Pakistan and the battle for English
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/south_asia/6500227.stm
The BBC Urdu service's MASUD ALAM, back living in Pakistan after 15years, reflects on his countrymen's use of English.
There are only a few video clips of Mohammad Ali Jinnah, founder ofPakistan, in the archives of state-run television in Pakistan and theyare aired with unfailing regularity on occasions of national import.
One excerpt is from a speech in which the father of the nation says afew lines in Urdu, to rapturous applause from the crowd, followed bythe disclaimer in English "my Urdu is tangawala Urdu".
(For those not familiar with Mr Jinnah, the man was as westernised inhis lifestyle as any Lincolns Inn-educated Indian barrister at thestart of 20th Century could be.)
Tangawala means coachman, and perhaps in the early days of Pakistan'sindependence, they didn't speak Urdu very well. They still don't.
The same goes for leaders - politicians and army generals alike - whosucceeded Mr Jinnah.
A good majority of them couldn't speak the country's national language fluently.
From Jinnah to the current leader, President Pervez Musharraf, thepreferred language of Pakistani rulers has been English.
The masses, by general inclination keen to follow the ruling class,have honestly tried to keep pace.
But after 60 years of excruciating practice, they have managed onlyhalf the linguistic excellence: they've learnt to speak bad Urdu butconstructing a grammatically correct sentence in English remains achallenge.
'Chips in isle'
The language of the urban Pakistani is now a hotchpotch of Urdu,Punjabi and a few words of English spoken with an accent that can beunderstood only by someone who speaks the same way.
My daughter is learning this cocktail language and having fun with it.
The other day she had a conversation with the man who runs the canteenat her school, that went something like this: "Can I have chips?"
(In Urdu) "Finish."
"You must have some left?"
"All finish."
"This is not fair. You want us to bring our own potatoes to school?"
"And isle."
"Sorry?"
"Isle? Isle... for frying."
When her friends elbowed her into recognising that it was "oil" theman was talking about, they all had a good laugh.
'No assess'
But things can get a little more complicated when such cryptic talk isdone over the phone, with a complete stranger.
At a friend's place of work I overheard a man calling up the computerhelp desk. "I can't assess the drive," he complained.
"But that's my job, what exactly is your problem?" is what I assumethe person on the other end must have said.
Our man kept repeating that his inability to "assess the drive" was the problem.
After a few minutes of totally incoherent exchanges, the poor helperfinally realised the problem was "access".
The first generation of Pakistani bureaucrats and military officershad derived their entire English vocabulary from Rudyard Kipling's TheJungle Book, the booklets of Standard Operating Procedures found inmilitary and bureaucratic circles, and the official correspondencewith lowly functionaries of the British Raj.
On social occasions, this word bank was embellished with phrases like"jolly good" and "old chap" to sound authentic - often to theamusement of the gora sahib (foreign master).
But after 1947, in this brand new country of Pakistan, there was nowhite-skinned patronising colonist to frown or frolic at the sight andsound of a subject trying too hard to speak like the master. Thisemboldened the native no end.
He was now free to choose English over his mother tongue. And he didso with relish.
However his vocabulary was limited to the world of officialdom, as itexisted in 1940s British India. To overcome this handicap he took toimprovisation, and in the process, made valuable additions to theEnglish language.
Manufacturing phrases
Gen Musharraf, the army chief, is the epitome of this creative trend.
He deposed an elected prime minister and installed himself as the"chief executive" rather than the old-fashioned "chief martial lawadministrator" - the epithet preferred by three generals and for sometime, by a civilian prime minister, before him.
He is also the proud manufacturer of the term "enlightenedmoderation", the meaning of which is being debated years after it wascoined.
He showed his flair for linguistic innovation more recently when hesuspended the chief justice of the Supreme Court of Pakistan, bymaking him "non-functional".
He is now very disappointed that the flourish is lost on the country'slawyers who are engaging in mass protests against the chief justice's"suspension".
Lower down the order, the government functionaries continue to showthe same zest at modernising English language in their day to daybusiness.
The Capital Development Authority is on a binge of road-making thesedays. One such project is the upgrading of a two-lane road into a dualcarriageway. It is labelled "dualisation" - a word three onlinedictionaries I consulted, have yet to recognise.
Long arm
To the common man, English is still a wild horse he'd like to mountevery now and then but one he cannot tame. Year after year Englishremains the single most likely subject students at all levels flunk.
Even those who passed their English exams and made it to the presentparliament - for which university education was mandatory - are notalways known to have a comfortable relationship with English.
Punjab province's Chief Minister, Pervez Elahi, is among those few whoseem to correctly guess Gen Musharraf's profound ideas likeenlightened moderation.
His most recent demonstration of this talent was seen last month whenhe lifted a court-imposed ban on kite flying to celebrate the festivalof Basant. (The kites, with glass shards glued to the string, arenotoriously dangerous.)
It was pure enlightenment. But when the move resulted in killingseveral people in Lahore - as the court had cautioned against - MrElahi refused to extend the permission to other cities. That wasmoderation.
But not all ministers have the same level of perception when it comesto expressions in English language.
When the law minister, Wasi Zafar, was recently described as the "longarm of law" by a local journalist, the minister mistook it for anexpression in his native Punjabi which roughly translates into "upyours".
His apt response, on national TV, was: "If anyone gives me the longarm, my long arm to his whole family."
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