My
sixteenth birthday. I stood before the Taj Mahal with my mama-mami, under a
wintry full moon. The nasal tone and terrible angrezee of the local guide who had probably inherited his
English-language ishkool-teacher’s
ethnic accent eclipsed all visuals. The rates for ‘English-guides’ was higher
(four decades ago, unofficially) than for the Hindi ones. My memory might have
been limited to how the British “ishtole our
Indian jewel-ishtones like ameralds, diaaminds, rubiezh, vaghera’’ but…
when he realized he wouldn’t be paid less for speaking in the Hindi he was more
comfortable with, he gave us a superior commentary.
Mumbai,
at the start of this century: our Marathi-speaking guide seemed to know the
answer to every question we asked. Savarkar lived in that building, this market
was named after Kirtikar, the bust at the crossroad was poet Gadkari’s, this
road was named after NM Gokhale and that after NM Joshi, and why. Then he took us up to the terrace of a
building, promising to show us something wonderful. We had a 360 degree view of
Maximum City. “How little I know of the city of my birth,” I said. Our guide
pointed towards the snaking traffic below and led our eyes along an arterial
road to what he proudly declared was ‘sampoorna,
Ward H’. This made sense when we discovered that he had a regular job in
the Municipality and guiding was his side-business.
Warsaw,
Poland. Our guide was a cousin’s husband who, as we drove past some clickable
landmarks, told us the names of the branches of the bank he worked for. Let me
hastily add, guiding wasn’t his side-business, he was doing us a favour.
Poland
again, down the salt-mines in Crackow. Couldn’t make out the guide’s gender by
attire, demeanour or voice. Guessed it was feminine. Clipped sentences,
staccato lecture, crew cut, military bearing. We daren’t breathe lest the
moisture from our breaths dissolve the sodium-chloride walls. Or earn her
displeasure. Maybe Eastern Europe rose from World War ruins thanks to matrons
like these. Duty was duty. No moment wasted, no small talk. Questions were
entertained, time-permitting, if
relevant. Each fact delivered precisely. No smiles, no gestures. At the end of
the trip, tips permitted.
In
Dubai, our host worked for a ‘facilities’ company. He requested his
housekeeping supervisor to show us around a gigantic and famous mosque. We came
away knowing how much shampoo, water and man-hours were required to clean the
huge carpet and glittering chandelier. How many bulbs went phut per week. How, after every Friday’s namaaz, the carpet moved a couple of inches because of the hundreds
of knees and heads moving in unidirectional solidarity and had to be dusted and
adjusted by a professional tugging team at the end of the day.
Across
the oceans, in the land of dreams and dollars, relatives and classmates showed
us tall buildings, large staircases, wide roads, enormous parking-lots and
shopping-malls. Over pancakes and roasts, our NRI host-guides moaned to us
Indians from India about cravings for dried bombil/baangdey,
coloured glass-bangles, roasted groundnuts and Old Monk. All available, but
tasted different in the air-conditioned indoors and the crisp dry
outdoor-barbeques of America. (One needs stuffy one-window kitchens with LPG
fuel and the salty sultriness of the west coast for that taste.) Stars and Stripes
fluttered outside every house. Proclaiming loyalty? I asked. Was it compulsory?
“Not at all,” was the hurried reply. Too hurried, I thought. Was it a social
expectation? If someone didn’t flutter a flag would there be unspoken
neighbourly dissent? In the land of the
free, I hesitated to delve. American history, barely out of living memory, was
presented with a sense of wonder. Our guides bubbled nostalgically over India’s
millennia-old heritage: ‘India is so varied, fabulous, talented…’ followed by
‘… dirty, backward, corrupt’. (May things be a-changing now. Amen.)
Recently,
Turkish guides, graduates of a three-year University course in tourism, informed
us about Turkish history, economics, religion, cuisine, architecture and why
their spouses had divorced them. Ever curious/sympathetic about family matters,
our Indian bunch dug leftover liras from our wallets to cheer him/her up.
At
the Tower of London the guides were retired soldiers, making themselves and
Britain targets of their jokes. “What,” I asked one, recognizing a gallantry
award pinned to his chest, “Did you get this medal for?” With nil expression
and unwavering tone he replied, “For eating salad at dinner, five weeks in a
row.” Unforgettable.
Humour matters as much as facts
and figures.
Feedback: sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in
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