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Hey da, this is cosmo Kannada!
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Kannada today is a strange chou-chou bath of various slangs
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Kannada, whatever is left of it, now sports a new-fangled identity — Photo: Sampath Kumar G.P.
BANGALORE HAS always been more cosmopolitan than most other metros. It has had to contend with a host of "other" cultures and languages, unlike amchi Mumbai that has had to contend with only Gujarati or Hyderabad with only Urdu. Kolkata and Chennai have had no contenders at all. This has been particularly so after Unification (November 1, 1956), and when so many public sector units such as HAL, HMT, BEL, and the like mushroomed in the city, attracting people from various corners of the country, bringing as part of their luggage their language and culture.
More recently, the software boom has galvanised what a Mumbaiite would call our "sleepy city". The new economy of call centres has also given Bangalore a complete social and cultural makeover. In this "cool" and "happening" Capital of Karnataka, there is hardly any Kannada environment left, what with some measly 20 per cent (according to a survey done a year ago) or perhaps even lesser number of people speaking the language. The effects of this rather heavy baggage have been rather harsh, even by the standards of the munificently tolerant Kannadiga.
You can live in Bangalore for decades, and can comfortably manage without knowing a word of Kannada, but one may not be able to say that about Tamil. On the contrary, Kannadigas play the perfect hosts by picking up the immigrant language, complete with perfect intonation, and hardly give the outsider a chance to feel out of place. A visit to any locality in Bangalore East will perhaps reinforce this point. In fact, if you haven't picked up your Tamil yet, better do, or you are sure to be a lone voice out there.
It is not as if one wants to militantly argue for a singular language context in the city, but the heightening anxiety to protect Kannada can also come in mild manners as reflected in sentiments such as "Kannadavu Kannadava Kannadisutirabeku" (Kannada should be able to mirror Kannada) or "Endindigoo nee Kannadavaagiru" (Be a Kannadiga Forever.)It is perhaps in this spirit that Kannada critic Giraddi Govindraj insists that it is important to preserve the diversity of a language, and condemns all efforts to "standardise" it. But he probably didn't have in mind what is left of Kannada today in Bangalore — a highly assorted version, which is actually some Hindi, some Tamil, some Telugu, and a bit of Kannada. This new garb that Kannada wears is probably not just the influence of various other cultures, but also the dynamics of the different worlds in which it operates.
Till recently, didn't we have a hearty laugh at the numerous variants of Kannada? Works such as Gorur Ramaswamy Iyengar's Namma Oorina Rasikaru and Ti.Nam. Srikantaiah's Kaasina Sangha all do that effectively. That epitome of wit, T.P. Kailasam, wrote all his works in a kichdi version of Kannada. Remember the conversations of Gadaf Khan, Shetty, Bhatta, and Boranna in Saabara Kathe? Gadaf Khan says: "Jee haan, hamare mein guggu... goobe... . Khabristan mein, hunse jhaad mein kuntkandi, murda henage tinkandu badko jaanvar." And Shetty says in his inimitable style: "Idemi? Vipareeta maipoya... "
None could use Kannada with all its nuances like Kailasam did, and his mother tongue, incidentally, was Tamil. One could hardly contain one's laughter when one overheard a retake of Kailasam's character in the neighbourhood medical shop. There was this little Muslim girl asking: "Maamo, maamo, ammange bedhi hogaya kate, maatre dee maamo." And guess what the Shetty had to ask in his own brand of Urduised Kannada? "Nungne ka cheepne ka?" And this one was heard at a local bus stand: "Bisil mein khadku khadku sust aagaya so."
Kailsam, in one of his short poems, "Uptodate Sakhi: Tanna Gelatiyarige", writes about our proclivity to use generous doses of English in our daily conversation. "Yeni garden-nu bahala silly, nodalu not a rose or lily, waste of time-u walking illi..." And this one: "Mane coxtown-u, manushya hen-pecked-u".
So, when you hear a Tamil shopkeeper say: "Adondu bandu 25 roobaayi", you know it is a transliteration from the original Tamil "Aduvandu iruvattanj roobai". Not to forget "Maga Ganabathi" for Maha Ganapathi and "Cunnikamba Road" for Cunningham Road. When you hear phrases with extensive use of plurals such as "Talegalella novu" or "Saana bedhigalu agtaite" you know for sure it is the Telugu influence on Kannada.
But all these parodies seem dated when we see what has happened to Kannada in more recent times. The language we hear doesn't reflect the influence of any one particular language. Even yesterday's "Enu guru" is left far behind by today's trendy "What da?" Keep your ears open and you will hear plenty of bizarre somethings that remotely sounds like Kannada. "Sooryange torcha?" "Yenamma biscuit haktidya?" or a "Nanage fitting idtiya?". There is a liberal serving of words such as chumma and darasal in a conversation. Ask a software person how much his shirt costs, and he will perhaps say "1K". Well, that's Rs. 1,000 (one grand in old lingo). Can you guess what that "monkey-like thing with a, like, pizza in his hand" means? Well, that's an English-speaking girl's description of Hanumatha carrying the Sanjeevini mountain.
Kannada, or whatever left of it, now sports a new-fangled identity. Surely, no language will evolve if it remains puritan. But sadly, the sharp dialectical differences that come from varied regions and social strata that make for rich diversity are slowly getting ironed out. Kannada today is a strange chou-chou bath of our famous Darshinis. Isn't that a Bangalore recipe after all?
DEEPA GANESH
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