Monika’s Musings: Rubber, dicky & other desi moments

“Can I borrow your rubber please?”  I made this request to the person sitting beside me when I was at university. Luckily, I was seated by a friend from Britain so he understood what I meant. I was quickly educated on the perils of making that request to a random American. I now make sure I use the word eraser.

This faux pas sits right alongside the statement, “Can you open the dicky?” I have learnt to say “Can you open the trunk?”  While still at university, I learnt to pay my tuition and not my fees.  Over the years, I am getting better at losing my Indian English and replacing it with American English but every once in a while, I slip. I complain about the homeless on the pavements of New York before realising no one understands unless I say sidewalk. While looking to move to the city, I was on an apartment hunt. Saying I was looking for a flat did not merit any response.  It was also important for me to have a lift, or rather an elevator in the building.  During one of my apartment hunt sessions, I asked the agent if I could use the loo in the building. She looked thoroughly befuddled until I repeated my query using restroom. Strange. I wonder what kind of rest it provides unless it is a restful mind after a bursting bladder.

The first time I drove in the US, I could not understand why my cousins were amused when I asked for a petrol station until I realised they are called gas stations here. Furthermore, I have learnt to give directions replacing the word signal with traffic lights. Likewise,a punctured tyre is no longer a part of my vocabulary. I have learnt to use flat tire if I find myself in that unfortunate predicament.

I abhor asking for directions in the US. People will ask me to head north and then go east. I much prefer the simple‘go left then turn right’ directions. Thank heavens for Google Maps. I no longer need to stop for confusing directions. I can now look at the map and follow the arrow.

I had a desi moment once when I was trying to prepone a meeting and was only understood when I said I needed to reschedule. Similarly, I had to correct an Indian colleague to say the line was busy instead of engaged, when she was trying to explain to an American client, the reason for her delayed call.

In these days of email, I still like to use snailmail. There is no beating the thrill of getting a physical letter, though it took me a while to say mail box instead of post box. Another change I had to make was to ask for the check instead of the bill while eating at restaurants.

As a mother of sons, sport has become a part of my life but woe if I say soccer. My British educated boys will only refer to the game as football declaring American football is a farce since the game is not even played using the feet.

My children have a particularly hard time with my liberal use of the four-letter word for number two or to explain further, excrement from the human body. In my opinion, it is not a bad word. In India no one bats an eyebrow. If I forget something I say. ’Oh s..t”. If I fall down I say,”Oh s..t”. If I am angry I say ,”S…”. When I am frustrated I declare, ”Sh.. Sh.. Sh..” But heaven forbid I use the word here, it is anathema and right up there with the dreaded F word.

I could go on and on but it is time to end now. Full stop. Oops, I mean period.

Monique Patel Monika PatelMonika Patel – Monique to her friends – is now a permanent resident of New York City, but her heart is permanently in Pune, her home for 28 years. Monika’s Musings appears every Friday on Pune365.

Monique Patel
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