But what happens when the table is turned? When a migrant like me gives a Delhiite his life’s shock which the latter will take time to forget? Hear out my story….
Many years back… I was a newcomer to this city, a bachelor who was going to lose his bachelorhood very soon. I came to work in the city and was put up at our office-provided mess, somewhere in west Delhi, which was (and still is) a predominantly Punjabi-infested locality.
Let us walk back into time to one of those days. My hesitant steps were taking me towards the local market. To Sahib Tailors, to be precise. These people are really good -- I got a suit and a couple of trousers stitched there and have been impressed with the outcome each time. This day, however, I was going there with an altogether different purpose. My would-be in-laws have asked for some information which only Sahib Tailors can provide me.
However reluctant my steps were, they finally reached the doorsteps of Sahib Tailors and I entered the air-conditioned insides of the shop. I and the young Punjabi owner of the shop exchanged smiles exuding familiarity and extreme bonhomie.
“Tell me sir, what you want us to do for you this time”.
“Nothing of much import, I am afraid”, I disclosed, “Just a little information”.
“Aap mera punjabi ka maap de sakte hain? -- I somehow managed to blurt it out.
The look on the face of the owner was not very helpful. He looked perplexed a great deal. “Punjabi ka maap? Punjabi ko maap? I cannot really get you”. His mind must have been reeling… he was trying to fathom what this blighter Bong was trying to convey by expressing his wish to forgive a full-blooded Punjabi!
I was at my wit’s end, too. After having our fifty-three seconds of mutual perplexed-look break, I tried to communicate through the time-tested and guaranteed-for-failure sign language. Did not help, of course. Suddenly the eyes of the owner shone with a new light -- a light that usually shines in the eyes of Hercule Poirot. He beckoned his Master-cutter, who was a Bihari fellow, and told him to deal with my case. The owner must have reckoned that by the virtue of our being from neighbouring states, his Master-cutter and I will be in a much better position to communicate. I repeated my requirement to this new guy. Luckily this time, nothing I was telling seemed Hebrew to him. An understanding smile spread over his face.
“Yeh saab to kurta ke naaf mang rahe hain!” (For those who did not understand a thing, the word “punjabi” in Bengali means kurta and “maap” means measurement.)
The mystery was solved… I came out with my measurements and that is the end of the story.
Punjabis talk a lot about punjabification of
What we call it? Shock and awe?
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