Learning Gujarati unlocks a new universe of writers, translators and possibilities for this lockdown-impacted columnist
A scene from Manoj Joshi’s Mareez, where Dharmendra Gohil (right) plays Abbas Abdul Ali Vasi alias Mareez, also known as the Ghalib of Gujarat
Mareez, the diseased, is a familiar reality in COVID times. But famed Gujarati poet Mareez (Abbas Abdul Ali Vasi) represents just the opposite for me in the lockdown months. His ghazals encourage an acceptance of life; his “philsuphy” speaks of the poise needed in trying times. His lines—dukh maa hriday ne rakho/rakho na dukh hriday maa (keep your heart ticking and compassionate in sombre times, but do not let the adversity or gloom inhabit your heart)—advice against clouding the heart with sadness.
A year ago, I embarked on a Gujarati learning lockdown project, a step-by-step online induction into numbers and alphabets of a variant script. Ideally, what would have flowered amid face-to-face chats over afternoon tea, progressed as phone-in tuition with my writer-friend Ayesha Khan. Before agreeing to correct my written passages, Ayesha declared her “outsider” status, as someone who hailed from Baroda, but studied Gujarati only as a second language—her cosmopolitan upbringing did not necessitate Gujarati conversation, more so her Muslim family, which had ancestral roots in Nasik, predominantly spoke Urdu and English. Of course, her journalism in Baroda and Ahmedabad served a vital cultural connect with the language, which I, as a new learner, piggybacked on. Her vantage point was helpful because she could explain not just the spoken idiom, but also social mores, rather dispassionately. She sensitised me to the courtesies (adding bhai/ben as honourifics) and etiquettes specific to regions within Gujarat—Kutch, Kathiavad, Tal Gujarat (central) and the southern part, below the Narmada. “Gujarati manifests distinctly in these regions; the cultural vibe also changes. You need patience to pick up the nuances,” her words resonate, post the second COVID-19 wave, even as I inch closer towards my goal.
ADVERTISEMENT
Playwright Gita Manek’s Dr Anandibai Joshi, Like, Comment, Share, is a rendering of India’s first female physician, which this columnist is eager to watch once theatres open
Few teachers have time and patience for the new language learner, especially when faced with a new set of priorities in a work-from-home environment. In fact, the Gujarati proverb, “Nanu malse pan tanu nai male (Money is easier to get than time)” has assumed a unique meaning in my lockdown math. I have got the attention of several unhurried teachers in a hurried city, where time is currency.
To begin with, Ayesha spent a considerable time on the aural impact of everyday words, which were close to the ones in my mother tongue, Marathi. She demonstrated the bhagini bhasha through words, which did not require translation—nakamu, kantala, karkasar, and kharekhar. Also, some words filled our tuitions with wonder: samp meant a strike in Marathi, but unity in Gujarati. We laughed over navara, which meant an unoccupied person in Gujarati, but a husband in Marathi.
As I gained control over the lexicon, I started looking out for Gujarati “insiders,” who would talk to me—poets, doctors, actors, plumbers, courier guys, editors. The search brought me in touch with Mahemdabad-based writer-satirist Urvish Kothari, whose years in Gujarati newspapers and magazines soon became my source of wisdom.
Urvish Kothari
Incidentally, just around the time when I chose him as my tutor, Kothari’s wry tongue-in-cheek humorous takes on mota bhai/saheb politics—videos on Twitter in Hindi—had begun to be noticed at a national level. Resultantly, Kothari’s bandwidth allowed only after-hour cell phone exchanges; his lifestyle choices didn’t embrace WhatsApp.
Kothari’s Gujarati videos, particularly Sardar Etle Sardar, influenced me considerably, not just to imbibe a new language, but to decode the much-misunderstood Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel, who shaped India’s post-Independence geo-strategy. His assessment of the leader, as also visible in Kothari’s book, Sacho Manas Sachi Vaat, was a window to understand Gujarat’s thought leaders and grass-root figures.
Similarly, Kothari’s take on the famed character Bhadrambhadra awakened me to the intelligentsia, which opposed the rigid Brahminical view of life. It transported me to the over 100-year-old Dahilakshmi public library in Nadiad, where speakers of all callings prescribe the Granthno Panth.
Kothari advised me not to approach Gujarati with a journalistic deadline. A lifetime will fall short for internalising the lingo, but a few moments will be enough to absorb the truth: his words put me on a listener’s mission.
I latched on to speakers, who articulated their world views with ease in the Gujarati cyberspace. They represented different sides of the intellectual spectrum. For me, they were colourful content providers, YouTube entertainers, new age motivators, spiritual gurus. Their linguistic prowess was my focal point—Kathiavadi humourist Sairam Dave’s Lagan Ma Locha, Kajal Ojha Vaidya’s Tame Jeva Chho Eva Best Chho marriage/life advice, Sanjay Raval’s Vidyarthini Sachi Pariksha motivation, and stand-up comic Ojas Raval’s laughs on Gujju pronunciations.
It was lovely to observe each speaker’s room for manoeuvre and his or her persuasive skills. I was particularly touched by Marathi-born Gujarati investigative scribe Prashant Dayal’s sharing of his three-decade-long crime coverage in Gujarat. He also works towards rehabilitation of criminals. For him, the world of crime was itself a great teacher. Famed encounter cases (Sohrabuddin Sheikh among them) pulled him into a bleak world of abnormal expression.
I was also influenced by theatre director Manoj Shah’s attempts to promote Gujarati by way of mounting Gujarati literary texts on stage. As he recounts, the young Gujarati actors of his group, Ideas Unlimited, often are English-bred souls, who need to be introduced to Gujarat’s classic poets and creators. As the lore goes, Shah compels actors to read (or listen to podcasts on) Narmad, Narsinh Mehta and Akho as part of any role prep. Interestingly, when the lockdown ends, Shah is eager to stage his play Dr Anandibai Joshi, Like, Comment, Share. I am also eager to catch up with playwright Gita Manek’s rendering of India’s first female physician.
While I continue to bank on online videos, I realise that grammar and syntax are better learnt face-to-face. The new student is likely to imbibe errors because of the poorly produced “gajab sahelu” cyber lessons on jodni, samas etc.
Gujarati writer-translator Ashwini Bapat feels online tools often do not help in cultural interpretation, especially in tricky areas like equivalents for similar-sounding words. Bapat, born as a Gujarati, learnt Marathi after marriage, particularly after she stayed in Pune. She is the one who first rendered Arun Kolatkar’s Drona (long poem) in Gujarati. She says heavy reliance on Google translations can mislead. For instance, jemtem in Gujarati has many shades, but in Marathi it means just about; dhav in Marathi is to run, but in Gujarati it means breastfeed.
Aruna Jadeja, Marathi-born Gujarati writer, who has rendered PL Deshpande in Gujarati, echoes similar sentiments. She feels online tools cannot factor in the regional colour. When she attempted to bring the late PL into Gujarati, she had to convince the late humourist’s wife (Sunitabai) about her ability to do justice to his oblique world view. Jadeja said she devoted considerable years to merely absorb the PL turn of phrase.
Gujarati learning was more about people than the language. It put me in touch with a bouquet of translators, who have crisscrossed varied linguistic terrains, either for the purpose of literary translation or for performance art or journalistic practice. The individual journeys would have never reached me, had it not been for my tryst with Gujarati. For instance, Chirantana Bhatt, who drives Gujarati mid-day’s digital edition, has a reservoir of fun anecdotes about her choice of English as a medium of instruction in her graduation in History at MSU Baroda. The discouragement, in fact, became her source of strength. Today, she has rendered five English texts in Gujarati—Esther David’s My Father’s Zoo to Rujuta Diwekar’s Women and The Weight Loss Tamasha. “Translation is also about handling the source text with confidence.”
My varied Gujarati teachers have reminded me often that words will seize us, only when they decide to do so. I need to be patient and carry on without short-term expectations. The lockdown has anyway instilled the importance of carrying on patiently—at an unaccelerated speed.
Sumedha Raikar-Mhatre is a culture columnist in search of the sub-text. You can reach her at sumedha.raikar@mid-day.com
Subscribe today by clicking the link and stay updated with the latest news!" Click here!
