Konkdi, Konklish.

            This happened in the hotel where I worked. One of the staff had returned after a week of absence without leave. The manager asked him in Hindi, “Kyaa hua?” The worker replied: “Mere ko zore aayaa thaa.” Zore in Konkani means fever, but in Hindi it means strength. The manager’s response: “Zor aayaa thaa toh kaam pey kyoon nahin aayaa?” evoked hysterical giggles from those of us who witnessed the absurdity of the whole thing.

            A few years ago, rural Goa knew only Konkani. Today in the buses, conductors say “Foodey jaao” or “Aagey voch” in a fast-evolving mongrel language. “Sakal utrro” and “Neechey dev” are other interchangeable part-Hindi part-Konkani commonly used phrases.

 ‘Mere ko miss-call dee’: The Mobile has carried forth Bollywood’s legacy of uniting the country from Manipur to Karnataka, to Jharkhand with its user-friendly version of (Bambaiyya) Hindi so looked down upon by purists.

            Bekaar in Hindi may mean without occupation, but in Konkdi it may be misconstrued as one without a car (that would mean without occupation in Goa, too, but in a convoluted way). Similarly a khan a friend pointed out, ‘is someone who eats, no?’, for kha means ‘eat’.

Konklish finds its way around: “I’m going faatee” might sound like someone is about to pass wind, but means s/he is going to the back (of the bus in a context).

            Bhailley think Miramar is a marg named after a Meera. And that Dona Paula has something to do with two footsteps. Much of the new vocabulary comes from temporary or permanent bhailley.

Those who’ve come to Goa via Mumbai have learnt that pyaaz becomes kaandaa in Mumbai, but here we’re too lazy to say the whole word; we call it kanney. Like we say keel for kilo. I hear at the horticulture department outlet in otherwise chaste, well-accented Hindi: “Mujhe ek keel kanne de deejeeye.”

Jee-addicted northerners can’t come to terms with a language where the concept of aap is alien. Talking in the third person is complicated. Konkani sticks to tu.

Cross-pollination of languages crosses strata barriers. Last monsoons I heard an upper-class woman say: “It’s raining dho-dho haan” describing a drenching west-coast downpour. The haan at the end indicates a niz goemkar.

            A remark that I heard recently: “He’s got good bawd, men.” The bawd referred not to the body though pronounced similarly, but to the buddhi or mind/intellect. The ‘men’ refers to nothing/no-one at all, an equivalent to the vernacular yaar or rey. It’s common in Goa and amongst Goans in Mumbai. As well as those who were taught by Goan ‘misses’ in ‘convent’ schools.

            History has given Konkani words like yaad (remember/memory), neend (sleep), khabar (news), which are used by neither neighbours, Marathi nor Kannada. The Portuguese-born kodel, jonel, kuler, joler now belong to the lexicon of carpenters from Bihar and UP who work here.

A few years ago, trying to comfort a colleague, I said, “Koi Baat Nahin”. He kept quiet for a moment, then wondered aloud why I’d chosen that moment to confess that I hadn’t bathed. Goa’s come a long way since then. Now most Goans would understand what that means.

Why are motorcyclist-taxi-walas here called ‘pilots’? Some origins can’t be fathomed.

Familiar names are spelt unusually: ‘Purxottama’, ‘Xembhu’ and ‘Quenim’. And pronounced unusually: ‘Joao’ is Zoo-aw. The other day, I was amused to read ‘Kasa de Xarma’ on a name-plate. Must be numerology-driven or Goan-spelling obsessed, I thought.

What is more interesting is the evolution of phrases that are not found even in neighbouring Maharashtra or Karnataka which are only a couple of minutes’ drive away. Like the quaint greeting that Catholics extend to the Hindus during the Ganapati festival. “Happy Ganesh”, they say. It is like saying “Happy Christ” at Christmas, I pointed out to a friend; it doesn’t make sense. Perhaps not to outsiders, she said. But couldn’t I just gracefully accept the warmth behind the greeting? Why dissect and analyse the hows, buts and whys? I agreed with her and now when any one wishes me “Happy Ganesh” I reply with a nasal, musical ‘Thankuaahn’ just as anyone else would. Some of my friends have exported this cute phrase to Mumbai and Pune. Perhaps it will go viral in cyberspace, too.

Whilst listening to literal translations, ‘such fun comes, what to tell you’ (itli majaa yetaa, kitey sangoo tuka).

The best cross-connection I’ve ever heard was in a conversation between two little girls. One told the other: “Agaw, less mhalyaar kamee anni more mhalyaar peacock.” (“Less means kamee and more means peacock.”)

Viva evolution.

(feedback: sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in)