Monday, April 6, 2009

Veryinteresting Tuesday morning.

I woke up at exactly 5.45 a.m today. I don't use a watch, but my cellphone is of immense help ( I like this one better, especially after the rickety old phone that I inherited would make wheezing sounds every other day till it could take no more and refused to work one day. But that's another story.) So I got dressed and went for a walk. I needed to buy the Statesman and so I walked towards Kwality and stood there. Enter verypatronising uncle. (VPU)

VPU-Ekhono newspaper ashe ni. Tumi jao na, ghure esho. Hnata shasther pokkhe bhalo. Park-e hnato, jao.
ME- ( resolutely)- Na. aami dariye thakte chai
VPU- (after five minutes) : Tumi ki koro?
ME- aami engreji pori.
VPU- Oh accha (very dismissively). Amar bondhur meye bideshe engreji porecche. Oboshyo amar meye Sociology porecche. Tarpor Ashutosh Mukherjee'r barita acche na? okhane Business Management-er Diploma korecche. M.B.A na kintu, Management- er Diploma. ( Yes, I think my powers of comprehension are fairly developed)
ME ( flashing a polite smile that I only reserve for strangers)-: Accha Accha.
VPU- Kothay poro tumi? City College?
ME- na, Jadavpur Biswabidyalay.
VPU- Okhane Comparative Literature porano hoy tai na?
ME- hna
VPU- Okhane Moonmoon Sen porecchen. Moonmoon Sen ke janoto? Abhinetri.
ME- hna jaani ( And my impression of you is progressively worsening. Moonmoon Sen-er moton nyaka mohila aami jibone khoob kom dekhecchi)

In the meantime, two other narratives are gradually developing.

The magazine seller (MS) is engaged in a dialogue with a man(M) who has a very thick Bihari accent. It seems like he is pretty familiar with the area and speaks good bangla.
MS: Janen toh, shob manusher-i chahida acche. chahidar kono shesh nei. Kintu aamake dekhoon. Amar bari chai na, gari chai na, kicchui chai na. Aami khoob shadharon manush. Amar konoi lobh nei.
M: (picks up a magazine and hands him a tenner): Ei nin.
MS: (sternly): Eta ponero taka daam, Dosh taka dile hobe?
Suddenly a man wearing a lungi (LM) walks towards VPU. They're quite obviously old friends.

VPU: Tomar meye kemon acche?
ML: Aar bolo na bhai, or ja chakri! aathta train dhorte hoy oke. Oh aamake aar or ma-ke bolcchilo ( I've noticed how some men always put themselves first. *cringe*) je oh aar chakri korte parcche na. Aami oke eto ador`e boro korecchi....(breaks off)
VPU- (looking at me): Tumi bosho.
ME- nana theekache, aapni boshun.
ML- Accha pore kotha hobe.

In the meanwhile, the flowerseller (F) is negotiating with the local pujari. (P)
F: ei je, char ana holeo aamake taka debe. Noyeto bouni hobe na.
P: Roj keno korish tui, egulo toh shob bhogoban-er jonno (*yawn*- I just wish people would stop saying that. Anyway, Freedom of Expression, I suppose)
F: (Handing him a bunch of roses and hibiscuses): Ei nao.
The pujari smiles and goes back to the temple.
In the meanwhile, the newspaper seller arrives ( Thank heavens!)
MS: (taking a Statesman from him): Ei nao
ME- Thank you.
VPU- Headlines poro. Headlines pora bhalo.
ME- haan porbo. Amar lekhata dekhar por.
And then I walked off, happy to be free at last :)


Priyanka said...

hahah! VPU sounds like quite a character.

the soliloquist said...

He sounds like my Vaguely Familiar Aunty(VFA)s. Only less clingy.

P.S. Brilliant post, btw.

storyteller said...

Wahahahskdjds this VPU guy is quite something, :P

Rhea Silvia said...

oh, grand. Very like thesoliloquist's VFA, actually. :D Poor you. Moonmoon Sen, indeed.

lady of blah said...

interesting and funny post..heh:)...i can guess how the experience would have been like....

ahona said...

remember the riya sen keo karpin body oil er advert...

rima sen: "tomaake dekhte..."
riya sen: "oh moonmoon sen er moton...amar ma after all!"


Gypsy said...

HAHAHHAHA! hilarious! the last one liner was a killer, the man couldn't know what hit him suddenly! PWNd!

Monorina said...

Moonmoon sen. I know.

The post was brilliant. And yes, I too meet VPUs here. "Ta hole, kon classe porcho"
" Ami 12th ISC deyachi."
"Oh accha. Ebar ki kora hobe? Kolkata ei thakbe, na baiyra..." followed by " Amar bonje o computer neya yi porche." And so on and so forth.

You wrote for the Statesman? In which column?

Monorina said...

Sorry if I sound inquisitve, but do you actually have two profiles on Blogger?
The one with this blog and the one you used to comment on my blog are quite different.

little boxes said...

first visit to your blog...
loved it!
and this post reminded me of home.atleast strangers talk to you nicely no matter how weird they are.
her in delhi,they just gape :P

The Orange Cat said...

These are certainly some interesting vignettes you have here.
I couldn't help but notice the similarity with some of Henry Green's books.

Parthajeet Das said...

besh phunny!chracters are very typical.
ever wondered what would be the english equivalent of 'nyaka'?