When Chalk and Cheese were planning their long vacation in America, one obvious talk was about the expenditures ahead and how much money to take along.
When we say ‘money’ it is an all encompassing concept, something like ‘humanity’; undivided by continents and social structures. The word money may be universal but the universality ends there alone. The minute we start thinking in terms of currency, the divide crops in. The Dollar, Pound, Yen, Yuan,Taka, Rupee, the currencies line up together . And to see our dear Rupee standing way behind in this greased and slippery queue is not very enriching.
Since enough is never enough, Chalk and Cheese together settled for a certain sum which seemed reasonably ‘enough’ to them. We kept in mind our Rupees stamina and strength to run along with Dollar for a three month long race.
With a day or two left for our departure from India, I sat down one fine morning with a few Dollar notes spread on my bed, arranging them in my new wallet, and humming ” ye jo thore se hai paise..” when suddenly I heard a voice. I looked around in surprise and saw that the Rupee notes were peeping out from my old wallet and staring down at the new display of Dollars. I waited for Rupee to say something , for I firmly believed at this point “paisa bolta hai” !
With a hesitant voice Rupee whispered, ” Since you are about to visit America and now you are displaying all these fancy Dollars in front of me, let me tell you that though Dollar is my first cousin , I am not particularly fond of Dollar .” I looked up with curiosity at Rupee and asked “But why so ? Isn’t Dollar the most accomplished, the most famous one amongst you cousins ?”
Rupee was quiet for a moment, then with a sad face it replied “That is the very problem with Dollar. Everyone thinks so highly of Dollar and success has gone to its head. In a brash and boastful manner it makes all other currencies, I mean cousins, feel very small and insignificant. “ Rupee took a deep breath and continued “And why will Dollar not get all the importance, when in my own country I am not treated with respect.”
Hurriedly I butt in “Of course I respect you dear Rupee, you were in my first pay check, you are in my life long pension, infact whatever luxury I could ever afford was because of you.”
Rupee was not listening to me, it continued in a papery voice, “Why blame others for being more powerful. Every big and small note, even the smallest coins in the mint are constantly living with the fear of demonetisation. You humans will never understand, how painful it is to be told without any forewarning that this particular note is no more noteworthy, it feels almost like amputation “.
“Well, some of us do understand your pain ” I attempted to reply, “As humans we too felt the pinch of demonetisation, all our treasured notes losing their value overnight was quite shocking. And then the adjustment with those pink, blue and green coloured new notes, it created so much confusion and anxiety for us !”
Rupee looked at me indignantly and continued ” Please don’t talk of colours. We did not chose to be pink or blue and not even black or white ! You humans have made us wear white and black as per your own convenience. “
The hurt was obvious in Rupees voice. I tried to calm it, and said somewhat reassuringly “I really value you dear Rupee, it is you who bought these Dollars for me, in a way it is you who will be going with me to America”.
Rupee was not calmed with my reinforcing chatter. With deep sadness laced tone it continued ” If you valued me so much, would you rush to exchange me in such a hurry with those proud-green Dollar notes? I feel so depreciated at this moment. You don’t care for me much, you are taking me to a foreign country locked in a forex card where my value will keep falling everyday “.
With that conversation with my dear poor Rupee etched in my heart I left India ; but I also made a promise to myself that while in America I would think in Rupees while spending in Dollars. No matter how loudly Mahendra Kapoor sang inside my head ‘ mere desh ki dharti sona ugle, ugle heerey moti, mere desh ki dharti ‘ , I knew the hard hitting truth that our economy was not doing the best, not when our next door neighbors could beat us in per capita income.
The day Chalk and Cheese had entered the United States a tired and somewhat rude immigration officer had asked Chalk “How much money are you carrying?” Quite an indignant question, I had thought. Chalk’s reply had satisfied the officer enough to give us an eyebrow raise and a nod. I had smiled to myself and thought, as tourists we can only add to a countries economy, and our Rupee empowers us to do so.
In the initial days of spending I would constantly multiply Dollar with Rupee every time I had to pay for something . Gradually the habit of doing mental math stopped because the more zeroes I kept adding the fear of numbers became bigger and bigger . The easy escape route was to forget the math. I started thinking of one Dollar as one Rupee. Somehow the familiar thought of spending in Rupee started comforting my mind. I started buying tomatoes with 4 Rupees, potatoes with 3 Rupees , eat out with 70/100 Rupees, and finished a lot of other shopping with just 100 Rupees. I had stopped converting. I was treating the Dollar like Rupee. As the multiplication stopped in my brain, everyday life felt more affordable and easy.
In a few weeks time Chalk and Cheese would be winding up their spread sheet in America and head back home. A home, where a daughter, mother, sister, brother, friends and family awaits their return eagerly. A home where…there can be songs on ” panch rupaiya bara ana”. A few Two-thousand Rupee notes in my wallet waiting to fly out for some hawa pani. Once home Cheese needs to call up dear Rupee friend to say that the Dollar sends its regards .
Someone new in the market called Bit Coin has started ringing the door bells of the currency cousins. For once Dollar is feeling it needs to say hello to everyone , after all family is family.
The Atlantic Ocean never seemed so deep, big, far and wide before. It was just a tiny ocean on my Atlas. But oceans separates countries and countries separates people. My daughter was about to cross the ocean and enter New York with her three bags full with as much India she could pack within them. She had got admission in the Columbia University for her masters program and as much as we were delighted with her achievement the thoughts of sending her to another country was mak8ng me restless by the days.
In the last few weeks before her departure, my time was consumed in packing and re- packing those three bags full. It all began with the purchase of suitcases. Much research was made, about durability and brand. There were suggestions from well meaning friends. My family likes considering many view points before making any major purchase. In this case suitcase was the major purchase. Our existing suitcases were heavy duty stuff meant to last a life time ,doing train journey but failing the ultimate test of air travel. The permissible luggage weight in domestic travel is a mere15 kilograms. Thus the travel people became wiser and flooded the market with slim trim multicolored beauties with sleek handles. The display almost looks like a beauty pageant where each suitcase is competing with the other in weight, height, and beauty category, My family too possesses a few of these delicate beauties which we use for our short travels. But situation in hand was different , we needed big ( size specifications very accurate), light weight, not very costly suitcases. After two three trips to the stores we finally came home with what seemed the perfect choice.
The next step was a much more uphill task. My darling baby opened the ‘ Alibaba ka khazana ‘, her wardrobe.! I sat in a room filled with soft , colorful, dainty looking silks , cottons, Khadi all around me. All of this were her clothes! When did we buy all this I wondered. Mother and daughter sat down sorting out the pile. There were sarees to be packed for those festive days, lehenga for Diwali, Churidars and Patiyala salwars, kurtis for class, tops, shirts, dresses, jeans, shorts, sweaters, jackets, scarfs , shoes, socks, the list went on and on and we kept getting tangled amidst all this fabric and nic knack . After days of struggle I triumphantly announced mission accomplished. Father of the daughter joined the ladies with a weighing scale in hand. Quintessential army man ( hubby dear) would not allow us to weigh the suitcases . After all it’s a mans privilege to carry the burden !
Lo behold, the drama unfolds, the suitcases are overweight. Never mind the overweight father and mother, but the suitcases need to be exact 23 kilograms each. The fauji father takes charge, unpacks both the suitcases, (my two days hard work ) and empties the contents on the floor. Daughter dear had smuggled in diaries, letters, cards, books, all favorite memorabilia , without which she refuses to depart. Don’t go, stay back, I almost blurt out these foolish sentiments. But I have to make things lighter now, in every way I can. No space for sentimental baggage.
A visiting family friend stated that their son had gone abroad carrying three jeans, six shirts, one foot ball boot and a deflated football ! I looked at my daughter wistfully. Alas, daughters are our Princesses, they need their pumpkin carriage, they need their ball gown, they need their glass shoes too ! Search for the lightest baggage started all over again.
Finally, the perfect suitcase, the perfect weight combination had been achieved. Wearing the tri color ribbon ( saffron , white and green ) the suitcases were ready. The day and hour of departure came way too soon. The lost, unrest feeling within me would know no rest. Did I pack everything ? Was I forgetting anything ? Will she need anything more ? The questions haunted me long after she had walked inside the glass door of the international airport. The glass wall separated us for a while and then the vast Atlantic Ocean separated us !
How could I pack my first sensation of motherhood, those little fingers entwined with mine, the gentle smile, the naughty smile, the foolish smile . How could I pack our hours of fights, arguments, sulking . How could I pack our short walks, long talks. How could I pack our lazy Sundays, late night dances, our reading each other’s unspoken thoughts ! I could not pack all this and much more. So I sitting on my side of Atlantic with all my excess baggage of emotions very neatly, carefully, lovingly packed within and hidden ! Waiting to open them together before the pages turn yellow .
“Aunty do you think in English, Bangla or Hindi ?” a simple question from my daughter’s friend made me think, really think. Maybe I think in all the three languages simultaneously, depending on the thought, the language pops up in the mind naturally. But I also remembered my convent school days. The Irish nuns in our school would often say that in order to speak in English we should always think, speak and also dream in English. I do not remember whether I paid heed to their advice then but the instructions has surely stuck in my memory for good. It was perhaps a form of brain drilling to make the young minds comfortable with the English language.
Like most urbanite Indians I too speak in atleast three languages, English, my mother tongue and Hindi. The complex secular essence which binds my country together is truly amazing. More than religious divide or ethical divide what stands out to me is our linguistic divide. Each state of our country speaks a different language and every regional language has various dialects. Enough to puzzle the best of linguistic geniuses! Yet we Indians stand united in our diversity.
In my school and college I grew up making friends with Bangla, Punjabi , Malayalam , English, Hindi and even Chinese speaking people. But our common language for chatting would mostly be English or Bangla. But once I married the Army man, my journey to the real India began. When you become a soldier’s wife you soon learn that the camouflage uniform is also to cover up all your differences of identity as individuals. And this practice is not restricted to the field alone. It seeps into the social life. I have had the good fortune to travel across the length and breadth of our vast and beautiful country. From Ladakh to Kerala, from Gujarat to Assam- we spoke in only one language. The language of faith, togetherness and camaraderie.
On social networking sites many people like to express themselves in their mother tongue. Learning to write Bangla or Hindi in Roman script took me some time, but once there I could write ” bhalobashi” and ” rashogolla ” with equal ease as “aata mazi satakli “( Marathi) or “ki gall hain ? Koi nah” ( punjabi). The handicap of not knowing the script has been erased, at least in this small space . I see it as another easy way to read and understand other languages. Of course the importance and sanctity of the original script, form and richness of every language should remain intact. Every language has its distinctive character and is unique by itself . But on a lighter note the popularity of Roman is increasing by the day. To change the phrase “when in Rome do as the Romans do”, we can now rephrase as ….when on social media write in Roman as much as you like .
Shakespeare and company may or may not be turning in their graves with the cacophony of languages we make, but communication has surely caught up speed.
Thoughts may be profound yet they need expression. No matter in which language we think, speak, write, read or love there is only one language that binds us together…..”Jana gana mana adhinayaka jaya hey, Bharata bhagya vidata.”
sangeeta chakladar 