By Satish Aparajit
There was a time when, if you wanted to learn “proper English”, you were advised to listen to the BBC. In our schooldays, the BBC was not merely a radio service; it was practically a mobile pronunciation laboratory. We were told to listen carefully to learn pronunciation, diction, grammar and, above all, how to speak English without offending the Queen.
There was, however, one small problem. Our English teacher had a strong vernacular accent. So while the BBC was teaching us the Queen’s English, our teacher was teaching us the Queen’s English with a regional flavour. The result was occasionally confusing. A sentence in English could sound suspiciously like our mother tongue wearing an English coat.
And this was only in the South. Later, moving to North India presented another linguistic adventure. By then we had discovered that even the English themselves could not agree on how English should sound. There was Cockney, Scottish, Irish, Highlander and several other varieties, each apparently determined to prove that English was not one language but a family dispute.
We Indians, naturally, tried to imitate the white man’s accent. What emerged was what we proudly called the Anglo-Indian accent.
“Hey man, you gotta some rum, men?”
“Could you get me some rum, men?”
There was plenty of rum, plenty of “men”, and plenty of fun—particularly in the Armed Forces.
But perhaps we should give the English some credit. They gave the world a common language called English and, in a remarkable act of generosity, allowed the rest of us to modify, decorate and pronounce it according to our convenience. They have even accepted several Indian words into the Oxford Dictionary—kuccha, topi, lungi and many others.
So, after all these years, perhaps the language has finally become a genuine international property.
From BBC English to Heathrow Hinglish
In the good old days of radio, listening to English cricket commentary was an experience in itself. One admired the commentator’s accent but frequently missed the actual ball, the batsman’s name and occasionally the entire match.
The tight upper lip of the English commentator made every sentence sound as though it had been carefully folded before being spoken.
Today, however, things have changed dramatically.
Land at Heathrow—the great gateway to Britain—and stand in the immigration queue. Within minutes, you may begin wondering whether your aircraft has somehow landed in Mumbai, Lahore or Amritsar.
“Counter sola pe jao.”
“Tusi kithon aaye ho?”
Suddenly, the Queen’s English appears to have taken a tea break.
At first, there is a moment of disappointment. Then comes reflection. After nearly 150 years of British rule in India, perhaps it is only fair that history should occasionally reverse the direction of traffic.
The British once ruled India.
Now India appears to be running Britain’s customer service department.
And Heathrow is only the beginning.
Drive into Greater London and the High Street tells another story. Indian shops, restaurants and businesses are everywhere. You see names such as Chaiwala, Karachi Halwa, Hyderabadi Biryani, Madrasi Dosai, Delhiwala and Desi.
The only thing conspicuously absent from some stretches is the traditional English pub.
One begins to wonder whether the pub is still British—or whether it is simply waiting for an Indian owner to rename it “Sharma’s Olde English Pub & Tandoor”.
Tesco, Sainsbury’s and the United Nations of Billing Counters
Enter Tesco, Lidl, Sainsbury’s, Iceland or any of the other large retail chains and you may encounter another interesting phenomenon.
At the checkout, elderly Indian ladies appear to be everywhere.
And they are not alone. There are Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, Nepalese, Chinese, Malaysians and people from practically every corner of Asia.
Inside the store, too, the linguistic map is wonderfully complicated. Hindi, Punjabi, Urdu and several other languages float through the aisles.
The supermarket may be in England, but the conversation at the checkout can sound as though someone has accidentally opened a branch of Connaught Place.
Restaurants are no different.
The waiter may be Turkish, the chef Italian, the owner Iranian, the dishwasher Polish, the delivery driver Pakistani and the customer Indian.
The food, meanwhile, could be Mexican.
This is no longer multiculturalism.
This is multiculturalism with a buffet menu.
The Great British Taxi—Driven by Everyone except the Great British
Book a taxi through an app and there is a fair chance the driver will be Pakistani, Afghan, Sri Lankan, Indian or from somewhere else entirely.
Order food online and the delivery person may be Indian or Pakistani.
Call a courier and you are likely to encounter another Asian face.
Look up at a roof being repaired and there may be an Asian construction worker.
Need a plumber? Asian.
Electrician? Asian.
Carpenter? Asian.
Barber? Quite possibly Turkish or Pakistani.
The fascinating thing is that many of these people have acquired just enough English to run a perfectly successful business.
And there is one word that seems to have achieved universal acceptance among many of them:
“Yeah.”
It appears after almost every sentence.
“Tomorrow I come, yeah.”
“Pipe problem finished, yeah.”
“Two hours, yeah.”
“Payment later, yeah.”
The word has become so versatile that, with the right tone, it can mean yes, no, maybe, definitely, I understand, I don’t understand and, occasionally, please stop asking questions.
“Can You Read English?”
One of my most memorable experiences happened on the Underground.
A white Englishman approached me and asked, rather cautiously, whether I could read English.
My first reaction was one of suspicion.
Was he testing me?
Was this some kind of joke?
Had I finally been caught by the Grammar Police?
But the man was completely genuine. He explained that he had never gone to school and could not read.
I helped him with the information he needed.
The experience left me rather humbled. Here I was, an Indian who had spent years being told that the English were the custodians of the language, helping an Englishman navigate his own Underground system using the very language his country had given to the world.
That, surely, deserves a smile.
Another memorable encounter on a train was meeting Hulk Hogan.
But that is another story—and probably one best left for another column.
Where Have All the Englishmen Gone?
On certain Underground trains, one can travel for quite some time without encountering a native Englishman.
There are plenty of white faces, of course, but increasingly they belong to people from other parts of Europe and the world.
Britain today is one of the most linguistically diverse countries imaginable. Hundreds of languages are spoken across the country.
And ironically, the language that sometimes seems hardest to locate is the one that started it all: the Queen’s English.
Unless, of course, you are in the City of London, Westminster or one of the more traditional corners of Britain.
Technology and the IT industry have accelerated this transformation. London has become less a British city speaking English and more a United Nations speaking English in its own accents.
Even British popular culture is absorbing the change.
Punjabi songs can be heard in pubs and clubs.
During Diwali, some major British stores have employees wearing bindis and wishing customers “Happy Diwali”.
“Namaste” is becoming an increasingly familiar greeting.
And somewhere, I suspect, an Englishman is still wondering what happened to “Good morning.”
So, Where Art Thou, Queen’s English?
Perhaps we should not complain.
Languages are living things. They travel, mutate, borrow, steal, adapt and occasionally refuse to follow the grammar books.
The British gave us English.
We gave it back to them—with interest.
Today, the language spoken on the streets of Britain is no longer quite the English we were taught to imitate while listening to the BBC. It is English with Punjabi rhythm, Urdu vocabulary, Indian expressions, Polish pronunciation, Turkish intonation and a generous helping of “yeah”.
All that may be missing now is the final piece of the linguistic puzzle.
The word “yaar”.
Once that becomes standard British vocabulary, the transformation will be complete.
Imagine a London cab driver saying:
“Where to, yaar?”
A Tesco cashier:
“Card or cash, yaar?”
A British policeman:
“Move along, yaar.”
And perhaps one day, at Heathrow immigration:
“Passport, please, yaar.”
So, the next time you land in England, don’t be surprised if you hear Punjabi at Heathrow, Hindi in Tesco, Urdu in a taxi, Turkish at the barber and Italian in the kitchen.
And if you find yourself desperately searching for the Queen’s English, there is only one question left to ask:
“Yahan English kahan bolte hai, yaar?”
Welcome to Hinglish Whinglish—England.
(Satish Aparajit is a retired IAF Wing Commander and Shaurya Chakra awardee.)
