We spent five days in Delhi, then jostled our way to Agra, home of the Taj Mahal and the astounding Agra Fort, where Shah Jahan–the emperor who had the Taj built–was imprisoned by his own son. My students stared and were stared at, took in the stunning beauty of the sights, and snapped photo after photo, as our friendly and knowledgeable tour guide explained a bit too much about the Moghul Emperors of India. But they had also been instructed to do something else: listen. Our course is about the English language in India, and, even at the Taj Mahal, we are all in class.
If you’re reading this post with the idea that there are “proper” and “improper” ways to speak English (or any language), that some dialects are legitimate and others not, then nothing I say here will make sense to you. But if you’re like me–fascinated by the vast diversity of languages in general, and English in particular–then it’s easy to fall in love with Indian English.
What is there to love about a form of English that refuses to conform with the “rules”? Where words are tinged with an accent heard nowhere else on Earth and sentences are laced with Hindi?
I don’t know how others feel, but I know what I love most about Indian English: It’s just so Indian. It isn’t merely some foreign tongue planted in Indian soil. It isn’t a strangely pronounced imitation of British or American English. It’s a unique dialect of the language that belongs just to India and couldn’t have taken shape anywhere else. Here are a small sample of my favorite things about it.
Isn’t it?
Englishes everywhere make abundant use of tag questions, the short mini-questions we attach to the end of sentences, mainly to elicit the agreement of the listener.
Elephants are very kind to their young, aren’t they?
MacDonald’s isn’t exactly a vegetarian paradise, isnt it?
We’re going to get sick if we drink that greenish water, aren’t we?
Indian English uses tag questions, too, but it simplifies things a bit. It places a simple, “isn’t it?” at the end of a sentence, regardless.
Reshmi is eating mango pickle with her saag paneer, isn’t it?
The drive to the ashram takes six hours, isn’t it?
The merchants near our hotel are more trustworthy than the ones at the Taj, isn’t it?
There’s no need for all that verb-agreement nonsense. The simple “isn’t it”–which is actually a direct translation of a phrase commonly heard in Hindi–works just fine.
Another Thing I am Liking
Indians like using the continuous “ing” forms of verbs, yielding interesting sentences not heard in Britain or North America:
Areyou remembering me? We met last week at the Singhs’.
Meena is having many saris.
I am not knowing Hindi.
These verb forms–which, like “isn’t it” are straight out of Hindi–send a slight jolt through the brains of non-Indian English speakers. I think of them as surprising bits of chilli in an otherwise mild sauce. Or perhaps I should say, “I am thinking of them as bits of chilli.
Preponing
Why pone things in only one direction when you can pone them in two? Most English speakers only postpone things, moving them to a later time. But what if we want to move something from Friday to Thursday or 4:00 to 2:30? There we are, stuck with a concept for which we have no word. Indian English has graciously filled in that gap with the highly useful word prepone.
British and American speakers generally feel there is something wrong with this word–that it isn’t a word at all. Somehow, they miss the irony of criticizing a dialect for having a word your own dialect lacks.
I love “Are you remembering me?’ Sounds like a poem.
I never thought of that. You’re right! It does sound like a poem.