London Lingo Caught Me on the Wrong Foot!

The other day, I went with my husband to register for health insurance…yes, something as freakingly important, and yet so mind numbingly ho-hum.
So here we were, in one of these usual medical centers; me, patiently waiting for my Tête à Tête with a general practitioner. I didn’t—thank you sweet God of bored women—have to wait too long. The silver-haired, Miss Marple of a practitioner soon called me in.
Note: Registering for National Health Insurance in the UK is usually clubbed with a general doctor’s check up…but that’s besides the point…
The doctor began her usual checkup of blood pressure and blood glucose…and other blood-stuff. I maintained my poise and grace, as much as possible, till I was faced with the most puzzling question of the decade. For those used to British lingo, this wouldn't be funny or odd in the least. It’s just me, with my SAARC vocabulary, who stammered and stuttered and left the clinic in unnatural hurry, so that the doctor wouldn’t think I was a distilled idiot having a field day. Sample this:
Note: The doctor here was more bored than I was, and was asking me really random questions.
Dr: Are you a carer?
Me: A care…what?
Dr: I said, are you a carer…
Me: Ummm…yes, I am on a dependent visa. So yeah, I am under the care of my husband. (Can you believe I said that?)
Dr: No….you got me wrong….I meant, are you a carer…do you care for old people? More simply put, are you into social service…
Royal shit….yes I care! Couldn’t you have asked this simply? And so I have vowed, I’ll pick up a book on British slang and get a hang of things sooner than you can say ‘I know all about London lingo’. Carer indeed.

The Sardar in Me!

Readers...please excuse, if this reads like a nefarious attack on Sardars across the globe...trust me, it's not. This post really is about the French classes that I am attending off late on weekends, and my complete incomprehension of the wonky language.
As kids, we have grown up listening to thousands of lame Sardar jokes, one of them being about Milkha Singh, the athlete. This is how it reads:
Milkha is resting after a win. Reporter approaches Milkha, and asks him "Excuse me, are you relaxing? (read Relac Singh)". Milkha with his proverbial Sardar brain replies "No, I am Milkha Singh" That’s the happy ending to this really sad joke. But the point remains; I am gradually discovering the Milkha in me…in the French classes.
I was over the moon when I enrolled at Alliance Francaise (I hope the spell check is working) last month. My long term ambition of learning a major European language was just getting fulfilled…wow! I was filled with absurd self-pride, having brought myself so far (Whatever this means).
So our classes started. The instructor made us sing French nursery rhymes to start with. Unbelievable eh? I even remember the lyrics…
“Bonjour bonjour,
coco salut,
je va bien,
merci beaucoup…”
It was just some elementary greeting song…and I went on like an imbecilic parrot…as they say “there are neurons, protons, and MORONS!!!”
Shell-shocked at my remarkable capacity to indulge in nonsense, I thought I should rise above all else and say something intelligent in class. So when the instructor asked “When you think of France, what are you reminded of?” “Da Vinci”, I bellowed. “Da Vinci is Italian”, the instructor snapped back. Eiffel Tower, I thought would be too plebian…Marie Antoinette, too esoteric…Bonaparté, too historic…so Da Vinci, it had to be. And that’s how my pride had to disappear.
In the next few classes, I tried my best to bring out the Newton in me. But Milkha kept peeping out. We were divided into groups to ask questions to each other in French, and nothing but French. I soon found out, not only was it that things were way beyond my comprehension; the others seemed to follow the ‘things’ just right. My 13 year old classmate comforted me… “Don’t worry Aunty. (aunty? You mean aunty? You really mean aunty?) It happens.” Sure.
With strained concentration however, I had started warming up to the idea that things would get better for me. I learnt to say “J’m’appelle Debanjana…et vous?” (“My name is Debanjana, what’s yours?”). With reinstated self-belief, I started ringing up every living well-wisher, to repeat the lines in French. More than me understanding French, French was starting to understand me. I was almost ecstatic.
Ecstasy switched to agony once more last week. We were practicing conversation in class as usual. The instructor asked me “Êtes-vous un ingénieur?” (“Are you an engineer?”) “No”, I replied, beaming with misplaced self-conceit. “Je suis indienne” (“No, I am Indian”). Milkha refuses to die!