At a friend’s welome-back-to-civilisation (from the Andamans, after a year) party recently, as I sat around meekly witnessing the dance floor revelry, along came this set of green eyes in matching Anokhi block-printed short kurta. I looked again carefully, and yet ever so discreetly… quirky hairstyle I note, friendly manner; looks like he’s here alone, I deduce. I raise my perfectly-held-by-the-stem, white-wine glass, flash a half smile and immediately look away… be friendly but not too inviting, turns people off, especially Europeans, I remind myself. It was enough though; a few seconds later, I find tall man in short kurta next to my set of sofas, perhaps hoping to seem nonchalant. Smiles turn to pleasantries to disguise-discreet checking-out glances, and before I can say “manifestation”, we’re all comfy and chatty amid the loud echoes of a well-tapped-to Mauja hi mauja. Gentleman speaks in a clear, annoyingly un-accented English, like Tony Blair’s, with great eloquence; tells me he’s a dancer, and knows the host only briefly, and no one else in the room…yet, he adds, thoughtfully. Name gives away his French identity. “Vous-etes français?” I enquire in surprised anticipation. Reticent “Oui”. “D’accord! D’ou en France venez-vous?”, I carry on, hoping for more indulgence and some inquiry about how I speak the smattering of his language. I get neither, as I’m told in plain English, “Yes, I’m from such-and-such place, but have been in India for 15 years now so I’m not really connected”. How quaint, I think, reminding myself there may be more to talk to him about than the scanty displays of language I could put up on occasion. Sure enough, but a mild disappointment it was nonetheless; the snub more than his reluctance to speak French I suppose. Conversation moves to dancer-man’s trysts with academics (he has a PhD on Indian caste politics, after completing which he surrendered to the calling), broadway/bollywood gossip, the weather of late (I complain, he disagrees), anokhi and their block-print sourcing in Rajasthan and token mentions of my work, life and interests. Over dessert we swap numbers, and agree that it was “nice meeting you” and we should “definitely stay in touch”. I meant every word of it. The believed novelty of meeting “interesting people” by design, or friends playing cupid is no match to the comfort of conversation that one can strike by chance. Appreciative looks exchanged as we shake hands, the male equivalent of frivolous air-kisses.

A pity we didn’t tittle-tattle in French. Honestly, that was my second ulterior motive behind the enthusiastic interest. No, it’s not an Indian fascination for the white skin, just for some of the languages. Especially so, when the next morning there was this grand “test de passage”, a rite of passage disguised as an exam (you can study all you want, they’d ask you something you either didn’t know, or ought to have known anyway) and practiced French conversation skills could rid me of the guilt of ignoring the exam and tapping away to the nakara-nakara beats instead. So yes, foreign languages…German and Dutch etc are all ikht and tikht and tackth and isht and fenshter sounding words… such blood curdlers, I’d pass on them. Spanish… fascinating, but the last time I correctly pronounced “Chorizo”, a delectable sausage, succulent and spicy, I was accused of “speaking with a lisp dude”. Finnish, Norwegian, Flemish etc…. don’t cut ice; there must be at least as many speakers of a language as there are Delhites for it to be worth learning. Chinese, may have been a prospect was pursuing a China-based love-interest, but much water’s flown down the Hwang-Ho now. The Sorrow of China indeed.

So French it had to be, when I was contemplating choice of learning a language this time last year. Mind you, not by elimination alone, there were 3 long years in middle school spent in devoted study of the language, with keen attention to pronunciation, accent and idiosyncrasies from those early days (A joke went around in class about me correcting a classmate, “Its hrrrhh not rrrrrrhhh!”). And then there was this week-long visit to Paris mainly for the women’s semifinals matches at the French Open 2006, and a very hospitable, and even dearer friend to live with. Although I could still read and understand basic French, I couldn’t hold a conversation to save my life; imploringly instead inquiring, replete with American twang, “Paarlay Aaahng-lay?” Dismissive, or even pitiful glances from some of the snootier Parisians made me trade in the twang for sheepish smiles, and firmed the resolve to return to the language, when time permitted.

May 2007: heartbreak, accident and general boredom with (the now previous) job precipitated the need for a new life plan. The new improved me went into overdrive; driving lessons, neo-liberal Bhagwad Geeta study group in Def Col (incidentally under Parisian friend’s half-French mother’s tutelage), tennis with a vengeance, extra research moonlighting for a former Prof, more academic research/writing/field trips in the hill villages, periodic therapeutic shopping, and yes, French classes. The regularity of classes reestablished familiarity. It’s been pure indulgence; to see yourself struggling to construct a simple sentence to the effect of “Sorry madam, I don’t have anymore of these (say, tomatoes)” (Je suis desolée madame, je n’en ai plus) after spending a long day making sense of regression coefficients and the most esoteric “Econometrica” journal article (more like not making sense of…, but spending the day trying to at least). Intellectual snobbery apart, it truly is refreshing to keep the mind working and active in more ways than one or two (analyzing economic interrelationships graphically and armchair agony aunty-ing oneself for example). I once heard of this Finnish woman who spent the first 2 years after retirement learning Japanese and then the third living all over Japan, using the previous two to full effect. Even if that’s a fable, it’s the kind of myth you’d want to be inspired by… such zeal and drive at the ripe Scandinavian retirement age. What’s my excuse? So trot away I do, even on weekend early mornings in rickety auto to Lodhi Road, without much complaining, and instead replying to bemused questioners, that waking up early actually extends your weekends. It truly does.

The intellectual snobbishness of juxtaposing sentence construction with regression analysis apart, there’s great joy. You get half-insights into lives of people you’d otherwise not know. One of the “coolest” people I have met and befriended is a 14-year-old classmate: phenomenal maturity, quirkiness and appetite (literally, not for the zest of life kind of things alone, but equally for the bruschetta-types at the Big Chill). There have been dentist/ chemistry teacher/ English teacher/ BPO employee/ fashion merchandising house employee/ fellow development scribe unified in their aim to learn French: a desired immigration to the land of milk and maple. Then there was this (cheerful, almost chirpy) government department scribe-type who put me on the bus to Dilli Haat on one occasion, and insisted I start taking buses as the autos would “eat up your whole salary”. The teachers are noteworthy too, friendly always, quirky often, inspiring on occassion. This south Indian lady (a neighbour too, we discovered eventually) displays typical dignified simplicity, and has the most stunning handloom sarees collection. Regaled us with stories of how rickshaw drivers/pullers in Pondicherry were puzzled when she spoke with them in French instead of the Tamizh they expected from a dharmavaram cotton/ kanjevaram silk and big bhottu-sporting amma. That’s for the small talk. The classes have also helped bring Bruni-Sarkozy tales closer home while the assignments helped name Alain Delon and understand Cézanne. Moreover, it’s been a humbling experience to see that confusion at conjugations and tenses can often be enough that two people can share in common to be friends, and that all your other theories of compatibility and common interests and common emotional patterns may not amount to very much.

I’m only at an elementary level, and cannot speak of how knowing French has opened a whole new world to me. But to the extent that the rigmarole of life currently allows, it does wipe some spots on the window. Roland Garros has never been the same for me since first having been there, and this year would make it special on another count: I’d hope to understand more than just the scores being announced! There of course, always is the possibility of a tête-à-tête over hushed conversations, that won’t even make the dinner-table candle flicker, instead festoon the ambience with flirtatious jibes and heartfelt but measured laughter, with words like “magnifique”, “amour” and “coup de foudre” being thrown around like confetti at the Elysees1 on July the 14th… unless of course the person in question may still prefer the Queen’s language!