'Six thousand for three months.’ He pushed a brochure towards
me.
I had come to Patna’s Pride English Learning Centre on Boring
Road. M, Shaqif, the thin, almost malnourished owner of Patna’s
Pride, explained the various courses to me. He wore a purple shirt.
Sunglasses hung out of his front pocket.
'We teaching for five years.Good English.Personality development,
interview preparing, everything people learning here,’
I was no expert in English,but I could still tell there was something
wrong with what he had said, One too many ‘ings’, 'I have to give a
speech. To an important audience,' I spoke in Hindi, to explain my
situation better, ‘No problem. Speech okay,' Shaqif said. ‘What
qualification you having?’
‘Graduate.’
‘Good. Local?’
‘Delhi. St, Stephen's.’
The name didn’t register. He nodded out of courtesy. He rummaged
in a drawer, took out an admission form and handed it to me. I
wondered if l should pay up or check out other classes. He sensed my
hesitation.
‘Sir, we will make you top-class. Multinational-company English.'
‘I only have two months,’ I said. 'I need fast results,'
‘We arrange private classes for you. Extra five hundred per class.'
‘Five hundred?'
‘Okay, four hundred,'
I shook my head.
‘Three hundred. Please. Good deal,’ he said.
I filled up the form and paid him an advance for the first month. In
addition, I signed up for private classes every Saturday and Sunday, I
left Patna's Pride and took an auto to a road outside the railway station,
full of guest houses. I finally struck a weekends-only deal with a small
hotel called Nest, provided I didn't ask for a receipt, *
Ten minutes into my first class at Patna Pride, I had a sinking
feeling.
This wouldn’t work. I shared the classroom with fifteen other
students, mostly around my age and all men. The teacher asked us to
call him 'Verma sir’.
‘Say “how”,’ Verma sir said, asking the class to repeat the word.
‘How.’ The response came in ten different accents. The word
sounded like ‘haw’ or ‘haau’ or ‘ho’.
‘Are.You.' Verma sir said, 'How are you?'
The class repeated the words with a Bihari twist.
‘Confidence,’ Verma sir said, ‘is the secret. It is the key difference
in coming across as high-class English or low class. You have to sound
right, too. This is a foreign language. Not Bhojpuri. So the sounds are
different.'
He turned to a student called Amit, ‘Why are you here, Amir?'
'To learn English, sir,' Amit said.
'What kind of English?'
‘Top-class English. With big vocabulary,'
'Relax,' Verma sir said. 'Forget big vocabulary in my class,’
'Sir?' Amit said, confused.
Verma sir turned and addressed the whole class, 'Students, all you
have to learn is simple, confident English. Don’t be scared of people
who use big words. These are elitists. They want to scare you with
their big words and deny you an entry into the world of English. Don’t
fall into their trap. Okay?’
Everyone nodded, irrespective of whether they understood Mr
Verma or not, ‘Anyway, let’s get back to “how are you",’ he said.
Verma sir explained the ‘au’ sound in the word ‘hew’ and that it did
not exist in Hindi.
‘Like cow, It is not ca-u, It is a mix of aa and o together. Try,'
The class struggled to utter the simple word. I bet the British would
have struggled just as hard if they tried to speak Bhojpuri. If the
Industrial Revolution had taken place here, there would be Indian excolonies
around the world. White men would have had to learn Hindi
to get a decent job. White teachers would tell white men how to say
cow in Hindi with a perfect accent.
Verma sir interrupted my desi-invasion daydream.
’Yes, what is your name?’
‘Madhav, Madhav Jha, sir.’
‘Okay, Madhav, repeat after me: “I am fine, thank you”.’
‘I am fine, thank you,’ I said.
‘Good,’ he said.
After three years at Stephen’s, l wasn’t that hopeless. I could repeat
simple phrases. I wanted him to teach me how to give a speech.
Meanwhile, he moved on and corrected another student.
‘Faa-in. Not fane. Please open your mouth more.’
*
I spent the weekend in Patna. Apart from attending the classes, I
bought a book on confident public speaking from the Patna Railway
Station. I ate puri-aloo from a platform stall. The book recommended
practising English with random strangers, so one would feel less
ashamed if one made a mistake.
‘Excuse me, sir. Would you be kind enough to tell me if this is the
platform for the Kolkata Rajdhani Express?’
I practised this sentence on the station platform ten times. In many
cases, the passengers didn’t understand me. I moved towards the AC
compartments. Rich people usually know English.
‘I’m not sure. I suggest you ask the TC,’ said one bespectacled
man.
‘Was my English correct?’ I said.
‘Huh?’ he looked at me, surprised.
I explained my attempts at English practice. He patted my back.
‘You did fine,’ he said.
‘I’m trying,’ I said.‘Your English is so good. What do you do?’
‘I’m in software sales. I’m Sudhir.’ He extended his hand.
‘I’m Madhav,’ I said.
‘All the best, Madhav,’ he said.
*
Private classes seemed much better at Patna’s Pride. I explained my
situation to Verma sir.
'I see,’ he said. He stroked his chin stubble. ‘Not only do you have
to learn correct English, you have to also learn to deliver a public
speech,"
‘Exactly, sir. I am so nervous.’
"But you do know some English. You graduated English-medium,
right?’
I wanted to tell him I didn’t just graduate English-medium,
graduated from a place where even the grass grows in English.
I switched to Hindi to explain myself. ‘Sir, I can put a sentence
together in English. But all my effort goes into remembering the right
words. I can’t think of what I’m saying.’
'I understand.' Verma sir said. ‘When you don’t know the language
well, you are self-conscious. It shows in your confidence level. It
affects your personality. Not good for job interviews.’
‘Sir, this isn’t just a job interview. This is about the future of my
school and the students who study there.’
I showed Verma sir the book I had brought from the railway
station.
He shook his head. ‘No, not this.You don’t learn how to become a
confident English speaker from books found at a railway station. Else
the whole country would be by now.'
‘Please help me, sir,’ I said.
Verma sir became silent.
‘Why are you quiet?’ I asked, worried his silence meant I was a
hopeless case.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’m wondering how to go about this.’
‘Should I quit?’ I said.
He shrugged. My heart sank.
‘Give it a few weeks. We can decide then. Now stand up and speak
your fears out loud.’
‘Fears?’
"Yes, open up and face them. In English.’
I stood in front of the empty classroom. Verma sir took one of the
student’s seats.
'Hi, I am Madhav Jha, and I have a fear of speaking in English.’
‘Good. And?’
'I have a fear that my school will not manage itself and close
down.’
‘Go on. One more fear.'
'I have a fear that I will never be able to get over someone I loved
deeply.’
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