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These are dry days. In many ways. I now and then have a look at my list of blog categories and think which ones I shouldn’t really have started. There are a couple, but I now realised one which should have been there in the first place.

I’ve been spending so much time and effort on my Spanish lessons that with a proper sombrero and a red rag, I can challenge all the cows in Parangipalya.  My teaching English at Live Mocha has also made remarkable impressions on a retired Turkish gent who wants to be  a painter, an Indonesian who till a couple of days back thought his country’s neighbour, the Andamans, was an autonomous nation and also a few Spanish students from around Latin America who want to aprender y hablar ingles.

Thanks to my dilligence in learning and reviewing, I made a successful application for translating their courses into Kannada. Now here’s where this story starts. Almost at every word and at every phrase, I found myself rushing for the dictionary.

How would you say, “A man”? I could quickly think of  “purusha”, “gandu” and “gandsu”. The first one is hardly said in spoken Kannada. The second word can get you in trouble anywhere in India if the first syllable is off the mark. The third one is how I’d say it, but I had to look into the dictionary to clear up the syllable count.

This has carried on. I am told by reliable sources that a wallet is a “haNadha cheela”. What is a purse then? “Hengasara cheela”, my cousin suggested with this smiley 🙂 punctuating it. I am not sure, but even if that is what it is, it’s not worth the risk given most people outside south India know Chicago as shikago.

How do you point to a cup of coffee and say, “thats brown in colour” in Kannada? Someone must have taken time out to call “cake” something other than “cake-u”. There are many such questions and the answers are only in dictionaries.

While I was going through this process of brushing off dust from old UKG textbooks, an imaginary mosquito coil spiralled in front of my eyes and I flashed back to a day one of my British colleagues had asked: “When you go back to India, it must feel like you’re doing time, eh?” I was taken aback, for once. Surely they couldn’t be so naive. He was a good guy though, but naive, so I just told him, “Bangalore is the best place to be in.” The conversation then grew like a bull market on a good afternoon and after much meandering at the subject, we settled for “home is the best place to be in”.

That there has been no proper blog entry here on the city I grew up in is a shame. This after me being the most deserving of a lifetime achievement award from BMTC (nee BTS).

My total mall count might look like this:

Forum: 4 visits (twice for book releases at Landmark)

“The one with the Inox near the football stadium”: 0 visits

“The one right opposite the first push-button signal for pedestrians in Cunningham road”: 0 visits

Any other mall: 0 visits.

My multiplex visits might look like this:

Vision cinemas: about 30 movies (all during the Biffes).

Innovative: none

“The one that rose from Swagath’s rubble”: none

“The one that rose from Lido’s rubble”: none

But hell, I’ve seen people getting caught for stealing torn comics in City Central Library, I see grown up men losing money playing “eye test” at bus-stops, I’ve been on BTS buses when they first came up with the CAF registration and I’ve been on their swanky volvos as well and I’ve eaten apple cakes when they really looked like apples.

So, about eight and a half hours after Rahu Kala, about 4 hours post Yama Ganda and right in the middle of today’s Gulika Kala (something a school friend always thought was gulkand kala), I launch my new line of posts.

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