Writing in Hindi

by Kriti Garg – San Fransisco, CA

Like many children born and brought up in the U.S. these days, I grew up exposed to two cultures and two languages.  American was my home, and India held my heritage.  My family shopped at Trader Joe’s and New India Bazaar, we watched “The Parent Trap” and “Kuch Kuch Hota Hai” on Friday nights, and, combining the best of both worlds, the lunch highest in demand during my elementary school years was a piping hot naan pizza.

Language barrier, there was little.  I felt comfortable going to school and chattering away with my friends about the latest flick or most recent development in the playground drama, and I was equally secure yammering on at home about how I really did not want to have masoor dal and band gobhi for dinner (I preferred mutter paneer) and could we please read a Birbal story before bed.

These Birbal stories were, along with all the other Amar Chitra Katha comics, Tinkle Digests, Champaks, Panchatantras, and countless more railroad-platform-market-bought magazines, written in English.  Tales of Angulimala, Jhansi ki Rani, Swami Vivekananda, Tantri the Mantri, Kapish the monkey, and the cherub-esque twins, Ramu and Shamu, sat beside Anne of Green Gables and Harry Potter on my bookshelf, all written in the ‘a, b, c’ alphabet.  The ‘ka, kha, ga’, loops, and lines of Hindi script were seen only a few times a year, in cards sent by air-mail from the other side of the world, wishing us many blessings on birthdays, Raksha Bandhan, and Diwali.

I never found the need to learn to read or write Hindi.  After all, I could communicate with all my relatives just fine in the spoken word.  I could (and still can)recite “Chandu ke chacha ne Chandu ke chachi ko Chandi Chowk mein chandni raat se chandi ki chamach se chatni chatai” faster than Peter could pick peppers and Sally could sell seashells.  My love for Bollywood is unparalleled (I’ve watched the aforementioned “Kuch Kuch Hota Hai” at least 35 times, at some point I wanted to name my future kid Zeenat, and the only Oprah episode I’ve ever watched is the one starring supercouple Abhishek Bachchan and Aishwarya Rai-Bachchan).  During my summers in India, I devoured “Kasautii,” “Saat Phere,” and “Kasamh Se” with the enthrallment usually reserved these days for Pretty Little Liars and Gossip Girl — neither of which can hold a candle to the convoluted relationships of Indian soaps.

And I’m notorious among family and friends for sleep-talking in Hindi.

Yet, more recently, something had begun to nag at me.  How was it that I was learning how to read, write, and speak another language at school when I couldn’t even send my ammaji a nice, handwritten letter without it having to be translated?  Why was it that I couldn’t read the birthday cards that my bua had sent me when I was little?  I had tried to learn to read and write Hindi during my middle school summers, but efforts were futile as I lost close to all grasp of the 50-odd letters and 12 or so vowel additions every time school started back up.  The multiple “t” and “d” sounds confused me to no end and so I simply let it slide.

I’m not quite sure why this summer I decided to foray into learning the language again.  Perhaps it’s the sense of my childhood soon coming toward an end, as I will turn eighteen and then soon after graduate from high school to head off to spend four or so years elsewhere.  Perhaps it will turn out like my previous attempts, from which I can just barely remember how to write my own name and the words ghatia (useless) and shalgam (turnip).

But perhaps in a few months, I will be writing a nice, long letter to my ammaji, and we can catch up on the latest filmi gyan together.

Brown Girls, what cultural feats have you attempted?  Have you encountered language barriers?  Do you have any tips for me?  Leave them in the comments below!