The Man Next Door

When I moved into the house, it was the children that I noticed first. They were playing cricket in the maidan facing the backyard. Quite good cricket, with makeshift wickets and a tennis ball. I shouted at them because the ball kept coming into my garden, messing up the newlydug flower beds. I was careful of my hedge. Distance is important to me. I like neighbours to remain that way.The youngest boy was sent in to retrieve the ball. He said, 'Sorry Aunty', in a nasal voice. His manner was pleasant so I was appeased, though I hate this 'aunty'business, a term or address the serving classes have picked up. I guess they want to be like us without really understanding what it takes. The layers of conditioning that would peel off like cabbage if we were to be stripped!

Off and on, I lectured to some, like this chokra at the bania´s or the paper boy. Why not didi, or bahen. I´d ask. Why this ´unkel´ and ´antee´? Why this disfigurement, this hotchpotch, this mismatch of terms? You see, I am an English-language teacher. But it´s more than that. I´m from UP, people these uncouth Delhi Punjabis and Haryanvis call ´bhaiyajis´ because they have no understanding of anything beyond the grab and push which makes this city tick. Unfortunately, they have set the tone for Delhi, so we don´t hear the sweet language that gave us Rahim, Abul Fazl and others, but just this crude jargon of these Westernised rustics who race metallic-coloured Marutis with stickers screaming ´Pappu di gaddi´ and ´Munna de pappa di gaddi´, sporting hip-hugging Levis and Raybans, a la Miami Vice. And think they´re the cat´s whiskers. Horrible! But my efforts to make them see culture always end as a lecture to myself. This is the authentic urban wild frontier and those boys playing cricket living in servants´ quarters—well they want to be upcoming Delhi cowboys as well.