way of saying the person addressed looks extremely unwell. Less apparent is that it’s a way of expressing concern without slobbering all over the individual. It’s expressive without being intrusive, it reaches out yet retains a certain distance. And, for all these reasons, it’s quintessentially British. They use it all the time.

  Perhaps from these examples it’s obvious, but in each case the use of idiom alludes to, rather than specifically spells out, the thought you wish to convey. And, more often than not, it does so with goodwill and charm rather than a blunt outspoken statement of fact. Consequently, when your speech is flavoured with idiom, you can be both discreet and understated yet also rich and powerful in what you say.

  The interesting thing is when we speak in Hindi – or, for that matter, in any of our other Indian languages – we use idioms all the time. So why is our English different? The answer, I suspect, is that English remains a foreign language. No doubt we have Indianized it with our disregard for conventional schoolbook grammar and our liberal cross-fertilization with desi vocabulary. But even so it remains pidgin, although in this case, of course, our own.