We no Speak.

This afternoon on my way to lunch, I hear a loud man being himself I guess. And while I noticed heads turn and swivel as their ears looked to locate The Source of the orchestra picking memento, my curious auditory perception too followed the grand symphony unraveling somewhere around us all.
And alas, our collective scanning lead us to the The Source. A not so big man, with a pretty loud voice for a busy Monday afternoon at a traffic signal, boomed his annoyance pointing at the driver of the car he stood right beside. I don’t know if he was a pedestrian or just a fellow motorist who’d parked his vehicle just to stage his little adagio. Whatever it was, I couldn’t understand too much of it. All I saw was a disgruntled person echoing his anger, waving and flailing his arms, pointing his very [local] finger at the driver, literally getting into his face because he didn’t like whatever it was that happened.

I don’t care about their fight really, we all have those days and moments when pedestrians become a sect of annoying people incapable of understanding the motorists from Moterland’s plight, and when motorists become mean and badly bred seeds from the planet Zoom, failing to understand how the little people of Footland can’t just scuttle across the street because they’re being honked at by a speeding vehicle- “Hit the fucking brakes asshole!” It happens to everyone, Motorists and Footlanders alike. So why the symphony broke out wasn’t what caught my attention, it was what was being said by our angry Prima Divo bringing the opera house alive.

All I understood from the many things he said was- “This is Karnataka, speak to me Kannada or go back where you come from” over and over he chanted this like the hook in his mighty song as the high concrete metro pillars melted into giant trees in a forest and, fire everywhere, he turned into a tribal chanting “My LAND!” “MY LAND!” Dancing around the pit of fire while the bear claws and teeth around his neck beat against his chest arrhythmical and pointless. Yet he felt great and proud chewing on his un-garnished, unseasoned, raw chunk of meat dripping pink and red with human blood.

And I thought we had come a long way.

It’s funny. We’re talking globalization. Global city. We’re talking international standards, global communities. We’re talking so many things. But take a walk down my streets and you realise, we ain’t really talking all that much.

We’re just as insecure and territorial as the clueless caveman. So Hababa nababa naana baloo bot y’all.
I don’t like you very much. And don’t be wishing me this Christmas until you can speak to me in my language either. And don’t come anywhere near me when you’ve learnt the language because I won’t be able to respond anyway[incorrect upbringing] but I guess I have to learn it now cuz’ we’re going tribal all over again.

Whatever!

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