JOST A MON

If you want to practise French, you might well be better off doing so in a country like Belgium or Canada, rather in France. The French, we are told, are less accepting of casual mangling of their language. So goes common wisdom. In my experience, speaking a language one is not fully fluent in requires so much effort, confidence, and self-will that the disdain of a native is only a marginal irritant. And, anyway, the French have been as kind to my attempts at their language as the Walloons.

One’s choice of language to use in a country is paramount, though. Woe betide you if you try your French on a German-speaker in Switzerland, or Russian on a Czech granny, or English on any self-important bureaucrat in Europe. A few years ago, in Zurich, I needed to extend my visa’s validity by a day, and I went to the relevant police office, where, seeing large signs in English, I thought the officer would be able to respond to my questions in that language.

“Good morning,” I said, grinning winningly. “Could I have my visa extended by a day, please?”

“Ahrwehrgrrbrrssachnach. Ptooey,” spat the flunky snootily.

“Sorry, I don’t understand,” said I. Do you speak English?”

“That’s better,” said the flunky. “If I were to come to America and speak German, would you understand me?”

I pointed wordlessly at the signs. The flunky sniffed. He then extended the visa by stamping hard on my passport, and waved me away.

My Swiss pals were outraged when I recounted this story. “Some of these police are Nazis,” said one of them.

A while earlier, tramping around Prague, I stopped to buy water from a little old lady. She spoke no English, as was made amply clear by her irritated muttering when an Australian chappie stopped to ask her for directions. She was not happy with German either. When I – recognising the similarity between Czech and Russian numbers – pronounced 20 as ‘dvadzat’, she snapped, “Nyet Russki.” So I left.

More fun was to be had in Luzern where I waylaid sundry strangers and attempted to engage them in French conversation. (Basically, I wanted directions to the Lion.) All of them shook their heads, replied in German, and then noting my confusion, switched to English. Clearly the Germanic areas of old Suisse are not too fond of their French compatriots. This is entirely understandable, given the way tempers rise in Madras when I speak Hindi to the locals. Linguistic chauvinism is always great fun, except when it turns violent and people get stabbed in the kidneys.

I took an autorickshaw once from Madras Central Station to the IIT, and when the autowallah tried to bargain up the fare, I replied magnificently, “Kannada gothilla.” He gaped superbly, and I seized the moment to slip away.

In Brussels, I had a representative conversation at the railway ticket office.

“Je voodray un bilyay allay sample à Delft,” I said.

“Witsongtrongfrong,” said the ticket man.

There was a pause a few seconds long as we looked expectantly at each other.

“Err, pardon?” I said.

He burst out laughing.

“830 francs,” he said.

“See voo parlay longtemong, je peh voo comprongdrr,” I said, stiffly.

“Huit. Cent. Trente. Francs.” said the man, grinning from ear to ear. “That’s the problem with guidebooks. It tells you what to say in a language, but you never understand when they reply, eh?”

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