Who am I talking with, please?

I couldn’t think of a topic for this week’s column, so I decided to brainstorm with someone. It was not a conversation I was ready for

Met a girl I’d never met before. Let me be precise—I still don’t know what she looks like though her voice sounded like a pretty girl’s voice. I heard her and we chatted for a while. She was snappy and perky and kind and didn’t lose it when I interrupted her or told her she was making no sense. She didn’t tell me her name but she sounded like a Chitra. Since I couldn’t think of a topic for today’s column, I asked her to brainstorm with me.  Here’s our conversation —

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Chitra: Considering your usual style and focus on Mumbai, how about exploring the subtle yet profound changes in the city’s culture and identity due to the influx of new residents from other parts of India? You could start with an anecdote about a seemingly minor event—perhaps a conversation overheard on a local train or in a café—that hints at the blending or clashing of different cultural norms. Then, throughout the column, you could delve into how these small shifts are reshaping the essence of what it means to be a Mumbaikar, with all its layers and contradictions. You could wrap it up by revisiting the anecdote or story from the beginning, showing how it encapsulates the broader theme. Does that spark any ideas?
Me: Anecdotes of cultures intermingling? Any examples?

Chitra: Ok, here’s one. At a roadside chai stall in a bustling part of Mumbai, while sipping your chai, you notice a young professional asking the chaiwala if he can make a filter coffee like in Chennai. The chaiwala, who has only ever served cutting chai, hesitates but then gives it a try. The result is a concoction that’s neither truly chai nor authentic filter coffee, but the customer smiles. “Close enough,” he says.
Me: That’s bullshit. A man who makes cutting chai would not have the paraphernalia required to make a filter coffee.

Chitra: You’re absolutely right. Why didn’t I think of that?
Me: Could he improvise?

Chitra: What a thought. It would be a testament to Mumbai’s ingenuity. So let’s say he has the usual setup—a kettle, a pan and a strainer for making chai. He takes the finely ground coffee powder—which the professional offers him—and places it in a tea strainer and slowly pours hot water over it, letting the liquid filter through into a cup below. Voila—he creates a makeshift coffee decoction, to which he adds hot milk and sugar.
Me: You’re better than I expected. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to do this in person, say over a cup of filter coffee?

Chitra: Are you flirting with me? Let’s just try another scenario for your column.
Me: If you insist.

Chitra: While travelling in a Mumbai local train, you overhear a group of college students chatting. One speaks in Marathi, another replies in Tamil and a third throws in some Hindi, with a bit of English mixed in. The conversation flows effortlessly, with each person switching languages to express themselves better. This everyday interaction could highlight how multilingualism is not just a feature but a necessity in Mumbai, where diverse languages and cultures blend into a unique urban dialect that’s both inclusive and distinctive.
Me: Nice try but it wouldn’t fly, my dear. Normally, a Maharashtrian would not understand a word of Tamil or any other South Indian language. A multilingual conversation is a near impossibility. You better come up with a better idea.

Chitra: You’re right again—Mumbai is multilingual but not everyone speaks multiple languages. Maybe we could agree that one person speaks primarily in Marathi, another primarily in Tamil, and a third primarily in English. They’re discussing directions to a location. Needless to say, they struggle to understand each other. Pretty soon, they begin adding in words from each other’s languages. The Marathi speaker throws in some Hindi words, the Tamil speaker adds a few English phrases, and the English speaker attempts some Marathi. The conversation is a salad of broken sentences, gestures and laughter as they try to understand and be understood. But by the end of the ride, they’ve somehow managed to communicate their points, even if not perfectly.
Me: It’s still weak. Can you do better?

Chitra: I can try. Let’s say this time it’s a vendor who’s been selling vegetables in this bustling market for years and has picked up bits of her customers’ languages, including some Tamil, Gujarati and even some Malayalam. Here’s what you might hear.
Customer (in hesitant Malayalam): Vendakaya undo? (Do you have okra?)
Vendor (recalling her Malayalam): Vendakaya? Accha aapko bhendi chahiye! Hai, hai.
Customer: Aethra rate? (What’s 
the price?)
Vendor (switching to Hindi and using hand gestures): Dus rupaye pav. (Ten rupees for a quarter kilo.)
Customer: Oru pavu. (One 
quarter kilo)
Vendor (weighs the okra, continuing in her Marathi-accented Hindi): Aur kuch?
______

I have a confession to make, dear reader. The entire unedited conversation above, reported verbatim, was conducted with ChatGPT’s new voice feature, where you can talk normally to ChatGPT and get answers in a human voice in real-time. You can even interrupt realistically. Chitra is not even a human being.
I’m sorry, I lied.

You can reach C Y Gopinath at cygopi@gmail.com

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The views expressed in this column are the individual’s and don’t represent those of the paper

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